Mary Shelley's Literary Lives and Other Writings 9781851967162, 9780429349751

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS Volume 1. Italian Lives

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS GENERAL EDITOR: NORA CROOK VOLUME EDITORS: CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR PAMELA CLEMIT A. A. MARKLEY TILAR J. MAZZEO LISA VARGO

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MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS VOLUME

1

ITALIAN LIVES EDITED BY

TILAR J. MAZZEO

WITH A GENERAL INTRODUCTION BY

NORA CROOK

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First published 2002 by Pickering & Chatto (Publishers) Limited Published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © Taylor & Francis 2002 All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797–1851. Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives and Other Writings (The Pickering Masters). 1. Authors, Italian – Biography 2. Authors, Spanish – Biography 3. Authors, Portuguese – Biography 4. Authors, French – Biography I. Title II. Crook, Nora, 1940- III. Italian Lives IV. Spanish and Portuguese Lives V. French Lives VI. Miscellaneous writings 809

ISBN-13: 978-1-85196-716-2 (set) DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751 Typeset by P&C

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements Abbreviations

vii ix

General Editor’s Introduction

xiii ITALIAN LIVES

Editor’s introduction, Italian Lives

xxxvii

Notes on Italian Lives Volume I Notes on Italian Lives Volume II

xlviii li

ITALIAN LIVES VOLUME I

Petrarch Boccaccio Lorenzo de’ Medici Marsiglio Ficino Giovanni Pico Della Mirandola Angelo Poliziano Bernardo Pulci, Luca Pulci, Luigi Pulci Cieco Da Ferrara Burchiello Bojardo Berni Machiavelli

9 52 77 84 85 86 90 100 102 103 109 116

ITALIAN LIVES VOLUME II

Guicciardini Vittoria Colonna Guarini Chiabrera Tassoni Marini Filicaja

165 174 180 191 197 201 206 v

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Metastasio Goldoni Alfieri Monti Ugo Foscolo

1

210 230 254 294 330

Editorial Corrections

363

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It is my privilege and pleasure to thank those who have made this edition possible, especially those institutions and individuals who have so kindly given permission to transcribe, reproduce and/or quote from their collections or deposits: Lord Abinger, the Bodleian Library, the Berg Collection, Birkbeck College, the CiniDazzi Archive, the Fales Collection, the Library of Congress, Jean de Palacio, the Carl H. Pforzheimer and Lily Pforzheimer Foundation, the Pierpont Morgan Library. The London Library, the British Library and Cambridge University Library provided copy-texts for reproduction; Oxford University Press gave permission to quote from The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1964) and The Journals of Mary Shelley, 1814–1844 (1987); Johns Hopkins University Press, for permission to quote from The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1980–8) and The Clairmont Correspondence (1995). Once again, I wish to thank the Research Committee of the School of Arts and Letters at Anglia Polytechnic University for their award of research leave. My former Dean of School, Ian Gordon, his successor, Rick Rylance and my colleagues in the English Department, especially Rick Allen, John Gilroy, Ted Holt and Maroula Joannou have been unfailing in their support. Thanks are also due to the librarians and Reprographics staff of APU, to staff at Duke Humfrey’s library, at the Newspaper Library, Colindale, and at Cambridge University Library, especially Brian Jenkinson and Grace Aubrey of the Rare Books Room. Special gratitude is extended to two unrivalled experts in their respective fields for their generous dispensing of time and wise advice: Betty T. Bennett, to whom Mary Shelley scholarship owes an incalculable debt and whose moral encouragement of this project has been an inspiration, and Bruce C. Barker-Benfield, Senior Assistant Librarian, Department of Special Collections and Western Manuscripts at the Bodleian Library. Both have ‘from many a blunder freed us’. Those that remain are, of course, my responsibility. Judith Barbour, James Burmester, Peter Cochran, Lilla Crisafulli, Richard Cronin, James Crook, Andrea Dazzi, Cristina Dazzi, Michael Eberle-Sinatra, Paula R. Feldman, Barbara L. Hudson, Michael Kahn of Plurabelle Books, Mark Killingray of the Bodhram Bookshop, Greg Kucich, Lucy Morrison, Jeanne Moskal, Jacqueline Mulhallen, Michael O’Neill, Shirley Prendergast, Charles E. Robinson, Michael Rossington, Miranda Seymour, and Elena Spandri, William St Clair, Emily W. Sunstein, Nanora Sweet, Timothy Webb and Alan Weinberg have all supplied information or help of vii

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various sorts. I am deeply grateful to Pickering & Chatto for backing this project and to the patient team which has seen it through: Mark Pollard, our unflappable commissioning editor, Florence Hamilton, Julia Benest, Sarah Brown and Jessica Cuthbert-Smith. Finally, I wish to thank our and dedicated team for working so hard and sustaining so much enthusiasm, commitment and professional grit through thick and thin. And, last of all, my sisters, Madeleine Mitchell and Janet Watson, my mother, Christine Mitchell, and above all my husband, Keith Crook, for their labours of love. Nora Crook Anglia Polytechnic University Cambridge I wish to acknowledge gratefully the Huntington Library of California for research support that made the completion of this project possible. Thanks are due as well to the interlibrary loan staff at the University of Wisconsin at Oshkosh, whose efforts were heroic, and to the staff in special collections at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, whose patience was tested. In addition, I wish to thank Martin Brick for his unfailing research assistance and for his fine editorial contributions to the life of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Tilar J. Mazzeo University of Wisconsin at Oshkosh Oshkosh, Wisconsin

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ABBREVIATIONS

Ab. Dep. ‘Analytical Catalogue’ Baldelli BSM BSM, IX BSM, XXII CC Correspondence

CCJ

DNB Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch French Lives

Ginguené

Abinger MSS. on deposit at the Bodleian Library, Oxford. ‘The Analytical Catalogue of Dr Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia’ [16-page advertising brochure] (?1838; new version, 1845–6). Giovanni Battista Baldelli-Boni, Vita di Giovanni Boccaccio (Firenze: C. Ciardetti, 1806). The Bodleian Shelley Manuscripts, gen. ed. Donald H. Reiman, 23 vols (London and New York: Garland Publishing, 1986–2002). The Prometheus Unbound Notebooks (1991), transcribed and ed. Neil Fraistat, IX of BSM. MS Shelley adds. c. 5 (1997) transcribed and ed. Alan Weinberg, XXII of BSM [pt 2 of 2-part work]. The Clairmont Correspondence, Letters of Claire Clairmont, Charles Clairmont and Fanny Imlay Godwin, ed. Marion Kingston Stocking, 2 vols (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995). The Journals of Claire Clairmont, 1814–1827, ed. Marion Kingston Stocking, with the assistance of David Mackenzie Stocking (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). Dictionary of National Biography. Ugo Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch (London: John Murray, 1823). Mary Shelley [with a minor contributor], Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France, 2 vols, in The Cabinet of Biography, Conducted by the Rev. Dionysius Lardner (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green & Longman; and John Taylor, 1838–39) [vols 103 and 117 of Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia; vol. 2 (in part) and vol. 3, The Literary Lives and Other Writings of Mary Shelley (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2002)]. Pierre-Louis Ginguené, Histoire littéraire d’Italie, 14 vols (Paris: Michaud Frères, 1811–35) [vols 10–14 continued by F. Salfi]. ix

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Italian Lives

K–SJ Longman Archive Lyles Monti, Opere

Monti, Opere inedite MWSJ

MWSL MWSN MWST Palacio Panizzi

PBS Essays, Letters

1

Mary Shelley [with James Montgomery and Sir David Brewster], vols I and II of Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain and Portugal, 3 vols, in The Cabinet of Biography, Conducted by the Rev. Dionysius Lardner (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green & Longman; and John Taylor, 1835) [vols 63 and 71 of Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia; vol. 1, The Literary Lives and Other Writings of Mary Shelley (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2002)]. Keats–Shelley Journal. Publishers’ Archives: The House of Longman, 1794–1914, 73 reels (Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, Jan. 1976–Mar. 1978). W. H. Lyles, Mary Shelley: An Annotated Bibliography (New York and London: Garland Publishing 1975). Opere del cavaliere Vincenzo Monti, 8 vols, in Parnaso Italiano [etc.], containing Notizie intorno alla vita [...] del Cavliere Vincenzo Monti scritte dal Conte Francesco Cassi (Bologna: Stamperia del muse, 1821–8). Opere inedite e rare di Vincenzo Monti, 5 vols (Milano: Presso la Società degli Editori, 1832–4) [prefaced by the Notizie of Paride Zajotti; see Zajotti]. The Journals of Mary Shelley, 1814–1844, eds Paula R. Feldman and Diana Scott-Kilvert, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987) [corr. pbk one-vol. edn, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Unversity Press, 1995]. The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, ed. Betty T. Bennett, 3 vols (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980–8). The Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley, gen. ed. Nora Crook, with Pamela Clemit, introd. Betty T. Bennett, 8 vols (London: William Pickering, 1996). Mary Shelley, Collected Tales and Stories, ed. Charles E. Robinson (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976; corr. pbk edn, 1991). Jean de Palacio, Mary Shelley dans son œuvre: Contribution aux études shelleyennes (Paris: Editions Klincksieck, 1969). Antonio Panizzi, Orlando Innamorato di Bojardo; Orlando Furioso di Ariosto; with an Essay on the Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians [etc.], 9 vols (London: William Pickering, 1830–4). [Mary Shelley, ed.] Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments, By Percy Bysshe Shelley, 2 vols (London: Edward Moxon, 1840 for 1839).

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AB B RE V IATI ONS

PBSL Pecchio Peckham Posthumous Poems Rittratti

Roscoe Roscoe, Leo the Tenth Sade Sismondi Sismondi, Républiques italiennes Spanish Lives

Stebbing Storia d’Italia

The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. F. L. Jones, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964). Giuseppe Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo (1833). Morse Peckham, ‘Dr Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia’, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, 45 (1951), 37–58. [Mary Shelley, ed.] The Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley (London: John and Henry L. Hunt, 1824). Rittratti scritti da Isabella Teotochi Albrizzi, terza edizione arricchita di cinque ritratti, di due lettere sulla Mirra di Alfieri, e della vita di Vittoria Colonna (Venice: Alvispoli, 1816), 4th edn (Pisa: Niccolò Capurro, 1826), pp. 169–93. William Roscoe, The Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, called the Magnificent, 2 vols (Liverpool, 1795), new edn (London: Bell & Daldy, 1872). William Roscoe, The Life and Pontificate of Leo the Tenth, 4 vols (Liverpool: T. Cadell, 1805). Jacques-François Paul Aldonce de Sade, Mémoires pour la vie de Petrarque, 3 vols (Amsterdam: Askee & Mercus, 1767). Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde de Sismondi, De la littérature du midi de l’Europe (1813), 2nd edn, 4 vols (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1819). Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde de Sismondi, Histoire des républiques italiennes du moyen âge (Zurich, 1807–9), 2nd Paris edn, 16 vols (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1818). Mary Shelley [with a minor contributor], vol. III of Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain and Portugal, 3 vols, in The Cabinet of Biography, Conducted by the Rev. Dionysius Lardner (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green & Longman; and John Taylor, 1837) [vol. 96 of Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia; vol. 2, The Literary Lives and Other Writings of Mary Shelley (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2002)]. Henry Stebbing, Lives of the Italian Poets, rev. corr. edn, 3 vols (London: Edward Bull, 1832). Francesco Guicciardini, Della istoria d’Italia, ed. Giambatista Pasquali, with preface by Domenico Maria Manni, 2 vols (Venice: G. B. Pasquali, 1739–40) [History of Italy from the Year 1490 to 1532. Trans. Austin Parke Goddard. London: John Towers, 1753–6].

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Sunstein

Tiraboschi Wellesley Index

Zajotti

1

Emily W. Sunstein, Mary Shelley, Romance and Reality (Boston and London: Little, Brown, 1989; rev. corr. edn, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991). Girolamo Tiraboschi, Storia della letteratura italiana, 16 vols (Venice: con privelegio, 1795). The Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals 1824–1900, ed. Walter E. Houghton et al., 5 vols (Toronto and Buffalo: University of Toronto Press; London and Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966–89). Paride Zajotti, Notizie sulla vita e l’ingegno di Vincenzo Monti, con ritratto, 2nd edn (Milan: Niccolo Bettoni, 1829) [see alson Monti, Opere Inedite].

[The historic texts listed here are not necessarily those used by Mary Shelley].

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GENERAL EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives and Other Writings is a companion to the 1996 The Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley (MWSN). It gathers together material remaining either (a) previously unpublished or part-published (b) unrepublished since the first nineteenth-century editions (c) published during the twentieth century but uncollected. Everything at present known to be written by Mary Shelley which can be called one of her ‘works’, or ‘draft fragments of a work’ has now, with this publication, been issued in a modern scholarly edition.a ‘At present known’ is always open to revision, and, indeed, we hope it will be revised. Certainly new attributions will continue to be made and lost or overlooked manuscripts found, as has happened between 1996 and 2002.b But this may prove to be the last multi-volume collection of previously uncollected writings. The dominant theme of this collection is biography, and, specifically, the short literary biography. By far the largest portion of this previously unrepublished work comprises Mary Shelley’s contributions (1835–9) to Dionysius Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia (Literary Lives), which make up Volumes 1–3. Volume 4 extends the biographical content with two memoirs, ‘Life of William Godwin’ and the ‘Life of Shelley’. It covers almost the entire span of her writing career and includes sections on lyric poetry, uncollected prose and translation. Finally, there is a section of ‘Part-authored and Attributed Pieces’, but the only items admitted are those for which there is either certainty of her involvement, if not her authorship – a manuscript in her hand, for instance – or very strong probability of her authorship on both circumstantial and internal evidence. An unexpected find was the degree to which these uncollected writings interconnect. Two articles on Italian subjects are of direct relevance to the Italian biographies; her translation of Apuleius informs her love-poems; her translation of Louis XVI’s correspondence and her life of Mme Roland are both attempts to vindicate moderate French revolutionists. These are just a few examples; the reader will notice others. The following is a selective chronological overview of her career. Items in this edition are highlighted in bold type on their first mention. a

This excludes (a) letters (b) household lists and (c) ancillary items such as research notetaking, booklists, and literal translations from the Greek (d) inscriptions in books. Some of (c) are published in photofacsimile in vols XII, XIX and XXII of BSM. b Betty T. Bennett has uncovered more Mary Shelley letters (see K–SJ for 1997 and 2001).

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1814–17: Years of Apprenticeship: before and after Frankenstein. As a child, Mary Shelley confessed, she had loved to ‘write stories’ and to ‘scribble’. But her juvenilia was lost in Paris during her elopement with P. B. Shelley in 1814. a Nothing of her surviving writing can be definitely or even probably dated pre-1814. The earliest items appear to belong to the obscure period during which P. B. Shelley was ‘forever inciting’ her to ‘obtain literary reputation’. Her journal of May 1815–July 1816, which might have explained much, has disappeared. But we know that in November 1814 she began a (lost) life of Louvet de Couvray, the Girondin, who, she was later to write, might have averted the Terror.b This attempt combines and foreshadows Mary Shelley’s lifelong interests with biography, the French Revolution and counterfactual history. What is possibly her earliest surviving piece is both biographical and historical: the brief ‘Theseus Fragment’. It borrows verbatim from a well-known translation of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, a work nearly as seminal for her as it was for Frankenstein’s Creature. She read it in 1815; it was a well-known model for structuring a series of biographies through a series of contrasted pairs. Traces of Plutarchian structuring appear as late as the second volume of French Lives. The second may be the (apparently unconnected) ‘Cyrus Fragment’. At some point (probably 1815 again) P. B. Shelley appears to have urged her to attempt another strand: the satirical. Two ‘attributed’ fragments – the ‘History of the Jews’ and ‘Address to the Duchess of Angoulême’ have survived, though the last may date from late 1816. The picture that emerges from this period supports Mary Shelley’s 1831 self-portrait: ambitious, wanting encouragement, uncertain of her subject or what genre to adopt. This period of literary feints ended in the summer of 1816 at Geneva with a return to the French Revolutionary period: ‘Correspondence of Louis XVI’, an unfinished translation of (spurious) royal letters. These may have fallen into Mary Shelley’s hands as accidentally as did, around the same time, the volume of ghost stories which inspired Frankenstein. The ‘Correspondence’ was thrown aside; yet the exercise seems to have left traces on Frankenstein: the period setting (the 1790s), the brief mention of another decapitated king – Charles I of England – the chief protagonist’s self-exoneration and the epistolary form. With Frankenstein in final proof stage in late 1817, Mary Shelley began another translation, ‘Cupid and Psyche’, from the Latin of Apuleius. Since 1814 she had been steadily progressing in her Latin studies, moving from the easier Ovid, Sallust and Cicero to Horace and Tacitus. She learned languages principally by the inductive methods favoured by Locke, i.e. with minimal use of grammars. Literal translation was an important tool in inductive learning, and was used by both Shelleys in a

See MWSJ, I, p. 8. n. 2 and MWSL, III, p. 245. The nursemaid with her ‘pretty brood’ and the air-balloon in ‘Mounseer Nontongpaw’ might have been her suggestions (MWSN, vol. 8, App. 2). For P. B. Shelley’s incitement, see her 1831 Introduction to Frankenstein (MWSN, vol. 1, p. 176). See MWSJ, I, p. 44. b

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their language studies. Although Mary Shelley’s command of Latin in 1817 had outstripped the need for literal translation, ‘Cupid and Psyche’ may still have been a self-improvement exercise. But she probably chose it because of the special meaning for her of this allegory of the erotic and the spiritual. These are the first two survivors of Mary Shelley’s translation work from classical and Romance languages. Most of it is embedded in her reviews and the Literary Lives. This work testifies to her membership of a corps d’élite of women, born 1790–1820, who trained themselves to be writers – whether for glory, pinmoney or a living – through the systematic acquisition of languages ancient and modern. These women were not content with the polite accomplishments of school-French or operatic Italian; the charge of ‘pedantry’ which their eighteenth-century bluestocking mothers and grandmothers had borne had lost much of its terrors; indeed, many of Mary Shelley’s peers attained a higher standard in certain languages, or acquired a larger number than she did, learning not only German but even Danish and Swedish. For writers like herself, and for Felicia Hemans, Sarah Austin, Mary Howitt, and, in the next wave, Margaret Scott, Elizabeth Barrett and George Eliot, command of many languages not only cultivated the mind, but was another means of enhancing the earning power of the pen and of being taken seriously as a woman of letters.

The Italian years: 1818–23 Building on previous study, Mary Shelley became a fluent Italian reader in Italy. At Livorno in May 1818 she met Maria Gisborne, whom William Godwin had once hoped to marry, and who was to encourage the Shelleys to acquire Spanish. John Gisborne, Maria’s husband, lent them a clandestinely circulated document. A sixteenth-century tale of father-daughter rape and parricide, Mary Shelley copied and later translated it as ‘Relation of the Death of the Family of the Cenci’ and it was to furnish the plot of P. B. Shelley’s only completed stage-play. She began to translate Alfieri’s drama, Mirra, another work with a father-daughter incest theme. This has not survived, but the theme reappears in the short novel Matilda (MWSN, vol. 2). In 1818 and 1819 the Shelley children, Clara and William, successively died of climate-related illnesses. Mary Shelley found some respite from grief in writing Matilda and some comfort in the birth of her son, Percy Florence, in November 1819. But her pain and rage at her cumulative and undeserved misfortunes were to deepen. The year 1820 was another pivotal one for her writing; her inward sufferings seemed to find an external correlative in the political gloom in England, as reactionary laws bit harder and as the death of old mad King George III in February was succeeded by the ascension of the ageing voluptuary, George IV. It was a year in which her feelings ran the gamut of bitterness, scorn, sorrow, regret, stoic calm, resignation and pleasure, in which she both relieved her mind in satirical xv

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outbursts in letters and found an outlet for her energies in caring for her child, study and writing. The Shelleys’ letters hint that it was in March 1820 that she reached a nadir. P. B. Shelley feared that her ‘train of thoughts’ would lead ‘to some fatal end’. She felt, he confided to Maria Gisborne, ‘no more remorse in torturing me than in torturing her own mind’. Mary Shelley, more discreetly, wrote of time spent in ‘unhappy reflection’, assuring Mrs Gisborne that her presence would be ‘almost the only pleasure we have had [for] a long, long time’.a Two fragments possibly belong to the first half of this year. One of them – ‘The Necessity of a Belief in the Heathen Mythology to a Christian’ – seemingly a sketch towards a polemical essay – is written in a vein of dry mockery; the first two pages of the other, the ‘Samuel Fragment’, a retelling in abridged form of the first Book of Samuel, are lost. They would have begun with the figure of a childless woman, Hannah, weeping in bitterness of soul. Yet even in this bleak March the Shelleys continued to collaborate on a translation of Spinoza (another lost project)b and drew hope from the Spanish Revolution – an event which was to resonate in her later biographies of Spanish writers. Mid-1820 sees Mary Shelley writing for the young. She completed two ‘Mythological Dramas’, Proserpine and Midas; the first is about the loss and partial recovery of a daughter, the second mocks the folly of kings; taken together they provoke laughter after tears. She had a lucid vision of the antique world and a sense of the theatrical; at intervals her blank verse rises to lively suppleness or plangent eloquence. This edition includes a surviving ‘Proserpine Draft Fragment’, which for copyright reasons was not previously available.c In August 1820 she wrote Maurice, a poignant yet consoling children’s tale, rediscovered in 1997, still owned by the family of the little girl for whom it had been written. She began work in earnest on her second novel, Valperga. Her study of Greek proceeded apace in 1821 under the tutoring of Prince Mavrocordato. When, elated ‘as a caged eagle just set free’ he brought the news that Greece had declared its independence,d she involved herself – to what extent is uncertain – in the translation of the ‘Cry of War to the Greeks’. Mary Shelley’s sojourn in Italy was shattered by the drowning of P. B. Shelley in July 1822. One of her first intentions was to write his biography and in the spring of 1823 she began to do so. Long distorted by the intrusive tamperings of Thomas Jefferson Hogg, the fragments of the ‘Life of Shelley’ contain recolleca D. M. Stocking and M. K. Stocking, ‘New Shelley Letters in a John Gisborne Notebook’, Keats–Shelley Memorial Bulletin, 31 (1980), 1–9; MWSL, I, pp. 132, 135; see also pp. 137–8 for Mary Shelley’s satirical mood during this period. b MWSJ, II, p. 678; MWSL, I, pp. 135, 139. The lost Spinoza translation was begun at Marlow at the same time as ‘Cupid and Psyche’. c For the writing of Proserpine, see MWSJ, I, p. 316. Midas probably followed. (MWSN, vol. 2); Walter Peck, ‘New Shelley Papers: II – Shelley’s Corrections in the Original Draft of Mary’s Two-Act Drama of “Proserpine” (1820)’, The Nation & the Athenæum, 28 (19 Mar. 1921), pp. 876–7. d MWSJ, I, p. 359.

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tions of what her husband had told her of his boyhood and a self-dedication to his memory in which she takes on the voice of a Sibyl or a Corinne. She published in 1823 her first articles in the Liberal, the journal set up in 1822 by P. B. Shelley, Byron and Leigh Hunt. She began to prepare a volume of her husband’s posthumous poems, extracting (and sometimes shaping) unfinished poetic ‘thoughts’ from his often chaotic working notebooks. Four months later she had to choose between living in Italy and England. ‘The Choice’, the return to England, lyric poetry and album tales (1823–38). ‘The Choice’, her longest poem, is an act of imaginative transcendence of her situation in the summer of 1823; she ‘chooses’ in the poem to stay in Italy, but she had already reluctantly resolved to return to England when she wrote it. Written in free heroic couplets, its immediate models are poems by Pomfret and Leigh Hunt, both called ‘The Choice’, in which the poet chooses a spot to which to retire and be happy. But more powerfully we hear the accents both of P. B. Shelley’s poetry and of Pope’s heroic verse epistle, ‘Eloisa to Abelard’. After ‘The Choice’ Mary Shelley is known to have written only short lyrics. Her craft would have been developed by the concentrated editing of P. B. Shelley’s Posthumous Poems (1824), during which task she pored over the minute alterations made by him (‘soft’ to ‘sweet’ or ‘icy’ to ‘freezing’) that subtly adjust the emotional colour and relationships of sound to sense.a An even stronger influence on her lyric style was Thomas Moore, later to become her friend. When he wrote self-deprecatingly that ‘the great guns of Parnassus’ had never thought much of him, she spoke warmly of how P. B. Shelley (and of course she herself) had delighted in his ‘songs and short poems instinct with the intense principle of life and love’: Such, your unspeakably beautiful poems to Nea – such, how many others! One of the first things I remember with Shelley was his repeating to me one of your gems with enthusiasm. (MWSL, II, p. 308)

Her oeuvre is small; it has the consistency of a writer who writes verse seldom but who, when she writes, spends time on polishing the ‘gem’. Its subject matter is desire and loss; her verses are written as if to be sung. Melodiousness (or ‘lyrical purity’, to adopt Muriel Spark’s term) characterises them. b ‘A Night Scene’, most a With ‘Music when soft voices die’, she arranged his cancelled lines with such taste and tact as to craft the quintessential 19th-century Shelley lyric. It is being superseded in modern editions by ‘Rose leaves when the rose is dead’, which follows P. B. Shelley’s draft ordering. But will it ‘vibrate in the memory’ like Mary Shelley’s version? b Muriel Spark, Mary Shelley, (London: Constable, 1988), p. 228. Spark argues that Poe’s ‘To One in Paradise’ (1835) was influenced by Mary Shelley’s Keepsake version of ‘A Dirge’ – a plausible suggestion in the light of the availability of the Keepsake in the USA and Poe’s admiration for both Shelleys. Among contemporary women poets Mary Shelley appears to have especially admired L. E. L., from whose The Golden Violet an epigraph to Lodore is taken (MWSN, vol. 6, p. 74).

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sensuous of her lyrics, written to a woman friend, has the refined voluptuousness of Moore and the spirit of ‘Cupid and Psyche’. The shorter version of ‘La vida es sueño’ has a Wordsworthian directness and simplicity. Some lyrics were faircopied as if for the press or for presentation as gifts, either to an intimate or to a hostess as a guest and celebrity (‘The Death of Love’). ‘O listen while I sing to Thee’ was set to music and sold for drawing-room performance. Several were published in The Keepsake, one of the most famous of the lavishly illustrated giftbook annuals that sprang up in the 1820s and 30s; it was edited (mostly) by Frederick Mansel Reynolds, a disciple of Godwin, with whom Mary Shelley enjoyed a cordial professional relationship. Only her elegy for P. B. Shelley, ‘A Dirge’, seems to have satisfied her. But there is one brief record of her being noticed as a poet. The feminist traveller Flora Tristan, mentioning leading British women of letters during her 1839 visit to London, identified ‘Mrs Shilly’ not by her novels but by her ‘vers pleins de mélodie et de sentiment’.a Unlike her contemporaries, Mary Shelley wrote few verse translations. Five which have been proposed, published in The Bijou and signed M. S., are not by her.b Most of her known efforts are clustered in the Spanish volume (1837) of Literary Lives; some are newly attributed for this edition by Lisa Vargo and Tilar Mazzeo. She was modest about them, but they are also ‘scupulous and sensitive’ (Palacio).c Surprisingly varied in genre and metrical form for such a small number, they range from the rhapsodic to the burlesque. Significantly, many are of passages dealing with tempest and shipwreck. During these years, Mary Shelley received a stingy allowance from P. B. Shelley’s father, Sir Timothy Shelley, who enforced the suppression of Posthumous Poems in 1824. Payment for the four novels published between 1826 and 1837 (The Last Man, Perkin Warbeck, Lodore and Falkner) was far from lavish. She began to write review-articles and tales for the albums. (Most of these last are collected in Robinson’s 1976 edition (MWST)). Written for money, they are also typically motivated by some obsessive idea that has possessed her imagination. ‘Lacy de Vere’ (1826) is driven by its plot of a brother and a sister, last of their race, living as fugitives in a womb-like cave, the sister burying the brother and dying with him. Probably other anonymously published tales await identification. a Promenades dans Londres (Paris, London: H.-L. Delloye, 1840), p. 316. Tristan could have seen Mary Shelley’s two poems in the Keepsake for 1839 (1838) and ‘A Dirge’ in her 1839 Poetical Works of P. B. Shelley. ‘Mrs Shilly’ might just be someone else, but no plausible claimant has been found, and the brief mention is succeeded by a panegyric to Wollstonecraft. b They are by the young Margaret Scott, later Gatty (1809–73), the author of Parables from Nature and a devotee of Schiller, Klopstock and Korner. Her biographer, who had access to family papers, wrote that her ‘translations into English verse of poems from Italian and German poets’ appeared in ‘1829 and 1830’ in the Bijou. The biographer evidently means the Bijou for 1829 and the Bijou for 1830, but otherwise the description tallies exactly with the Bijou items signed ‘M. S.’ (Christabel Maxwell, Mrs Gatty and Mrs Ewing (London: Constable, 1949), p. 32). The other verse-translation attributed to Mary Shelley (‘The Stars’ from Schiller’s Turandot) is by someone who knows German. c See Palacio, p. 529.

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The claims of one of these, ‘The Convent of Chaillot’, a tale of female friendship set in the reign of Louis XIV, are strong enough to justify inclusion in ‘Attributed’ writings. Also in the ‘Attributed’ section is a review of a collection of Italian tales in translation, ‘The Italian Novelists’. If it is hers, it reveals a good deal about her ideas of what made a good translation.

Literary Lives for the Lardner Cabinet Cyclopædia (1833–9) Dr Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædiaa was among the most distinguished of the many series which arose during the 1820s and 30s in response to the so-called March of Mind. The spread of education during the first decades of the nineteenth century swelled the market for school textbooks, teach-yourself manuals and selfimprovement literature among the newly enrolled members of the middle classes and the aspiring skilled artisan class. It was the age of the ‘Family Library’ edition. Publishers such as Valpy issued a complete Family Classical Library in parts, from Aeschylus to Xenophon, in ‘a Series of correct and elegant Translations’ to extend that great benefit of a classical education, ‘liberality of sentiment’.b During the publishing crises of c. 1825–35, this market saved some established firms from bankruptcy and brought new ones into prominence. The most famous predecessors of the Cabinet Cyclopædia were John Murray’s Family Library and the publications of the Society for the Propagation of Useful Knowledge, the first coming from a Tory publisher who owned the Quarterly Review, the second associated with the Westminster Review and the founding of London University in 1828. The Cabinet Cyclopædia (which also began in 1828) had a close tie with the latter.c It was remarkable in its equal commitment to a

Information concerning Lardner and the Cabinet Cyclopædia is drawn from Morse Peckham, ‘Dr Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia’, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, 45 (1951), pp. 37–58 (hereafter, Peckham); ledgers in the Longman archive, now in the University of Reading, as derived from Reels 26 and 29 of the microfilms Publishers’ Archives: The House of Longman, 1794–1914, 73 reels (Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, Jan. 1976–Mar. 1978); hereafter Longman Archive; newspaper and periodical advertisements; advertisements in volumes of the Cyclopædia and other Longman series; ‘The Analytical Catalogue of Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia’ (16-page advertising brochure, sometimes bound into later Lardner volumes, hereafter ‘Analytical Catalogue’). Advertisements stating that a ‘detailed Catalogue’ of the Cyclopædia may be had of any bookseller appear as early as 1838 (see, for instance, the Athenæum for 1838, p. 663 col. 1). Citations here are from a copy of 1846 that Greg Kucich has kindly supplied, and I have seen one dating from 1844. ‘Arts and Manufactures’ contained only 4 titles (7 vols) while ‘History’ contained 21 titles (61 vols). ‘Biography’ was intermediate – 21 titles (31 vols); see Peckham, 50 for this and more details. The claim of coverage (see below) does not stand up to scrutiny. Philosophy (one of the original nine) was dropped; there are no titles on painting, music or travel, for instance. b Prospectus to the Family Classical Library (London: A. Valpy; Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1830), p. 2, bound in with some volumes. c The agreement to set up the Cyclopædia was signed on 30 June 1828 (Longman Archive, Reel 29, Sale Catalogue of 1851).

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including both the useful sciences and the liberal arts. The Revd Dr Dionysius Lardner (1793–1859), its founder, was science lecturer at London University, while its co-publisher, John Taylor, after a risk-taking career as the publisher of Keats, Clare and the London Magazine, had been appointed the official University bookseller and publisher.a The other co-publisher was the large firm of Longman which, in addition to its investment in educational books, also owned the Keepsake. The apparently very different worlds of gift literature and popular education had more meeting points than may be supposed. Like Mary Shelley, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Southey and Thomas Moore also moved between them. Lardner cannily did not align his series too closely with any political party or grouping. As well as Benthamite professors at London University and prominent liberals such as Sismondi, his authors included Scott, a Tory, Southey, the poet laureate, and several Church of England clergymen. The Cyclopædia was aimed at ‘the general reader’ and this included women (its Prospectus anticipated a place in ‘the drawing room and the boudoir’).b It targeted provincial Literary and Philosophical Societies and Mechanics’ Institutions, families ‘resident in the COUNTRY ’, ships’ passengers, members of the armed forces and ‘COLONIAL INSTITUTIONS ’. Free copies were presented to the newly founded University of Durham, where they remain to this day, and it was also suggested that separate volumes would make suitable ‘reward-books’ for schools and academies. It was not intended for a mass readership; the price of each volume (six shillings) precluded that. Scores of review copies (often between 80 to 100) were sent out to newspapers both metropolitan and provincial.c It was divided into ‘Cabinets’, at first nine, but later reduced to five (Arts and Manufactures, Biography, History, Natural History, Natural Philosophy). These covered, it claimed, ‘all the usual divisions of knowledge that are not of a technical and professional kind’. Purchasers could buy the entire set – which eventually numbered 133 volumes – or any number of Cabinets, or a single work (usually multi-volume) within a Cabinet. The ‘Prospectus’ pledged that a volume would be issued on the first of every month, and the pledge was (generally) kept. Cabinets were of uneven sizes. Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives formed part of the ‘Cabinet of Biography’. ‘Literary Lives’ was never a published title, but Longman used this short form in its ledgers and so did she in her correspondence.d Mary Shelley had first tried to contribute to Murray’s Family Library.e Of the many topics she proposed to Murray between 12 November 1829 and 29 Decema For more information about the career of Taylor (1781–1864) as a textbook publisher, especially of language teaching, see Chris Stray, ‘John Taylor and Locke’s Classical System’ in Paradigm. (http://w4.ed.uiuc.edu/faculty/westbury/Paradigm/stray.html). b My personal copies of the Italian and Spanish volumes contain the contemporary bookplate of a Catharine Penelope Jones. c ‘Analytical Catalogue’, p. 1; Longman Archive, Reel 29. d ‘Analytical Catalogue’, p. 1; Peckham, pp. 38–42; Longman Archive, Reel 29. e She considered herself to have incurred a money debt to John Murray which she hoped to discharge by this means. Murray seems to have preferred to forget the debt, treating it as an ex

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ber 1830, which included ‘Continental manners and literature’ and ‘a history of Woman’, only one seems to have interested Murray’s reader in the slightest.a Perhaps, with her political background, her chances of acceptance in that quarter had never been good. Balked (not for the first time) in her attempts to become a Murray author, she accepted an invitation to join the Cabinet Cyclopædia team in or shortly before November 1833. It has been suggested that this came about through Godwin or Moore.b Certainly Moore, ‘wading through’ his own fourvolume History of Ireland for Lardner, welcomed her as a fellow-toiler. ‘It makes me feel lighter in my traces […] to know that you are harnessed in the Dionysian Drag along with me’.c The carriage-horse imagery used by Moore suggests that he regarded the Cyclopædia writing as high-class hack-work, but Mary Shelley never speaks in such terms. As well as the need for hard cash, she had other motives: belief in providing the means of ‘cultivating the mind’ to those deprived of access to British universities, and, initially at least, keeping misery at bay through the exercise of her talents in what was a far more congenial task for her than Moore’s was to him. In August 1833 she had experienced ‘frightful calamity’. Its nature is hinted at in her journal and explained by Claire Clairmont’s later testimony. She had accepted a proposal of marriage from the radical MP Aubrey Beauclerk. His family objected that she had an insufficient fortune, and, ‘greatly chagrined’, she was obliged to do the ‘honourable’ thing and withdraw. In November 1833 she wrote in her journal ‘I am going to begin the lives of the Italians – God grant I find lessons during that study to teach & tranquillize my disturbed & sorrowing mind’, while on 2 December 1834 she wrote that ‘my life & reason have been saved by these “Lives”’. In 1843 she looked back with pleasure on the ‘quieter work, to be gathered from other works, – such as my lives for the Cyclopedia – & which I think I do much better than romancing’.d Lardner was lucky to find a well-known name, an experienced author (shortly to achieve a succès d’estime with the 1835 Lodore) who actively liked the work, did not demand high fees and wrote engagingly. (Some Cabinet Cyclopædia authors, gratia payment for helping Moore, whom she had helped with his Life of Byron (London: John Murray, 1830). a MWSL, II, pp. 89, 105–6, 113–21. Additional topics were biographical (the lives of the Empress Josephine, Madame de Staël, Mahomet, English philosophers), and historical (the Conquests of Mexico and Peru, 18th-century English manners and literature, antediluvian history, a history of chivalry). b Moore had tried to help her with Murray. Mansel Reynolds is another candidate. Godwin recorded meeting Lardner (not necessarily for the first time) in May 1830 (Ab. Dep. e. 224; information communicated by Pamela Clemit). He made an unsuccessful application in the following August to write for the Cyclopædia. The Abinger MSS contain two letters of refusal from Lardner (28 Aug. and 15 Sept. 1830); see Palacio, p. 495 and n. c Moore to Mary Shelley, 10 Apr. 1834, Letters of Thomas Moore, ed. Wilfred S. Dowden, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), II, p. 783. d MWSJ, II, pp. 530, 537, 544; CC Correspondence, II, p. 356–7nn.; MWSJ, II, p. 533; MWSJ, II, p. 543; MWSL, III, p. 93.

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such as Connop Thirlwall, were able scholars but deadeningly ponderous.) She ended up as the eighth most prolific contributor among Lardner’s thiry-eight authors, and the Cyclopædia’s only woman author, though not, it seems, the only distinguished woman involved in the project.a She was reponsible for most of the contents of volumes 63 and 71 (Italian Lives), 96 (Spanish and Portuguese Lives), 105 and 117 (French Lives). Not that she invariably met her deadlines. Godwin’s death in 1836 and editing P. B. Shelley’s poems (1838–9) must have delayed publication of Spanish Lives (custom and convenience dictate the shorter form of wording) and French Lives II, respectively. But so many volumes were in preparation between 1830 and 1838 that Lardner had some leeway to shuffle around the order of publication.b The Literary Lives, unlike most of the other Cyclopædia titles, had originally been planned as a multi-authored work. European and British literary and scientific biographies were to mingle together, as this 1830 advertisement shows: LIVES OF THE MORE EMINENT LITERARY MEN OF ALL NATIONS, in 8 Vols. By Scott, Southey, Moore, Mackintosh, Montgomery, Cunningham, and all the principal Literary and Scientific Contributors to the Cyclopædia.c

Between 1830 and 1832, Lardner had commissioned and paid sums (some of them rather small but altogether amounting to about £800) for manuscripts which then stayed on the stocks not yet set up in type.d Lardner’s ‘Explanation’ in a ledger of the Longman Archive shows that most of these concerned the Literary Lives. They comprised a mixture of European scientists (Copernicus, Kepler, Tycho Brahe, Galileo), British authors (Chaucer, Gower), and European authors (Lorenzo de’ Medici, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Dante, Ariosto, Erasmus, Cervantes, Ercilla, Lope de Vega, Calderón, Camoëns, Rabelais, La Fontaine, Corneille and what appears to be a misspelled Sévigné). While this looks as though Lardner already had more than enough in 1833 for a first volume, the first four Italian biographies were rejects, and the others (many of which were eventually scrapped too) hardly amounted to a coherent book. Only six items on the above list were eventually published in the European Literary Lives, ten of the remainder (including the de Sévigné) being replaced by Mary Shelley’s biographies. a

Longman Archive, Reel 29, records payments to ‘Mrs Austin’ for translating a Sismondi title. This is very probably Sarah Austin (1793–1867), wife of the professor of jurisprudence at London University and a highly regarded translator, especially from the German. She had helped Ugo Foscolo translate his articles for the Quarterly (see DNB). b See Moore, Letters, II, p. 789. In 1839 the commitment to publish monthly was silently abandoned; only ten volumes were issued. c Advertisement bound in with vol. 1 of The History of France, 3 vols (1830–1), No 12 of the Cabinet Cyclopædia. d An inference drawn from the fact that one of these, ‘La Fontaine’, did not go to the printers until 1838 and from Longman’s accounts ledger labelling this group as ‘Unpublished Manuscripts’ (Longman Archive, Reel 29); Longman would not be likely to go to the expense of typesetting until actual publication was certain.

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Mary Shelley, in short, entered at a watershed in the fortunes of Literary Lives, the name and make-up of which was undergoing bewildering changes. In January 1835, only a week before Italian Lives I was due out, large advertisements for the series appeared in several places. There was no hint of the volume in progress; instead a ‘Lives of the most eminent Literary and Scientific men of England, France and Germany, by various distinguished contributors’ was advertised.a A week later, announcing the actual publication of Italian Lives I, an apparently different publication was described, in terms at once more vague and more specific: ‘Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men / By Robert Southey, James Montgomery, the Lord Bishop of Cloyne, Sir D. Brewster, Mrs Shelley, &c., &c., Vol. I.’b With Scott dead, Robert Southey was now the big-name ‘lion’. ‘Mrs Shelley’ appears for the first time, seemingly allotted a minor role in the entire work, though she had written most of Italian Lives I. The title and the cast list were still the same when advertisements for Italian Lives II went out in late September 1835.c But the ledgers show that there had been a change of policy behind the scenes. After an intermediate period when, the January 1835 advertisement would suggest, there was a plan to divide the series between Northern Europe (including Britain) and Southern Europe, the European and the British Lives had been uncoupled from each other and the parts reshuffled. Each new division was eventually to form a separate five-volume work.d The British division became purely literary, except in name, and was subdivided into poets, dramatists and early writers. The European division (retaining a toe-hold on science with ‘Galileo’) divided into a three-volume set on authors of Southern Europe (Italy, Spain and Portugal) and a two-volume set on French authors. Germany lost out. Southey and the Bishop of Cloyne vanished from the advertisements. One-off commissions for single lives, except those in the pipeline like Montgomery’s ‘Tasso’, appear to have ceased: the ledgers record no others. While many of the biographical subjects had already been chosen – and they are mostly obvious choices – Mary Shelley’s interests and knowledge of Romance languages (her German was rudimentary) may have helped to clarify policy during the confusions of 1834–5 and to determine the shape that the European Literary Lives eventually took. One reviewer complained about the arrangement of Italian Lives I and it is very noticeable that Spanish Lives, by contrast, is a far more structured volume, as is French Lives II. There have been puzzles surrounding the extent of her authorship which the present editors consider that they have a

Found in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal (28 Jan. 1835), once owned by Scott, and the Literary Gazette. b This advertisement has been found in both the Athenæum (7 Feb. 1835) and the Edinburgh Weekly Journal (4 Feb. 1835). c Athenæum (19 Sept. 1835), p. 719. d Longman’s Accounts Ledger shows that work had begun on ‘British Biography’ by August 1835 (Longman Archive, Reel 29).

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resolved through a combination of examination of the Longman Archive, evidence from letters and journals and internal evidences of style and common authorship. In our judgement all of them except for Dante, Ariosto, Galileo, Tasso, Ercilla, Rabelais and La Fontaine are hers. (For more details, see the Editors’ Introductions and individual notes in this volume and volumes 2 and 3.) The Longman Account Ledgers contain many references to ‘Mrs Shelley’ but clerks, not having future literary researchers in mind, sometimes simply recorded payments on account to ‘Lity Lives’. Nevertheless, enough detail remains to show that except for Italian Lives I – where she had to share the honours with ‘the Omnipresent Mr Montgomery’ – Longman treated her as the major or sole author of each volume, allowing her advances and giving her the author’s six free copies plus a reasonable number of extra free copies both of her own titles and those of others that she wished to collect. The amount set aside to pay the authors of each volume of the Lives appears to have been about £200 – much less than the fees given to Scott and Moore, but it compares well with the £150 she had received for Perkin Warbeck, which had taken her three years to write. Other authors had been treated less well.a Peckham suggested that the project early ran into money difficulties owing to overpayment of the chief ‘lions’ and with, perhaps, some of them pulling out because of personality difficulties with Lardner, but there were other problems. The market was crowded with a ‘host of cheap and beautiful publications’b and the series did not get the critical acclaim needed to dominate it, though some authors did achieve prominence.c Moore, for instance, got a front page spread in a Contracts were extremely unequal. Moore’s, signed 13 Jan. 1833, required him to write a two-volume History of Ireland in two years for £1,500, with no penalty if he failed to meet the deadline. But Henry Roscoe’s contract of 25 Jan. 1830 specified that he was to produce British Lawyers in three months for £100 or face a penalty of £500. Mary Shelley’s agreement does not appear to have survived (Agreements Ledger, Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia, Longman Archive, Reel 29). b Monthly Review (Oct. 1835), pp. 297–9, reviewing a rival to Lardner’s British biographical titles: Lives of Eminent and Illustrious Englishmen, from Alfred the Great to the Latest Times, On an Original Plan, ed. George Godfrey Cunningham, 8 vols (Glasgow: A. Fullarton, 1835–7), published in parts. Patronised by both royalty and Henry Brougham, it initially won praise for its excellent plan, vigour, impartiality and ‘getting-up’. Its aim was to teach English history systematically through original biographies of the master spirits of the nation. Presentation was handsomer than for the Cyclopædia, and, for 4 guineas, the subscriber eventually got 1075 biographies, including ones for Wollstonecraft, Byron, and P. B. Shelley. However, biographies and histories became increasingly less connected with each other as the series advanced, and later items lean heavily on straight excerpts from published memoirs. c A judgement based on examination of the Athenaeum, the New Monthly Magazine, the Monthly Review and the Sunday Times. There are, however, probably many short notices and perhaps reviews still waiting to be found in those provincial papers that made a speciality of ‘literary intelligence’. Lyles and Palacio overlooked a Sunday Times review of Italian Lives II and a notice of the pirated Italian Lives in Graham’s Magazine. I have searched in the following for reviews during the period 1835–39: the Sheffield Iris (edited by Montgomery, but unfortunately the Colindale copy for 1835 is too fragile for examination), Felix Farley’s Bristol Journal, the Edinburgh Weekly Journal and the Dublin Weekly Messenger, but found advertisements only.

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the Literary Gazette when the first volume of his History came out and this splash correlates with good sales.a But the Cyclopædia was not the sort of publication which attracted proper reviews. Journals and newspapers would dip into the monthly stream of titles at intervals and fish out the odd volume for a three-line notice. So perfunctory are such notices that one sometimes suspects the writers of not even cutting the leaves. Mary Shelley’s volumes, with twelve located reviews and notices in English journals and papers, did quite well. At the same time, the potential of her name was never fully exploited. Except in American pirated editions, it never appears on the title-page, and reviewers often appear understandably bemused as to whether they are dealing with one author or several. This might have been her preference or Lardner’s policy or both. The same pattern (anonymity in the text combined with naming in advertisements) is found in two other publications of the 1830s to which she contributed and also with some other Lardner authors.b The average print run of the mid-1830s for the first volume of a new multi-volume title was 4,000 copies, with a predicted best seller like Moore’s Ireland being given more. There was a tendency to reduce the print run of the second and subsequent volumes, as sales of the first often fell short of expectations. As it became clearer after 1835 that the Cyclopædia was not going to be a great money spinner the average print run fell from 4,000 to 2,500, and fewer new titles were launched. Fewer copies were sent out to newspapers and advertisements shrank in size. (There are also indications that Lardner was becoming less interested in the project. He ceased to sign the account ledger after mid-1838.) Production costs were relatively high for six-shilling books. The Corbould and Finden vignettes that added boudoir appeal, the illustrations to the scientific volumes, the employment of a top printing house like Spottiswoode’s, all helped to swell them; costcutting measures (small print, especially in the footnotes, and narrow margins) made the otherwise attractive little books less reader-friendly.c There was a limit as to how low print runs could be reduced and still recoup the initial outlay. Longman’s investment in stereotyping the series (which added about £28 to the costs Newspapers which might repay a search include the York Chronicle (which appears sometimes as a destination of free copies in the Lardner Longman Archive), the Liverpool Mercury, the Leeds Times, the Leeds Mercury, the Bath Guardian, the Brighton Patriot, the Windsor and Eton Express, and the Lincoln Gazette. Most of these noticed Cunningham’s 1837 Lives of Eminent Englishmen. a Literary Gazette (4 Apr. 1835), pp. 207–10; see Johanna M. Smith, Mary Shelley (New York: Twayne; London: Prentice Hall, 1996), pp. 130–1 for a summary of contemporary reception of the series. b See Peckham’s check-list, pp. 52–8 for anonymous authors. Advertisements for Bentley and Colburn’s Standard Novels 1831 edition of Caleb Williams proclaim that it contains a ‘Memoir of the Author by his daughter, MRS . SHELLEY ’ and her half-brother’s novel Transfusion (1835) was advertised as being edited by her. Her name appears in neither book. c Scott complained about the size of print (Peckham, p. 48). By contrast, another 6-shilling series, Colburn and Bentley’s Standard Novels, with similar standards of presentation, had lower expenses; Colburn commissioned introductions and revisions, but not entirely new works.

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of each volume) would have paid off where the initial print run of a title sold out, but this did not help in cases of over-optimistic initial printing.a Mary Shelley’s titles had larger initial print runs than any of her novels and, under the circumstances, respectable sales. (The bulk of the sales of each Cyclopædia volume were, then as now, made in the first half year, typically just over half the print run being sold; thereafter sales fell sharply and dwindled steadily.) Spanish Lives and French Lives II, with smaller print runs than the Italian volumes, eventually sold out and were topped up with runs of 250 copies. The Lives appear to have made a small profit for Longman overall, though it is difficult to disaggregate total costs of individual volumes. Their stock (though not that of all the Cyclopædia titles) finally ran out in 1873–4. They had remained in print – just – for nearly 40 years, a record for any Mary Shelley first edition.b How interventionist an editor was Lardner? We do not know, but there is no record of his imposing cuts or making stylistic changes to Mary Shelley’s work. He was paid a £50 editorial fee per volume.c Just what he did to earn a salary of £600 a year is not clear but, prima facie, it was not by paying attention to minutiae. (He did not maintain a consistent house style either between or within volumes.) Mary Shelley evidently regarded his editorial duties as including chivvying printers to send proofs.d Bringing a book out every month must have been a timeconsuming and nerve-racking task, and the fee might have been compensation for lectures which the Cabinet Cyclopædia work obliged him to forgo. As the Lives were typeset in stages, another duty might have been vetting and approval of the collating (putting the various parts in their final order, together with assembling preliminaries and end-matter). He no doubt oversaw the Cabinet Cyclopædia’s general pledge to introduce no material remotely likely ‘to offend public or private morals’ or to injure religion. This was a gesture ritually performed in advertisements for ‘popular series’ during the 1830s, including the Standard Novels of Colburn and Bentley, publishers of the 1831 Frankenstein.e It is unlikely that he a

With stereotyping a volume could simply be reprinted by recasting type from papier-mâché moulds, making small-scale reprints cost-effective. b In 1851 Longman tried to auction off stereotypes, engraved plates and unsold stock of the Cyclopædia. However, suitable buyers were evidently not found and Longman carried on, reducing the price per volume to 3/6 and meticulously continuing to record sales. In 1861 the old stock of most titles was reduced (perhaps sold for waste paper), but there was a small reprint. This in turn was permitted to dwindle. Not until 1890 was the last title – Sismondi’s Italian Republics – finally remaindered. The books finally closed on Dr Lardner’s Cyclopædia with the disposal of the electroplates (the successor of stereotypes) for Swainson’s Natural Histories, in 1902! (Longman Archive, Reel 29, Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia Summary Costs and Sales Ledger pages 166–319 and Stock Book 1851–64). c £600 was a reasonable fee for an editorship, but Lardner was not only a ‘conductor’ of the Cyclopædia but one of the proprietors and thus profit-sharers as well. His fee is always given as £50 in the ledgers (plus six free copies). d See K–SJ, 46 (1997), 67. e The ‘Family Library’ market had to be mindful of the sequencing of publications. Reviewing Mrs Child’s The Biographies of Madame de Staël and Madame Roland, the Athenæum objected

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encountered any difficulties with Mary Shelley, who understood how to negotiate the boundaries very well (though she is appreciably less censorious than some of her male contemporaries such as the Revd Dr Stebbing, editor of the Athenæum, or the author of ‘La Fontaine’; where they speak of unpardonable ‘obscenity’ she murmurs milder expostulations about ‘indecency’).a Moreover, Lardner may not have been very zealous. He himself was no pillar of sexual morality and the readership envisaged by the Cyclopædia, though orthodox, was evidently not of that ultra-prudish kind that we still frequently imagine the Early Victorians to have been.b There appears to have been no embargo, for instance, on mentioning liaisons or illegitimacy, except where living persons might be injured. From letters we glean that Mary Shelley was given a limit of seventy-odd pages per life – grossly exceeded by her ‘Voltaire’ – and that Lardner preferred straight biography to Westminster Review-style literary criticism. From another source we know that he did not like too much autobiography.c This edict against the ego was a clog on a writer like Leigh Hunt, but Mary Shelley had become an adept at circumvention, insinuating the highly personal under a mask of impersonality, exploiting the reviewers’ ‘we’, and now and then introducing a discreet ‘I’. More significant for the Literary Lives than the scanty record of the Cyclopædia guidelines was generic determinism. The collection of short biographies combining written sources, memoir and anecdote with ‘remark’ and criticism, had been established as a genre, with its own conventions. It was inseparably associated with Samuel Johnson, who had raised it in public esteem with his Lives of the English Poets (1779–81). Johnson provided the rationale for her introduction of anecdote and ‘the bringing forward of minute, yet characteristic details’ as an essential part of the ‘true end of biography’. (‘Metastasio’, p. 226).d Her regard for to these Frenchwomen being given the coveted vol. 1 spot in The Ladies’ Family Library (London: Kennett; Boston: Carter & Co., 1832). ‘With all our admiration of both of these distinguished women, this pre-eminence looks too much like a worship of talent rather than of virtue. We had rather that some such compliment had been paid to the memory of Lady Russell, or to that of Mrs Hutchinson’ (Athenaeum, no. 254 (8 Sept. 1832), 583 col. 3). For other evidence of the importance of propriety in such ventures see the Prospectus to the Cabinet Cyclopædia, quoted in Peckham, p. 41, and Mary Shelley’s assurances to Murray that her envisaged ‘History of the Earth’ would not ‘intrench’ on orthodoxy (MWSL, II, p. 115). a Among the many signs that Montgomery’s ‘Ariosto’ could not possibly be by her is the low view it takes of satirists and its affirmation that it would have been morally better for all Ariosto’s readers had he never been born. b The playwright Dion [Lardner] Boucicault was probably Lardner’s natural son. Lardner had separated from his wife by 1839. As her name was Cecilia, the joke ran that he had acquired the title ‘Dionysius, tyrant of Sicily’ (Caroline Fox, Memories of Old Friends, ed. Horace N. Pym (London: Smith, Elder, 1882), p. 44). He later eloped with a Mrs Heaviside in 1840. Her husband sued him for ‘criminal conversation’ and won £8000. The 1850s and 60s were the true high point of Victorian prudery. In revising his Lives of the Italian Poets in 1860 Stebbing omitted all mention of the subject (syphilis) of Fracastoro’s most famous poem, though in 1832 it was not too shocking to be mentioned in a ‘family reading’ type publication. c MWSL, II, pp. 241–2, 255; Wellesley Index, III (1979), p. 112 and n. d See Palacio, pp. 503–10 on Mary Shelley and Samuel Johnson.

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Johnson would have been encouraged by Godwin, who himself had intended to write a continuation of Johnson’s Lives.a A more obvious Godwinian legacy is the uniting of biography, moral suasion and political and social history.b Palacio shrewdly remarked that Mary Shelley’s Lives read like chapters of a reconstitution of the ‘Continental manners and literature’ proposed to Murray.c Additionally, she frequently adopts the stance of the advocate or the vindicator, an aim appearing as early as her ‘Madame d’Houtetot’ of 1823 (MWSN, vol. 2). ‘There is no more delightful literary task than the justifying a hero or writer, who has been misrepresented or reviled’ she wrote in ‘Machiavelli’. She is Wollstonecraftian in the recurrence of the figures of obscured women, of whom the professor’s daughter who lectured at Bologna behind a veil (‘Vittoria Colonna’) may serve as both example and emblem. (And, surely, too, it encodes a veiled hope that the new London University might one day attain the enlightenment of medieval Bologna and admit women to lectureships.) These respects, rather than the inclusion of a few already canonised celebrated females, enable Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives to take its place, as Greg Kucich has argued, alongside other examples of nineteenth-century feminist historiography such as Mary Hays’s Female Biography (1803), and Anna Jameson’s Memoirs of Female Sovereigns (1831).d In several notices and reviews, the Lives are described as ‘compilations’. The elasticity of the term made it convenient for notice-writers. It could be applied to a collection of multi-authored extracts; but more often it implied a mixed form of composition – one understood to be incorporating material ‘gathered from other works’ but which could also be original in its transformation of that material through selection, arrangement, taste, judgement, commentary, tendency and tone. It was as a compilation that one reviewer of Italian Lives II praised the volume for being ‘full but concise, perspicuous and not destitute of that enthusiasm, which commands for the narrative a warm and welcome reception in the mind of the reader’.e (For more on this subject, see Tilar Mazzeo’s introduction to Italian Lives.) While a compilation might be praised for its inclusion of novel and ‘curious’ particulars, it was not expected to contain original primary research,f and nor should we seek that in the Lives. We will not find in them material drawn for the first time from archives and private records as in Agnes Strickland’s monumental a

I owe this information to Pamela Clemit. Godwin had urged her in 1818 to write a Lives of the Commonwealth men and took up the project himself when she did not. The result was his History of the Commonwealth of England (1824–8). c Palacio, pp. 498; for Mary Shelley and Godwinian historiography, see Palacio, pp. 493–8. d Greg Kucich, ‘Mary Shelley’s Lives and the Reengendering of History’ in Mary Shelley in Her Times (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Unversity Press, 2000), pp. 198–213. e Monthly Review, I (March 1835), 332). f Samuel Astley Dunham, who wrote his own advertising blurb, was concerned to say that his History of Poland was not a compilation, having been derived from ‘sixty original sources – Polish, Bohemian, Hungarian, German, French &c., some of which are very scarce in this country’ (‘Analytical Catalogue’, p. 2). b

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Lives of the Queens of England (1840–8). Not that Lardner forbade ‘profound learning’ – indeed Thirlwall turned his long spun-out History of Greece into a magnum opus. But publication of ‘profound learning’ was made possible because other authors were prepared to wear their learning rather more lightly and to meet deadlines. We suspect that Mary Shelley, she who had copied the Cenci manuscript, would very much have liked the time and the resources to have burrowed into archives. And although most of her subjects were writers who had long been lost to living memory, she would certainly have wished to collect more first-hand memoirs of the recently-dead.a For her lives of modern Italians she did seek out such material. But in 1830 Benjamin Constant, the former lover of Madame de Staël, was willing to talk to her and to supply an introduction to de Staël’s sonin-law.b Murray would not advance her the money to go to Paris and Constant died later that year. So her Lives are mostly based on what she and Godwin called ‘study’. As she explains, expressing her frustration in 1819 at not having sufficient books for the purpose: I may not call simple reading study for Papa is continually saying & writing that to read one book without others beside you to which you may refer is mere childs work (MWSL, I, p. 122).

Editorial work on volumes 1–3 has confirmed previous accounts of Mary Shelley’s ‘study’. She wrote with many books to hand – reading (or rereading) some, consulting others, cross-referring, interweaving abridged and paraphrased source material with her own comment. Usually what is her own comment is sufficiently obvious. But the notes would have needed to be twice the size they are if they had attempted to track all the myriad shadings of emphasis and tendency that she makes to her sources through omissions, small interpolations, and nuancing. Both with primary and secondary texts she went back to the original languages where relevant, often rejecting the opportunity to cut corners and use the translations of others. Sometimes she got hold of the very finest editions available; at other points she had to work with what was there. Sometimes she is visibly under pressure; at others she seems to spare no pains. She may use an article by Scott to abridge her labours (as in ‘Molière’) but she has Scott’s own source to hand as well. She is sometimes very up to date; Carlyle’s French Revolution (1837) is used for ‘Mirabeau’, for instance. Her referencing is sketchy and inconsistent, rather like P. B. Shelley’s; it would not pass muster in an undergraduate essay today. But of course she was writing no such thing. She was writing amusing and instructive works for the general reader.

a

As Allen Cunningham in his Lives of the Most Eminent British Painters (1829–33) had done, thus preserving some unique anecdotes of Blake; Stebbing’s ‘Foscolo’ in his almost contemporary Lives of the Italian Poets contained some first-hand recollections. b MWSL, II, p. 103.

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Considered simply as biographical intelligence, the Literary Lives still offer a very agreeable way of learning more about Petrarch or Camoëns or de Staël (or even of the existence of Cieco da Ferrara, of whom, one suspects, many even in Mary Shelley’s day had never heard), just as they were intended to do in the 1830s. Much remains that is still valid, and the passage of time has not always brought more to light. (We still do not know very much about Calderón.) But of course 150 years of research has shown that some of her sources were inaccurate (see, for instance, Lisa Vargo’s note on ‘Lope de Vega’). While, to adapt Samuel Johnson, if it rains knowledge, let us hold out our hands, the Lives are not a substitute for a modern literary Companion. Morse Peckham said of the Cabinet Cyclopædia that its value lay in its being of its time; he was speaking especially of the science volumes, but his remarks apply very well to the Literary Lives too. The reader simultaneously acquires an early nineteenth-century perspective on her subjects. The 1830s no longer are for literary historians (what they never were to their political and social counterparts) a featureless bridge between the Romantics and the Victorians. The magazine culture, the popular literature, the increasing presence of women in the literary market-place – all these now are dynamic fields of literary study. Mary Shelley’s Lives is a window on the issues and debates of the 1830s, and written from a partisan viewpoint in spite of their seeming neutrality. Her republicanism emerges, for instance, in her siding with those who read of Machiavelli as a Florentine patriot or in her reading Don Quixote as a political work. The Lives contain much displaced topical political comment, sometimes smuggled in by apparently irrelevant footnotes. The inclusion of Guarini’s letter emphasising Polish love of liberty falls into place when you reflect that in 1835 Russia, in the aftermath of the defeated Polish revolution of 1830–1, was attempting to efface Polish cultural as well as political identity. Nor are the Lives lacking in modern relevance. Monti is today hardly known, yet the disparity between moral courage and aesthetic excellence which his career exemplifies is with us still. While being inevitably Anglocentred (this comes out especially in ‘Racine’) the Lives are not chauvinistic; they are advocates for a greater interest in, and, indeed, love of the literatures, history and culture of southern Europe and France. Today, with the overwhelming dominance of ‘World English’, challenged only by the increase in the numbers of Spanish speakers, we are more in need than ever of the large-minded, comparativist vision that she implicitly and indeed explicitly promotes. She assumes – what one cannot assume today – that the reader already has school-French, but the parallel passages of original and translation in Italian, Spanish and Portuguese are intended to awaken a ‘vigorous desire to have a perfect understanding of the originals’ and to a ‘study of them in their native language’ (‘Luis de Leon’, vol. 2, p. 85). But to dwell over-much on the question of the topicality and typicality of the Literary Lives risks eliding their individuality. At points the maps of literary history they offer are singular, to use one of her favourite words; their singularity is xxx

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often the result of her seizing on an aspect of a subject’s life or personality which ‘comes home’ to her. Even in French Lives I, where there seems to have been an attempt to represent many genres, there is nothing about sixteenth-century French poetry – nothing about Clement Marot or Ronsard and the Pléiade, who were increasingly being appreciated by English readers. (French poetry is one of her blind spots.) Montaigne alone represents the second part of the seventeenth century, and much of the biography is idiosyncratically taken up with his journey to Italy. For, like Montaigne, she had been a summer sojourner at Bagni di Lucca. She yearns to see Italy again. The story she wants to tell is that of Montaigne the traveller. Similarly, she harks back tenderly to her own memories of Naples in ‘Boccaccio’, Como in ‘Alfieri’, Italian small farms in ‘Monti’. Such personal passages are among the many rewards of the Literary Lives, though one frequently has to read beneath the self-effacing veneer to find them. General reflections on guilt, poverty and success are highly charged with the weight of experience. ‘There is nothing to which contemporaries are more prone than to discover that an author does not write his own works’ she says of Pulci’s detractors, with the wry weariness of one who has heard once too often that her husband really wrote Frankenstein.a It is also in the Lives that she comes closest to articulating her own mature religious beliefs, as in ‘Fénélon’ and ‘Pascal’, where she comments on Pascal’s famous and sophistical wager deftly, logically, personally. Throughout the Lives the polarities of free will/determinism and resignation/ resistance constantly recur. This last is intimately related to her consideration of the role of the writer under despotism. There is a continual tension between her praise of writers who cultivate private virtue and inner peace under tyranny and her advocacy of noble disdain and mental fight against such tyranny, cost what it may in agony of mind. The Lives gave her scope. No other form, not even her reviews, had permitted her to develop her perspectives on the relationship between deep emotion and literary conceits, on comedy, satire, and, above all, on theatre. ‘How she loved going to a good play!’ we feel upon reading ‘Goldoni’. That mingling of the registers of sentiment, moral reflection and dry wit, so characteristic, yet so seldom found in her Notes to P. B. Shelley’s Poetical Works, often appears in the Lives. Each national set of Lives has its own character. Italian Lives is the most overtly political; she is the propagandist for Italian independence, a lifelong cause, at a time when even to write of Italian greatness was a political act.b The Spanish and Portuguese Lives are the most exploratory; the tensions between struggle and calm (troped as the polarity of sword/pen or public/private) are at their most acute. She begins French Lives with low expectations. But she warms to the work; this is her a This view had been expressed as early as 1824 in Knight’s Quarterly Magazine. Mary Shelley’s need to deny it comes to the surface in her Introduction to the 1831 Frankenstein. b During the early 1820s, she remembered, Pisan university students were forbidden to get up a carnival masque of great Italians lest this be ‘a dangerous reminiscence of past glory’ (MWSN, vol. 8, p. 287n.).

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chance to survey both the century of Louis XIV and the French Revolution; she brings to the task the distilled knowledge and reflection of a lifetime.

1834–c. 1850: Years of non-stop work and their aftermath. ‘Life of William Godwin’ ‘Modern Italian Romances’, ‘Cecil’, ‘Inez de Medina’. No period of Mary Shelley’s life was more crowded with projects than the years 1834–9, and most of them were carried to completion. Italian Lives took up much of 1834–5, during which time complications impeded Lodore’s publication (1835) and she edited Transfusion, the posthumous novel of William Godwin Jun., her half-brother. Godwin’s death in April 1836 generated a new undertaking, the ‘Life of William Godwin’, intended both to honour her father and to provide for the comforts of her step-mother. Preliminary work began while both Falkner (begun late 1835, published 1837) and Spanish Lives were in progress. No sooner were they finished than she began French Lives I. She managed to fit in a few tales and poems for the Keepsake and to write ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (1838) for a new venture of Lardner’s, the Monthly Chronicle. This interesting piece reveals not only that she kept up to date with the Italian Risorgimento novel but also that she had more inside knowledge about Italian revolutionary exiles in Britain, notably Mazzini, than has been supposed. Having finally gained (in August 1838) her father-in-law’s agreement to publish P. B. Shelley’s poetry, she spent the rest of the year and the first part of 1839 editing with extreme speed the four-volume Poetical Works. She fell seriously ill with overwork, partly recovered, and completed French Lives II, a revised single-volume edition of Poetical Works and two volumes of P. B. Shelley’s edited prose. (Her prefaces and notes to these are in MWSN, vol. 2). The beginning of 1840 found her free of these tasks; she returned to her father's biography. It is her largest surviving piece of non-fictional work-inprogress, and even in its unfinished state is of great significance, not least as a tribute to her parents. It is her summative reflection on the first part of Godwin’s life and times; it is only here that she ever wrote publicly and directly of Wollstonecraft. What we present here is a reading-text edition of the words that Mary Shelley herself wrote as narrator, together with those portions of Godwin’s works, correspondence and journals (all intended for inclusion) that are too closely intertwined with Mary Shelley’s words to be detached from them. Pamela Clemit’s selection of extracts in Lives of the Great Romantics III is included in this text, but comprehensively re-edited and augmented by her in keeping with the aims of the present series. The previous publication highlights Mary Shelley’s characterisation of Godwin’s personality, placing it in relation to other memoirs and recollections by nineteenth-century writers. This edition places the ‘Life of William Godwin’ alongside Mary Shelley’s other biographical writings, themselves, as said above, a partly Godwinian enterprise. Despite some indeterminate features xxxii

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and gaps (some of which may be the result of losses over 150 years), the ‘Life’ was not left as an assembly of incoherent fragments; even as a draft a structure can be seen. For more details see the Introduction to the Life in volume 4. In 1843 she made new attempts to write on European literature for liberalminded reviews though nothing by her has been found. Her Rambles in Germany and Italy (MWSN, vol. 8) was published shortly after her father-in-law died (1844). She was no longer needy, but what ended her active writing career was not her modest wealth but bad health. She had not deserted literature. It was discovered while preparing this edition that a fragment, ‘Cecil’, previously thought to date from the 1830s, can be no earlier than 1845. Unusually, it has contemporary Rhineland Prussia as its setting and an industrialist’s wife as a leading character – tantalising, unexpected developments. She issued lightly revised versions of P. B. Shelley’s prose and poems in 1845 and 1847, still spoke of her hopes of writing his life and of finishing that of her father. But her last known surviving piece of literary work is related to neither project. This was a translation from the Italian of an unpublished novel, probably called ‘Inez de Medina’ (c. 1847– c. 1850), by Laura Tighe Galloni, for whom Maurice had been written nearly thirty years before. The original ‘Inez’ was evidently no masterpiece, but we may reflect that to end one’s writing career with encouraging a younger friend to ‘obtain literary reputation’ is no ungraceful or unworthy way of bowing out.

Editorial Policy Italian Lives, Spanish Lives and French Lives (vols. 1–3) are introduced by their editors, and each introduction contains details of composition history, publication, contemporary reception, context and significance, followed by notes on individual Lives. With volume 4, the editors, A. A. Markley and Pamela Clemit, introduce the sections for which each is responsible, as appropriate. Editorial footnotes normally identify quotations and proper names, elucidate literary, historical, topical and biographical allusions, locate relevant sources, explain archaisms and untranslated foreign words and comment on linguistic and orthographic peculiarities. Full names and dates of persons appearing in editorial footnotes are usually given for the first citation only within each volume. Plays of Shakespeare are identified by title only. Dates given with works cited are normally of first publication, not composition. For some dramas, the date given is that of first performance. Where archaisms and foreign words appear in the Concise Oxford Dictionary and Merriam–Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, these are not normally footnoted, though this policy is applied with editorial discretion. With inaccurate quotation, the words ‘adapted’ or ‘loosely quoted’ have been added, as appropriate. In drama and poetry referencing, the divisions and line numbering of standard editions are normally used, where these exist. Prose works available in many editions are referenced by book, chapter, section, letter, date, xxxiii

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etc., as appropriate, but without page numbering. The translator, where not identified, may be assumed to be the volume editor. Embedded quotations and allusions are identified selectively. Unidentified quotations have been noted as such. Emendation of printed texts, as in MWSN, is light. Non-standard spelling is still characteristic of the period. Obsolete spellings and idioms such as ‘cotemporary’, ‘visiter’ and ‘participate the fame’ are not modernised. (For a fuller list of such spellings and idioms see MWSN, vol. 1, pp. 234–5). An apparent printing error is sometimes an eccentricity peculiar to Mary Shelley, or an incorrect but entrenched practice among English printers, or an effect of Mary Shelley’s quoting from a wide variety of texts, some with contemporary spelling, some with eighteenth-century spelling, some with archaic spelling. In these cases we have normally let things stand, sometimes with a footnote drawing attention to the peculiarity. This policy applies in particular to foreign words. Foreign accents and other diacritical marks were frequently omitted in English printed texts. On the Continent, printing conventions of accentuation and spelling were in a state of transition. Up until the first decades of the nineteenth century, ‘poëte’ ‘contretems’ and ‘étoit’ were common in printed French, while a meticulous publishing firm like Firmin-Didot in the 1790s deliberately omitted grave accents and printed ‘célebre’ and ‘siecle’. By the 1830s ‘poète’, ‘contretemps’, ‘était’, ‘célèbre’ and ‘siècle’ were replacing the older diversity. Italian and Spanish were even less consistent. So when, for instance, the name of the Spanish poet ‘Villegas’ is printed as ‘Villégas’, we suspect an error, but it might have been an acceptable eighteenth-century variant or a carry-over from an untraced French source, which in turn might furnish an additional clue to Mary Shelley’s working methods. Mary Shelley’s generation tended to write all French accents as grave, particularly at the end of a word; hence ‘Sevignè’ ‘annèe’. A few of these got through into the printed text. In addition, Mary Shelley has her own eccentric way with foreign accents (as, for instance Frankenstein’s ‘avelânche’). Here we find (inconsistently) ‘Sâde’ and ‘Viardôt’. Obvious printing errors are emended without footnoting in the text and recorded in a list of Editorial Corrections at the end of each volume. Numerous small slips still remain, though Spottiswoode, the printers of the Literary Lives, had high standards.a Sometimes where the print is very small and the original stereotype plate not very sharp it is difficult to determine whether an accent or a point is there or not. In such cases we have given Mary Shelley (and the typesetters) the benefit of the doubt. Original italicisation and spelling, including ligatured diphthongs, have been followed, as has original punctuation. Uncertainties concerning whether end-ofa

Spottiswoode were the Queen’s printers and, with the printers of Oxford and Cambridge universities, the only printers in England licensed to print Authorised versions of the Bible. All the Lardner Lives have the colophon LONDON: / Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE, / New-StreetSquare.

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line hyphens displaced by resetting are authorial or compositorial have been resolved according to usage and apparent house style preferences, as with MWSN. Soliduses (slash-marks) indicate where the original page-breaks came, with two adaptations: (a) where the original page break occurs in the middle of a word, the solidus does not replace the original hyphen, but is placed at the end of that word, to avoid distraction to the eye; (b) Soliduses are not applied to authorial footnotes. This can affect the extrapolation of original pagination of footnotes in cases where these are so lengthy as to run onto the next page of the original; such footnotes must be regarded, for purposes of citation, as ‘belonging’ to the page where they begin. Original page numbers of printed items and of manuscript items are normally placed in square brackets at the top margins of each page. Exceptions are short poems, where the page numbers are given in the introductory notes, and some unnumbered or irregularly numbered manuscript items, such as ‘Life of William Godwin’. Cross-referencing within and between volumes of this edition uses Pickering & Chatto pagination. In presenting the Literary Lives, the four lengthy Italian biographies which Mary Shelley herself identified as by Montgomery and Brewster have been omitted. ‘Ercilla’ (Spanish Lives), ‘Rabelais’ and ‘La Fontaine’ (French Lives), identified from the Lardner ledgers and from internal evidence as not by her, are included. They furnish a contrast to genuine items and may possibly contain some light editorial retouching by her. The inconsistently-applied margin glosses giving dates and ages are retained. They were not a general feature of the Cabinet Cyclopædia house style, and are author-generated. None of the non-Mary Shelley biographies have them and their presence is one marker of her authorship. (The converse is not true; a few of the shorter biographies in Italian Lives I do not have them either but are known to be hers.) Glosses may have been suggested to her by Godwin’s practice in his Chaucer, his History of the Commonwealth and elsewhere. The Cyclopædia’s engraved and printed title-pages have been included in facsimile.a A recreation of the volumes as such is not attempted. Original indexes and chronologies are omitted. The Lardner ledgers confirm that they were normally carried out by professionals, not the author.b Cyclopædia volumes normally included a replacement title-page at very end, slightly different from the front title-page. This was intended for readers who wished to rebind their collection in groups of Cabinets, and, again, is not reproduced. Manuscripts as diverse as those included here each need individual treatment. Hence, some are edited as reading texts (like the Fields of Fancy in MWSN, a

The engraver’s fees varied between £28 and £31 (Longman Archive, Reel 29). Marginal glosses are found in her ‘Samuel Fragment’ though they are not her usual practice. b The chronologies were modelled on chronologies at the end of each volume of Sismondi’s Républiques italiennes, where they were a substitute for an index. They are inconveniently placed in the Literary Lives and only intrusive editing could correct this. Placement of the chronology and index for vols I–III varies, being found sometimes bound in with vol. III (Spanish and Portuguese Lives) and sometimes with French Lives II.

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vol. 2), others as draft, showing cancellations, according to the nature of the original, whether intermediate draft or first draft. In almost all cases, however, small false starts and misstrokes have been omitted. In fair-copying, Mary Shelley frequently used colons instead of hyphens to avoid confusion with a dash; these have been retained, as have ampersands. Specific details are given in the introductory notes to individual texts edited from manuscript in volume 4. NORA CROOK

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INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR OF ITALIAN LIVES

Mary Shelley’s Italian Lives comprise the first and second volumes of Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain and Portugal, 3 volumes, in The Cabinet of Biography, Conducted by the Rev. Dionysius Lardner (London: Longman, Orme, Brown, Green & Longman; and John Taylor, 1835–7). The text was published at an important moment in British cultural history, during a decade when London society was enriched by the presence of exiled Italian intellectuals and literati and at a time when British sympathy for their national cause fostered a renewed interest among the English in things Italian. Longman and Taylor were responding to a demand for books and anthologies on the broad scope of the Italian literary tradition, not only amongst students of the language but by the general public. The Italian Lives also occupy an important place in Mary Shelley’s personal and professional history, offering a sweeping presentation of her deep knowledge of Italian literature and language and marking, along with the other Lardner Lives, the culmination of her activities as a literary critic and biographer. Mary Shelley was to speak of herself as having accepted the commission after being ‘applied to’, but, as Nora Crook’s introduction has outlined, the only certain fact about this process is that she joined the project in mid-stream.1 The title-page vignette to Italian Lives I suggests that in 1833 (when the engraving was first made) plans to include lives of Chaucer, Dante, Boccaccio and Copernicus in the first volume were still current. Three of her favourite authors had already been spoken for: James Montgomery had completed ‘Dante’ and ‘Ariosto’ and had been commissioned to write ‘Tasso’ for the second volume. ‘Galileo’ (Sir David Brewster) had also been written. According to Lardner’s ‘Explanation of the a/c of Literary Lives’, written into a Longman Ledger of Costs and Sales in 1836, another four biographies had been ‘paid for but rejected as not being sufficiently good’. These were Lorenzo de’ Medici (‘By Thomas Roscoe’), Petrarch, Boccaccio and Machiavelli (‘by Dr Drake’).2 Mary Shelley’s freedom to choose her own subjects was thus circumscribed, at least for volume I. There would in any case have been no dispute about the major figures. However, we can assume she had some powers of veto and counterproposal and there is a point where we perhaps see this in operation. Scipione Maffei (1675–1755), historian, scientist, philosopher and tragic dramatist, is the subject of one of the portraits in the title-page vignette of Italian Lives II. Conjecturally, xxxvii

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Mary Shelley rejected an existing plan to include him. The Florentine historian Guicciardini, whom she had studied for ‘Machiavelli’ and the dramatist Goldoni – or both – are possible replacement candidates. Her progress on the Italian Lives and her work habits can occasionally be inferred. On 23 November 1833 her journal records that she was ‘going to begin the lives of the Italians’. By early December 1833 she had already established a daily pattern of work on the project: ‘I write the “Lives” in the morning & I read novels and memoires of an evening’ (MWSJ, II, pp. 533, 541). This schedule must soon have been interrupted by the impending publication of Lodore, for which she was reviewing proofs and completing copy from November through mid-March. She was dismayed to learn in early April that the printers had mislaid a significant portion of her novel, and she was faced with rewriting the text. (The publisher ultimately postponed publication of Lodore.) Her letter of 30 April 1834 protests ‘I am engaged writing for Dr Lardner & am very busy indeed […] Had I nothing else to do it were still rather hard to come upon me to rewrite a portion of Manuscript’ (MWSL, II, p. 201). By 17 July 1834 she had finished work on ‘Petrarch Boccaccio &c’ and was writing ‘Machiavelli’ (MWSL, II, p. 209).3 If she worked chronologically (as seems likely) and if ‘&c’ stands for the lives between ‘Petrarch’ and ‘Machiavelli’ (i.e. Lorenzo de’ Medici and his circle, Boiardo and Berni) then she was perhaps on the final item. The exact completion date is not known, though there is a hint in a February 1835 letter from Moore that she had produced ‘short copy’. This may have entailed more writing after she thought she had finished and a delay in publication.4 Italian Lives I was published on 1 February 1835 in a print run of 4,000 copies. Mary Shelley probably began work on Italian Lives II well before the publication of Italian Lives I. Her research for ‘Machiavelli’ during the previous year would have led straight into ‘Guicciardini’. Her correspondence indicates that on 9 February 1835 she was reading for ‘Marini’, and, if she worked more or less chronologically through the lives she would have been nearly half the way through the volume (MWSL, II, p. 222). Her only other reference to the composition of individual lives comes in early April, when she was researching materials for ‘Alfieri’ and anticipating her work on ‘Monti’, and both are among the final lives of the volume (MWSL, II, p. 238). Volume 2 was published on 1 October 1835 in a print-run of 3,500 copies. Her contract with Longman has not been found, but it can be deduced that she probably received about £140 for each volume.5 The six author’s free copies were split between herself and Montgomery for Italian Lives I but she received a full six for Italian Lives II (while Montgomery received four).6 Five reviews have been located for Italian Lives I and four for Italian Lives II, the fruits of ninety-eight copies of each being sent to newspapers. Some – the Athenæum, the Literary Gazette, the Monthly Magazine – were the briefest of notices, the last offering merely a puff for the Cabinet Cyclopædia (a ‘Godsend’ xxxviii

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of enlightenment second only to the Bible). Commentary on both volumes was mixed and often contradictory, but on balance positive; prose style, organisation and use of source materials were the three most often identified points of discussion. The Sunday Times said of Italian Lives I that the ‘style is pleasing and easy’, while the Athenæum thought that the ‘style wants simplicity’. Reflecting a general consensus, the Spectator declared the first volume deficient in organisation, which is perhaps unsurprising; reviewers did not make this complaint of the second volume, with the Literary Gazette characterising the work as ‘ very neatly compiled’. Finally, both volumes were alternately criticised and commended for the close use of source materials, with the Spectator liking the use of original material in Italian Lives I but complaining of Italian Lives II that ‘the compiler appears to be translating from different authors, and to be altogether dependent on his originals for manner as well as matter’.7 By far the most substantial reviews were two pieces in the Monthly Review; they included commentary and significant extracts from the work. The review of volume I was not particularly positive, with the author informing his readers that ‘we by no means think highly of the volume as a whole’, deploring its excessive reliance on facts and dates and the absence of any introductory contextualisation of Dante’s career. Yet the reviewer singles out two of Mary Shelley’s major lives for remark, ‘Petrarch’ and ‘Machiavelli’, virtually ignoring the rest, and highlights some of the most interesting parts of her text in his reading. He notes, in particular, her efforts to question conventional assumptions about Machiavelli by returning to autobiographical materials and credits her with originality on this point. The review of the second volume, seemingly by a different but equally Italophile writer, sympathetically notices her particular interest in the lives of ‘Alfieri’, ‘Monti’ and ‘Foscolo’ and observes that her emphasis on the relative ‘moral grandeur’ of the poets is associated with the resurgence of Italian nationalism. Both reviews acknowledge, at least indirectly, Mary Shelley’s political interests in biography.8 Of particular interest, also, is the notice of the Italian Lives I in the short-lived Leigh Hunt’s London Journal (1834–5). Hunt offers extracts to the reading public, focusing particularly on literary friendship, which he observes ‘the present writer of their lives has judiciously shown […] as much as possible’. In addition to noticing what was to prove a persistent theme in Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives, Hunt concludes with a suggestive paralleling of the friendship of Petrarch and Boccaccio with that of P. B. Shelley and John Keats. Finally, one 1841 American notice has been located (in Graham’s Magazine). It notices the two-volume pirated edition of the Italian Lives that was published by Lea and Blanchard of Philadelphia in that year.9 The names of ‘Mrs Shelley, Sir D. Brewster, James Montgomery, and others’ appeared on the title page. (The ordering is identical to that found in the Cyclopædia’s post-1838 publicity brochure, the ‘Analytical Catalogue’, and probably derives from it.) Although the piece is very brief, the writer was probably Edgar Allen Poe, co-editor of Graham’s xxxix

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Magazine, upon whose works Mary Shelley seems have exercised a considerable influence. The notice suggests that the Italian Lives were positively received in the United States.10 Attribution has been confused by the designation of James Montgomery as titular author of all three volumes,11 but with the exception of the Montgomery and Brewster items all the lives in the Italian volumes are Mary Shelley’s, by her own direct testimony. On 9 February 1835 she reported to Maria Gisborne that: ‘The Vol. of Lardner’s Cyclopedia with my lives was published on the 1st of this Month – It is called Lives of Eminent literary men Vol. 1 – The lives of Dante & Ariosto are by the Omnipresent Mr Montgomery – the rest are mine’ (MWSL, II, p. 222).4 Writing to Maria Gisborne again on 13 October 1835 after Italian Lives II appeared, she attests that ‘all in that vol. except Gallileo [sic] & Tasso are mine – The last is chief I allow […] it had been engaged to the Omnipresent Mr Montgomery before I began to write – I am vain enough to think that I should have written it better than he has done’. In another letter to Maria Gisborne she identified ‘Galileo’ as Brewster’s (MWSL, II, pp. 257, 260). The ‘Omnipresent’ James Montgomery (1771–1854), poet, journalist and literary historian, was best known for his long poems The Wanderer of Switzerland (1806) and the anti-slavery The West Indies (1809). His association with Robert Southey and the fact that many of his works were published with Longman perhaps account for his involvement with the Cyclopædia project. A pension of £150 a year was awarded to him in 1835 and he withdrew into philanthropic activity in Sheffield. His ‘Dante’, ‘Ariosto’ and ‘Tasso’ are noticeably distinct from Mary Shelley’s work both in style and emphasis. While her prose is succinct and energetic, Montgomery writes in a digressive though not unengaging manner. He offers details that he acknowledges to be factually questionable and develops extended parallels between Italian and English literature. His notices tend to place particular emphasis on the noble lineage and family history of his subjects, though overall they are actually less focused on biography and more concerned with the character of ‘the poet’ generally. His work is well crafted and he is considerably more consistent in identifying his sources than is Mary Shelley. He likewise includes significant autobiographical material.12 Sir David Brewster (1781–1868) was the author of the Cyclopædia volume Optics and one of Lardner’s most eminent contributors. He probably wrote three other never-published astronomical lives besides ‘Galileo’. He was a wellregarded historian of science, the author of the Life of Sir Isaac Newton (1831) and numerous works on natural science and maths, including a curiosity entitled Letters on Natural Magic, addressed to Sir Walter Scott (1832). His essay incorporates some extended descriptions of sixteenth-century scientific experiments and offers brief biographical notices of minor Renaissance natural philosophers. The prose style is particularly formal, and Brewster’s pious religiosity infuses the work and his opinions. Surprisingly, the Spectator reviewer identified the life of ‘Galileo’ as ‘the best written’ contribution to the second volume on account of its ‘vigour’,13 xl

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suggesting that the writer may have inferred the gender of its author – much as Maria Gisborne had guessed the ‘sex’ of the author of ‘Dante’ (MWSL, II, p. 260). The degree to which issues of gender bias may have affected reviews of the Italian Lives generally is difficult to determine, because of the ostensible anonymity of the individual contributors, but any reviewer who read the advertisements would have known that both Brewster and Mrs Shelley were of the company. Seen in total, the ostensible impact of the Italian Lives was not vast, although they were generally well received. Their most notable mention outside the reviews was in Leigh Hunt’s Stories from the Italian Poets (1846), dedicated to Mary Shelley’s son, Sir Percy Shelley. This refers readers to her ‘Pulci’ in Italian Lives I, along with Sismondi, Tiraboschi, Ginguené, Panizzi et al. (Hunt, I, pp. 291–2 and n.). Although the first printings did not sell out, they were, after all, large. Longman’s archive shows that at least 3,000 copies of each volume were eventually sold, suggesting the possibility of a diffused, though incalculable, effect.

Sources and Research Mary Shelley brought to Italian Lives the confidence borne of having lived in Italy for over five years and of nearly twenty years of reading classic Italian authors. For her immediate task, she used three primary types of textual source material, and in general she relied on it heavily. While a number of her researches drew upon scholarly works, her general preference was to balance these accounts with extracts drawn from first-person memoirs and from literary works illustrative of the author’s sensibilities. There are several ways in which we might read this choice. Certainly, her decision reflects the Godwinian and Johnsonian notions of biography that Palacio detects in her work.14 As her mother’s biographer, Godwin would have been an obvious model for Mary Shelley, and the focus of the Italian Lives on the private character of individuals reflects the principles of biographical history as laid out in his essay ‘Of History and Romance’.15 If this accounts for her preference for memoirs, we might consider her investment in literary works themselves as a version of the Keatsian ‘Life of Allegory’, in which the author’s works perform the exegesis of his or her life. Mary Shelley’s mature novels incorporate significant elements of the roman à clef, and for her, fiction and biography were always imbricated.16 Undeniably, she appropriates from the works of others throughout the Italian Lives, sometimes without citation. Palacio, who raises the issue of plagiarism, identifies one such place (in Spanish Lives).17 Yet her investment in compilation is a distinct strategy (even the hostile Spectator reviewer conceded that the method ‘presents the reader with an accurate picture of Italian life for the last two centuries’), and it must be taken on board if we are to appreciate the degree to which her objectives in writing biography are distinctly Romantic. The difference xli

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between post-copyright era concepts of intellectual property and those held in the Romantic period, when the professional regulation of expression was still hotly contested, is fundamental. By the standards of her day, plagiarism did not apply to Mary Shelley’s efforts at compilation. Indeed, nineteenth-century plagiarism was largely an aesthetic question, centring on issues of voice and authorial subjectivity rather than linguistic uniqueness, and it did not involve the same implications of moral culpability.18 More important than the question of plagiarism, in fact, is what it obscures. Mary Shelley’s objectives in the Italian Lives were to gather what had been said by these authors and about them and to infuse the work with her own judgements on their interest and credibility. From her perspective, the biography was a ‘work, to be gathered from other works’ (MWSL, III, p. 93), sometimes wholesale, but never uncritically. Her sources for the Italian Lives were relatively limited. During the period in question, she was residing at Harrow, in order to save money for her son Percy’s expensive schooling, and she was not in a financial position to purchase quantities of books. She occasionally borrowed texts from her publishers but did not visit the British Museum, for which she expresses a hearty dislike (MWSL, II, p. 260). In the vast majority of instances, she had read about her subjects years earlier, often while in Italy, and for many of her researches, especially those into the writings and memoirs of the writers whose lives she was writing, she may have simply turned to her own library bookshelves or to Godwin’s.19 Many of the primary texts used during Mary Shelley’s researches for the Italian Lives were first read during the period of her serious study of the language and its literature (1814–20). By 1814 she had read the autobiographical Vita di Vittorio Alfieri (1810) in an English translation. By 1818 she had read some Dante, Ariosto’s Orlando furioso and Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata, and here we can locate the origins of her interest in the chivalric romance that runs throughout the Italian Lives. By 1819 she had read works of Metastasio, Alfieri, Boccaccio and Monti, more Dante. In 1820 she records reading ‘much Italian’ (MWSJ, I, p. 347), including works by Machiavelli and Petrarch, and there is every reason to believe that she had achieved considerable mastery of the language and its literary tradition. Mary Shelley had also read extensively in Italian history and biography during the period (1818–21) in which she was researching and composing Valperga (1823). By 1820 she had read Madame de Staël’s Corinne, or Italy (1807) for the third time, and she knew the Italian histories of Muratori and Sismondi and Tegrimi’s Vita di Castruccio; in 1822 she read Machiavelli’s Istorie fiorentine. None of these texts were important direct sources for the Italian Lives, although they provided a context for her biographies of the early Italian poets, which demonstrate a complex understanding of medieval and Renaissance history. The vast majority of her sources for the Italian Lives were primary materials such as letters and poems; during the composition of the volumes she regularly employed less than a dozen additional texts. Her secondary works can be divided xlii

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into two clear categories: the biographical memoir and more extensive scholarly works. Among the former, Mary Shelley relied most heavily on Baldelli-Boni’s Vita di Giovanni Boccaccio (1806), Manni’s Vita di Francesco Guicciardini (1739), Burney’s Memoirs of the Life […] of Metastasio (1796), and Serassi’s Vita di Torquato Tasso (1790). Among the latter, her sources were (despite the title) Sade’s Mémoires pour la vie de Petrarch (1767), Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch (1823), Roscoe’s Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici (1795), Panizzi’s ‘The Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians’ (1831), Girolamo Tiraboschi’s monumental Storia della letteratura italiana (1795) and Ginguené’s equally monumental Histoire littéraire d’Italie (1811–35). She also drew on Sismondi’s De la littérature du midi de l’Europe (1813, 1819) in a more general way. She knew Henry Stebbing’s Lives of the Italian Poets (1831; enlarged edn 1832), a production pitched at a slightly more upmarket readership than Italian Lives, but appears to have used it mostly as something to dissent from. Possibly Lardner released the rejected manuscripts of 1830–2 for her use. But if so, only ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’ (see note below) offers any evidence – and that ambiguous – that she availed herself of them. Given the scope of the Italian Lives, it is surprising that she managed with so few summative source materials, especially considering the specificity of many of these texts. Among these sources, only Ginguené and Tiraboschi offered historical surveys of Italian literature as a whole, and only Ginguené is used closely in the composition of her text. In fact, Ginguené’s Histoire should probably be considered the central critical text behind the Italian Lives, not on account of the number of Mary Shelley’s direct references to the work, which are relatively limited, but viewed as the bibliographic source for many of her other materials.20 In addition to these textual sources, Mary Shelley also utilised her connections among the Italian exile community in London, especially when completing Italian Lives II. In April of 1835, she had solicited Gabriele Rossetti, whom she may have first met in 1819 at Naples, for personal recollections of Alfieri and Monti, and she had asked him to enquire likewise whether his compatriot, Gaetano Polidori, formerly Alfieri’s secretary, might also be inclined to communicate to her details about the poet’s private character (MWSL, II, pp. 238–42). In this instance she was motivated by a desire to include in her volume ‘some notices not yet known, but worthy of publication’, and her lives of the contemporary Italian poets – Alfieri, Monti and Foscolo – are unquestionably the most personal and most inspired of the two volumes. Italian Literature in England, 1500–1835 Mary Shelley’s choice of subjects in the Italian Lives follows the broad outlines of a complex history of Italian literature’s reception in Britain. At moments in the English literary tradition, Italian works had occupied positions of prominence and prestige, and the Romantic period saw the rebirth of English interest in Italy and its writers. Inevitably, however, the process of dissemination was selective. xliii

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The early sixteenth century has been called the ‘high tide of Italian influence’ in England, and certainly Italian letters occupied an important place in early modern British culture.21 During the period, the trecentisti Tuscan poets were the uncontested exemplars of Italian literature, although Petrarch occupied a position of particular prominence, probably in part as a result of his influence on Geoffrey Chaucer. By 1554, Petrarch’s Tryumphes had been translated, and 1550 saw the publication of the first Italian grammar in English, ‘with a Dictionaire for the better understanding of Boccace, Petrarca and Dante’.22 The elevation of these figures in the English literary tradition, wittingly or no, also helped to consolidate the pro-Tuscan position in the sixteenth-century revival of the ‘questione della lingua’ (the debate concerning the standardisation of Italy’s national language).23 By the second part of the sixteenth century, Petrarch and the other trecentisti had been replaced by a popular interest in the Italian epic romance and pastoral genres, and the period witnessed the expansion of Italian letters in England. Although Italian was a fashionable language and generally understood, especially at the Elizabethan court, there were over 170 translations of Italian works published in England from 1543–1603, including monumental works such as John Harington’s Orlando Furioso in English Heroical Verse (1590), Robert Tofte’s translation of the Orlando innamorato (1598) and Edward Fairfax’s Godfrey of Bulloigne, or the Recoverie of Jerusalem (1600).24 The epic romances of Ariosto, Boiardo and Tasso were favoured and imitated by poets such as Spenser, but the Italian pastoral also emerged as an influential genre during the period, and both Guarini’s Pastor Fido and Tasso’s Aminta experienced a considerable vogue. Although by 1660 an additional 200 Italian translations had been published in England, the seventeenth century generally saw the devaluation of Italian letters in favour of French neo-classicism. Literature of the Italian Secentismo, epitomised by the verse of Marini, was florid and rhetorically elaborate, as opposed to the more sparse aesthetics preferred by French and, ultimately, English culture. Mid-century saw the proliferation of French romances in English translations; the preference of poets such as Dryden for French sources and neo-classical principles further consolidated critical attitudes. This turn from Italian letters in ‘high culture’ was not to be temporary; although Italianism continued to influence popular genres, it was relegated to a position of frivolity, and few new Italian authors were made familiar to English readers until the Romantic period. In the Italian Lives, Mary Shelley’s occasional anti-Gallicism stems more from this cause than any other, for she believed, with the Monthly Review critic, that ‘In Great Britain, Italian literature has been much and unjustly depreciated, partly from its not being known, and probably in no small degree also from the authority of the French critics’.25 Italian verse enjoyed a creative revival during the eighteenth century with the Arcadian movement, but the ‘canon’ of Italian literature in England was static. In 1759, Lord Chesterfield, for example, enjoined his son to read Italian authors xliv

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while on Grand Tour but named only Ariosto, Dante, Tasso, Petrarch and Guarini – the same authors who had represented Italian letters in England since the sixteenth century. His list hardly differs from that of Lady Politic Would-Be, through whom Ben Jonson had satirised fashionable taste in 1606: ‘Which of your poets? Petrarch, or Tasso, or Dante? / Guarini? Ariosto? Aretine? / Cieco di Hadria? I have read them all’ (Volpone, III. ii. 112). Italian letters did, however, enter the public consciousness during this period through Samuel Johnson’s ‘exotic and irrational entertainment’ – opera. The most intense flowering of Italian opera occurred in the first three decades of the eighteenth century, with the arrival of Georg Handel (1685–1759) in London in 1710 and the performance of his Rinaldo, drawn from the poetry of Tasso, in 1711. The next two decades saw his translation of numerous other Italian works into stage opera and librettos, including Guarini’s Pastor Fido (1712) and three operas from Ariosto: Orlando (1733), Alcina (1735) and Ariodante (1735). The subjects for most of these (and previous) operas were drawn from the epic romance tradition already well known in England, and libretti inevitably offered only digests of the works they transformed. Nevertheless, partly as a result of opera, in the second half of the eighteenth century, one new Italian author came into prominence, a librettist of the opera seria, Pietro Metastasio. But Metastasio’s status was also due to the efforts of a group of Italian nationals associated with London and London society after 1715, most notably Paolo Antonio Rolli (1687–1767) and Luigi Antonio Muratori (1672–1750). As an Italian historian, Muratori worked to survey the scope of his native literary tradition, not only publishing his Rerum Italicarum scriptores (1723) and his Dissertazioni sopra le antichità italiane (1751), but communicating actively on Italian subjects as a corresponding member of the English Royal Society and more directly via the librettist Rolli, who was living in London. In many respects, Muratori’s achievement was to collect the materials of Italian literary history that would later underwrite the national revival of the Risorgimento, but his impact on Italian letters in England was owing to his influence on Joseph Addison (1672– 1719), who had drawn heavily upon Muratori’s essay Della perfetta poesia italiana (On the Perfection of Italian Poetry) (1706) in his Spectator commentaries.26 In the aesthetic rupture of the seventeenth century, English letters had taken the neo-classical line of the French Enlightenment, which privileged reason and rationality in art; the Italians had continued to emphasise imaginative elements and experiences in literature, celebrating under Marinism even the marvellous and fantastic. As J. G. Robertson argued early in the twentieth century, Addison’s essays for the Spectator marked the beginning of a return to the imagination and, drawing upon Muratori and the Italian tradition, laid the groundwork for Romanticism later in the century.27 With the beginnings of Romanticism in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, the reputation of Italian literature experienced a corresponding rise, and by the nineteenth century interest in Italian authors was experiencing a positive xlv

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revival. One of the most influential texts in this development was Madame de Staël’s novel Corinne, or Italy (1807), which included an extensive account of Italian letters and argued for its tradition as ‘a marvel of the imagination’. When the novel’s English Lord Nelvil denigrates this tradition, the heroine Corinne responds by observing that ‘for the most part, foreigners know only our poets of first rank, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio’. But, she continues, ‘we have several others, such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaia, Parini […] Sannazzaro, Poliziano’; she confidently claims that Machiavelli and Boccaccio have been unjustly forgotten and that Italian lyric tragedy flourished with Goldoni, Maffei, Alfieri and Monti (Corinne, pp. 109–10). When Mary Shelley, writing of the Arcadian period, finds even in a period of decline the still-burning fire of Italian genius, she is performing Corinne’s work. The reasons for the rise of Italian literature during the Romantic period are complex, involving aesthetic, economic, social and political factors. While the Italian valuation of the imagination made its literary tradition naturally attractive to poets with Romantic sensibilities, the Napoleonic Wars also negatively affected attitudes toward French literature and culture. As leisure-class tourism and travel writing flourished, Italy and things Italian became objects of cultural desire and fascination. The reputation of Boccaccio, in particular, rose quickly when the Marquis of Blandford paid £2,260 in 1812 for the 1471 edition of the Decameron; indeed, it was said that the sale, which was reported in reviews and magazines, startled Boccaccio himself ‘from his slumber of some five hundred years’.28 Ugo Foscolo alone published two editions of Boccaccio’s work during the first quarter of the century (1802 and 1825). Previously obscured by the fame of Petrarch, Dante also received an English revival, with H. F. Cary’s blank verse translation (1805–14), John Flaxman’s (1807) and William Blake’s (1820s) illustrations to the Commedia, Leigh Hunt’s Story of Rimini (1816), Lord Byron’s Prophecy of Dante (composed 1819), Felicia Hemans’s ‘The Maremma’ (1823) and P. B. Shelley’s Dantesque ‘The Triumph of Life’. William Wordsworth published translations from Chiabrera (1810, 1837); Byron’s Lament of Tasso (1817) dwelt on Tasso’s madness and imprisonment, while his pastoral works were revived in translation by Leigh Hunt (1820).29 Hunt indeed is a key figure in the popularisation of Italian literature during the post-Napoleonic period both through his journalism and through the enthusiasm which infected all members of his circle, including Mary Shelley; their correspondence frequently dwells on their mutual love for Italy and Italian writers. Finally, Italian letters enjoyed celebrity in England during the Romantic period on account of the group of exiles who lived in London society during the 1820s and 30s. Among its most prominent representatives, the majority had been active in the Italian national cause and had been involved, like Byron, in secret societies; many fled Italy to escape death sentences, and almost all were welleducated gentlemen who had been deprived of property and income. English political sympathies tended to be with the Italians, and the exiles were welcomed xlvi

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into London society, especially amongst Whig circles.30 Holland House, in particular, was a central point of contact between Italian and English writers. The earliest and perhaps most famous of these exiles was the novelist and poet Ugo Foscolo, who arrived in London in 1816 and was intimately associated with Lord Holland’s circle, which included the italianistes Lady Dacre, Charles Burney and William Stewart Rose. By 1823, a friend of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Gabriele Rossetti (1783–1854), had arrived in London; he subsequently became a professor of Italian at King’s College London (1831) and the father of the famous Rossetti children. Mary Shelley saw Rossetti, a renowned improvvisatore in Italy, perform at a party in September of 1830 and encountered him at social occasions during 1832 and 1833 (MWSJ, II, p. 514). Many of the Italian exiles took university posts, and chairs of Italian literature were being created in England during the 1820s as a response to growing interest in the literary tradition; Antonio Panizzi (1797–1879), whose edition of the Orlando innamorato was one of Mary Shelley’s most important sources, taught at the Royal Institution of Liverpool and later at the University of London, where one of his students was the young Robert Browning. The exiles Giuseppe Pecchio (1785–1835) and Rossetti’s father-in-law, Gaetano Polidori, also probably provided sources for her Italian Lives. Mary Shelley’s own attitude toward Italian literature was informed particularly by the national interests of these exiles and by the Risorgimento of the 1830s. While she took advantage of the opportunities afforded by the anonymity and ostensible objectivity of the Italian Lives, here her views are obscured, partly because living writers were not included in the Cyclopædia. Nevertheless, we can discern in a latent form what she would later unrestrainedly assert in her Rambles in Germany and Italy (1844): ‘Italian literature claims, at present, a very high rank in Europe. If the writers are less numerous, yet in genius they equal, and in moral taste they surpass France and England’. This is because they have returned to ‘the nature and character that marked its outset’, that is, to the energy, youthfulness and freedom from externally imposed rules manifested in the works of Dante especially. Hence her claim that ‘the highest Italian poetry is truly national’; in its reinvigoration she sees reason for political hope.31 Mary Shelley’s Lives were certainly influenced by memories of her own ‘Italian circle’ and investment in its reputation, as well as by her own concerns. But they are also at once the products and producers of the Romantic renewal of interest in and appreciation of the rich scope and history of Italian letters. Romantic poets undeniably helped to shape popularity of Italian literature in England; in its traditions they found a prehistory of their own imaginative efforts.

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NOTES ON ITALIAN LIVES: VOLUME 1 DANTE: Omitted. By James Montgomery. PETRARCH Mary Shelley briefly stayed at Este in the Euganean hills near Petrarch’s Arquà in 1818. She was almost certainly already very familiar with his poetry, though the record of this familiarity begins only in 1819 (MWSJ, I, p. 297). After P. B. Shelley’s death, Petrarch became important to her as one of the supreme poets of grief. With Dante, he is the Italian poet whom she cites most frequently, and quotations from him form epigraphs to her editions of P. B. Shelley’s poetry. ‘Petrarch’ emphasizes the private character of the poet, relying most often on his own letters and poetry as biographical sources. But it also pays attention to his life as a public man, a patriot and an intellectual. The chief biographical source is the Abbé de Sade’s Mémoires pour la vie de F. Petrarque (Memoirs for the Life of Petrarch) (1764), mostly in French, but with some Latin passages. This also appears to be the chief source for her translations from the correspondence. She also cross-wove this with Ugo Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch (1823), which contains translations by Lady Dacre; this also relies on de Sade. She appears to be translating directly from Petrarch’s Latin at some points and to have an edition of Petrarch’s poetry, possibly the two-volume edition recorded by her in an 1819–20 list of books. (Bodleian MS Shelley adds. c. 5, f. 156v). She also used Ginguené and Tiraboschi. A life of Petrarch was among the rejects written by Dr Drake for Lardner between 1830 and 1832, but there is no sign of an alien hand in this essay. BOCCACCIO Mary Shelley emphasises literary friendship, Boccaccio’s part in the revival of Greek and his influence on English literature. This emphasis would have conformed to the original intention of the publishers that the series should include both English and Italian literary biographies. The stress on the purity and expressiveness of Boccaccio’s Tuscan initiates the continuous theme of debate concerning ‘la questione della lingua’, which will appear again, particularly in ‘Guarini’ and ‘Monti’. If, as is likely, she read Stebbing in connection with this life, there is an undercurrent of dissent from him. Unlike Stebbing, she deals relatively lightly with Boccaccio’s licentiousness, except where misogyny is involved, and blames it (with Sismondi) on the corrupt court of Naples. She cites Ginguené, Tiraboschi and Baldelli-Boni’s Vita di Giovanni Boccaccio (1806), but she is also using another unlocated biographical source. Again, there is no reason to suspect that this might be the rejected Drake essay. She first read the Decameron in 1819 and 1820 with evident pleasure (MWSJ, II, p. 637; MWSL, I, pp. 104, 168), and c. May 1823 tried to obtain Boccaccio’s De montibus, De Casibus Virorum et xlviii

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Feminarum Illustrium, De Claris Mulieribus, Amorosa visione, Ninfale Fiesolano and his letters (MWSL, I, p. 339). Several of these are mentioned in ‘Boccaccio’. The 1819–20 booklist also records ‘Novelle de Boccacio – Vita di Dante – da Bocaccio’. LORENZO DE’ MEDICI Mary Shelley’s source is not primarily Ginguené but his source, William Roscoe, whose Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici she had first read in 1816. Roscoe printed for the first time many manuscript poems of Lorenzo in the Laurentian library. He was credited with stimulating ‘a European interest in Italian literature and history’ as well as a provincial one in his native Liverpool (DNB). Thomas Roscoe, Roscoe’s son, wrote the rejected life of Medici for Lardner during 1830–32; it it likely to have drawn on his father’s work too. While criticisms of William Roscoe in this life confirm Mary Shelley’s authorship, it must be noted that this entry works exceptionally close to its sources, with whole paragraphs adopted nearly verbatim. MARSIGLIO FICINO This brief life initiates a triad of poetical and Platonist friends of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Mary Shelley extracts it from Ginguené, with a nod to Tiraboschi. Ficino seems to have interested Mary Shelley primarily as he was involved with the Accademica Platonica and with translating Plato’s works into Latin. P. B. Shelley’s favourite Bipont Plato, from which he had translated the Symposium in 1818, was a parallel text containing Ficino’s translations and commentaries (BSM IX, pp. xliv–xlv). Mary Shelley, who transcribed P. B. Shelley’s translation, may have used it for her Greek studies. GIOVANNI PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA From Ginguené, with probable additional recourse to Ginguené’s credited source, Roscoe. This would follow Mary Shelley’s preference for reading, like Godwin, with several books open at once. ANGELO POLIZIANO The primary source for this life of Poliziano, also known as Politian, is Roscoe, although Mary Shelley draws occasional details from Ginguené and Tiraboschi. The episode concerning Poliziano’s life as a tutor introduces glimpses of Italian domestic manners, with perhaps the purpose of showing how little they had changed over four hundred years. The rewards, frustrations and ennui of a private tutor are mirrored in some of the governessing experiences of Claire Clairmont and Mary Shelley’s own Wollstonecraft relations. This life also gives Mary Shelley xlix

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the opportunity to sketch in the fall of the Medici family. There is no mention of Poliziano’s Orfeo, the pastoral lyric play usually credited with being the first Italian tragedy. BERNARDO PULCI; LUCA PULCI; LUIGI PULCI Panizzi’s ‘The Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians’ in the first volume of his edition of Orlando Innamorato (1830–1) is the chief source, with minor details from Tiraboschi, Ginguené and Roscoe. ‘Luigi Pulci’ initiates a series of lives centred on the subjects of epic romance and the mock-heroic; unfortunately, Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata had been allotted to James Montgomery. The genre may also have had associations for her with Lord Byron, who adopted elements of the Italian heroic stanza in his comic verse. CIECO DA FERRARA This brief life of the obscure figure of Francesco Bello (1450–1505) known as Il Cieco, the Blind, depends almost entirely upon Panizzi’s ‘Essay’. It may also contain a few ideas from Ginguené and Tiraboschi, though the Tiraboschi references duplicate those found in Panizzi. This life continues the theme of epic romance begun with ‘Luigi Pulci’. Support for Panizzi’s mission to revive interest in an unjustly forgotten poet and sympathy with Cieco’s poverty may also lie behind Cieco’s inclusion. BURCHIELLO Mary Shelley’s chief source is Ginguené, though a few untraced details derive from elsewhere. Burchiello was not as minor a figure as this paragraph-long life would suggest. It makes a small contribution to interwoven themes of mock-epic, satire and comedy, strands later to be developed by ‘Tassoni’ ‘Goldoni’ and in the French Lives by ‘Molière’ and ‘Boileau’. BOJARDO Mary Shelley, continuing the theme of epic romance, reverts to Panizzi’s ‘Life of Bojardo’ (also spelled Boiardo) in his edition of the Orlando Innamorato, a landmark work that restored Boiardo to high esteem and comparability with Ariosto. Conversely, it demoted Berni, whose rifacimento of the Orlando Innamorato had previously eclipsed the older poem. In this life, Mary Shelley seems to have been particularly impressed with Boiardo’s exemplary character.

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BERNI Still using almost exclusively Panizzi’s Orlando Innamorato, Mary Shelley is reluctant to go so far as he in arguing for Bojardo’s superiority to Berni; this may reflect her prejudice in favour of Tuscan dialect as shown in ‘Boccaccio’,‘Monti’ and ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (vol. 4). ‘Berni’ also demonstrates her appreciation of poetry that balances humour and descriptive pathos, and, in Rambles, which extends her commentaries on the Italian poets, she expresses her particular admiration for ‘those passages of Berni and Ariosto, which have most vividly transported you into the gardens of delight’ (MWSN, vol. 8, p. 368). ARIOSTO: Omitted. By James Montgomery. MACHIAVELLI Mary Shelley began reading Machiavelli in 1820 in Pisa as part of her researches for Valperga, and appears to have owned or had access to a complete Opere. Her sources are well noted in this discursive and very political life; they are primarily Guicciardini’s Storia d’Italia (Della istoria d’Italia), Sismondi’s Républiques italiennes (possibly the same 1818 edition she used in Italy), and Machiavelli’s own works and letters; she uses her sources heavily. She tended to view Machiavelli sympathetically, and therefore emphasises his role as an ambassador for the Florentine republic and his persecution by the tyrannical Medici. Her references to the republican politics of Rousseau in the essay should be read as part of an effort to sketch a more liberal portrait of Machiavelli, although she acknowledges that his actual politics were indeterminate. Although she knew his historical works intimately, they are not emphasised here. The absence of comment on the Vita di Castruccio Castracani seems at first surprising, but while the latter would not actually contradict a republican reading of Machiavelli, it would have complicated it.

NOTES ON ITALIAN LIVES: VOLUME II GALILEO: Omitted. By Sir David Brewster. GUICCIARDINI The inclusion of the historian Guicciardini in a collection of literary figures is one of the most striking aspects of this life, and it suggests that Mary Shelley continued to view history, in Godwinian fashion, as a species of imaginative production. Guicciardini is credited with an ability to draw intimate portraits of individuals and their motivations, and in this respect he accomplishes what were li

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Mary Shelley’s own goals in the Italian Lives. Additional emphasis is placed on his prose style, viewed in a literary context. Her source for this essay was primarily Domenic Maria Manni’s Vita di Francesco Guicciardini, published in the eighteenth century with the English translation of the Storia d’Italia (History of Italy); she also used the biography of Giovanni Rosini (1776–1855), professor of Eloquence at the University of Pisa and an occasional visitor to the Shelleys’ house. Her text of the Storia might also have been that of Rosini, who in 1819–20 published a 10-volume modernised edition of Guicciardini with the Pisan press which was to publish P. B. Shelley’s Adonais (1821). Though the modernisation was controversial, Rosini’s text won a wider readership for a historian whose tediousness had been a byword, and it was widely reprinted in the nineteenth century. VITTORIA COLONNA ‘Vittoria Colonna’ recalls Mary Shelley’s proposed 1830 ‘Lives of Celebrated women’ (MWSL, II, p. 115). It is as remarkable for its brief history of such women in Italy (drawn mostly from Ginguené) as for the discussion of Colonna herself. The chief biographical source is the short Vita di Vittoria Colonna (1800) by the Contessa Isabella Teotochi Albrizzi, best known as part of a later collection, Ritratti. Mary Shelley tones down Albizzi’s florid and eulogistic register, adding details drawn from William Roscoe’s Leo the Tenth (1805) and from another unidentified source; she also appears to be using an edition of Colonna’s poems and does not rely solely on extracts in Ritratti. Stebbing also included Colonna, but she was not securely canonised and he was to drop her from his 1860 edition. Mary Shelley’s approach is quite different from Stebbing’s. Her framing of Colonna within a tradition of learned ladies, and the attention paid to her political judgement, sense of honour and (following Albrizzi) worthiness to be considered alongside Petrarch, balance the emphasis elsewhere on female domestic virtue and devoted widowhood. The Spectator reviewer ignored these nuances, declaring that Colonna’s ‘sex and conventional rank, rather than any actual exhibition of ability, procured her a place in the present volumes’. Mary Shelley’s interest in Vittoria may also suggest an interest in the Colonna family generally (see ‘Petrarch’ and ‘Boccaccio’). The family is shown as corrupt in P. B. Shelley’s drama, The Cenci, but Mary Shelley dwells on its virtuous representatives. GUARINI Mary Shelley’s sources for this brief life were Pierantonio Serassi’s Vita di Torquato Tasso (1790), Ginguené and a volume source containing the poet’s personal correspondence, such as the Lettere del Signor Cavaliere Battista Guarini (1593). Much is made in the essay of Guarini’s literary competition with Torquato Tasso, whose biography Mary Shelley regretted had been assigned to Montgomery. On the one hand, the conflict between Guarini and Tasso is cast as a rivalry for the lii

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affections of the Countess of Scandiano, continuing the emphasis in the Italian Lives on the loves of the poets. On the other hand, the competition between these two figures also develops further Mary Shelley’s attention to the ‘questione della lingua’ and especially to the Accademia della Crusca, with which Guarini was closely associated and by whom Tasso was censured. It is not known when Mary Shelley first read Il Pastor Fido, but P. B. Shelley had done so in 1815. TASSO: Omitted. By James Montgomery. CHIABRERA Mary Shelley was a constant reader of Wordsworth, whose translations of Chiabrera are likely to have awakened her interest. The essay is extracted almost exclusively from Chiabrera’s brief autobiography, though a citation of Muratori possibly indicates consultation of the latter. TASSONI The source for this brief life appears to be Robustiano Gironi’s biographical essay, which was prefixed to his edition of La Secchia rapita (1806). However there are a few points that are not in Gironi and as Muratori’s Rerum Italicarum scriptores is one of Gironi’s sources, Mary Shelley may possibly have consulted Muratori too, as with the adjacent ‘Chiabrera’. This life further develops the emphasis in the Italian Lives on the sensibilities of the Italian mock-heroic and its parallels in the English literary tradition, with particular reference to Scott, Pope and Butler. There is no previous record of her reading Tassoni. MARINI The source for the life of Marini (also known as Marino) has not been identified. Possibly Mary Shelley used a Vita prefacing an edition of his works, as with her use of Gironi for Tassoni. The essay disproportionately emphasizes Marini’s early life and writings, suggesting that her materials were limited in scope. While P. B. Shelley ordered Marini’s L’Adone in 1815 (and definitely read it at some point; see PBSL, II, p. 436), Mary Shelley does not seem to have read it until February 1835, when she wrote to Maria Gisborne ‘I have just begun the Adone – & like it’ (MWSL, II, p. 222). She may have been particularly interested in the poem’s development of incest themes, which had formed a central part of her novella Matilda and of P. B. Shelley’s The Cenci.

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FILICAJA Filicaja (or Filicaia) had associations with the University of Pisa. Mary Shelley’s only certain source for this life was a volume that included the poet’s lesserknown works. Surprisingly it omits any reference to the famous sonnet ‘Italia, Italia, o tu, cui feo la Sorte’ (‘Italy, Italy, thou whom Fate has given’), in which the ‘fatal beauty’ that has made Italy so irresistible to invaders is deplored. As ‘Filicaja’ does not fill its final page in the original Lardner volume, lack of space does not seem to be the explanation. ‘Italia, Italia’ was the only poem by Filicaia generally known to nineteenth-century English-speakers; it was translated by Byron (Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV, xlii–xliii), and quoted by Hemans and (it sometimes seems) every tourist. Triteness may have debarred it, but an article in the 1824 Retrospective Review provides a more interesting possibility: ‘Italia, Italia’, says the reviewer, is ‘repeated by every pretender to learning’ while the rest of Filicaia goes unread. It has become in Italy ‘the refuge of the indolent, the apologetic text of the fearful’, reinforcing ‘a fatal axiom, “Italy is destined to perpetual servitude.”’ (‘Filicaia’, Retrospective Review, X, pt 2 (1824), 317, 323–4). From the article one might well conclude that the cause of Italian independence was best served by consigning ‘Italia, Italia’ to lasting oblivion. Mary Shelley instead stresses Filicaia’s positive legacy (his reinvigoration of Italian poetic speech); this is in accordance with the views of the Retrospective Review (which she uses for Spanish Lives). METASTASIO Mary Shelley’s chief biographical sources here were two works by Charles Burney: Memoirs […] of the Abate Metastasio (1796) and The Present State of Music in Germany (1773). As Palacio notes, Mary Shelley often conflates the two sources in her quotations from the text, and the unusual number of errors elsewhere in this commentary suggests that this life may have been rushed. Her possible primary source was Opere di Pietro Metastasio, 20 vols (Nice, 1785–6), referenced in Burney (Memoirs, I, p. xi) as the standard, and only complete, edition of his works. This also includes letters. Palacio also notes Mary Shelley’s emphasis in this essay on the Johnsonian model of biography, observing that while she found little of narrative interest in the facts of Metastasio’s life, she admired the moral integrity with which he conducted his private affairs. She read Metastasio in April 1819 (MWSJ, I, p. 258). Metastasio supplied two of the epigraphs to Lodore. GOLDONI The source is Goldoni’s own Mémoires (1787), especially the first 250 pages. Mary Shelley uses the Mémoires exclusively but rather loosely. Her translations are often adaptations rather than literal transcriptions, and she apparently was not able to conduct further research on the details of his biography, as she had often liv

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done for earlier lives. Dates and the identification of unnamed persons remain vague in her essay, as they are in Goldoni’s memoir. She had read the Mémoires by 1815. She read Goldoni’s plays before 1829 (see MWSN, vol. 2, p. 187, or, if she wrote ‘The Italian Novelists’ (see vol. 4) by 1827. Claire Clairmont read Goldoni’s plays much earlier (in 1821–2) but not while she was living with the Shelleys (CCJ, p. 507). ALFIERI Mary Shelley’s credited source for this life was Alfieri’s Vita, but the essay is also heavily informed by Charles Lloyd’s Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Vittorio Alfieri (1821) and private sources. One of the most penetrating and carefully composed essays in the entire Italian Lives, it is also the most personal, frequently incorporating details of Italian scenes, continental travel and Romantic literature drawn from her own experiences. There are an unusual number of gestures to the verse of Lord Byron, P. B. Shelley and Leigh Hunt, and some of the recollections and allusions described here repeat items emphasized in her own literary works, especially The Last Man. Readers aware of the various contributors to the Lardner series surely identified this as by Mrs. Shelley. In April 1835, she corresponded with Gabriele Rossetti and may also have consulted, as Rossetti suggested, Gaetano Polidori, Alfieri’s former secretary and the father of Byron’s unfortunate physician, John William Polidori. She had an extensive knowledge of Alfieri’s works in Italian, much of it acquired in 1818. MONTI In ‘Monti’, Mary Shelley continues to develop her emphasis on Italian liberty and the birth of the Risorgimento, here in the context of Napoleonic politics and Monti’s shifting political loyalties. As an issue connected with questions of national unification and identity, she also elaborates upon Monti’s involvement in the ‘questione della lingua’ and with the Della Cruscan language reform movement. In passing, Mary Shelley alludes to Monti’s contemporary, the poet Parini, whose life she does not include in the Italian Lives. Indeed, she excludes several Italian poets who were esteemed amongst their countrymen, including Cesarotti and Pindemonte. The edition of his works used by Mary Shelley is the eight-volume Opere (1828), which contains a biographical Notice ascribed to Conte Cassi, numerous notes, dedicatory epistles and some letters. Her chief biographical sources were Zajotti’s short life and a collection of Monti’s letters. The source of both of these was probably Opere inedite e rare di Vincenzo Monti (Milan: 1832–4). She also had recourse to Tiraboschi and to Giuseppe Maffei’s Storia della letteratura Italiana (1834). She had long been familiar with Monti, having read several of his dramas in 1818 (MWSJ, II, p. 663).

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UGO FOSCOLO The sources are Giuseppe Pecchio’s Vita di Ugo Foscolo (1833) and Foscolo’s works. From the period of his 1816 emigration onward, Foscolo enjoyed considerable celebrity in England, largely because of his novel L’Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (The Last Letters of Jacob Ortis) (1802). She includes significant extracts from the work in this life, and, although the novel had been published in an English translation (1817), she provides her own translations. Her comparison of the novel with Goethe’s Die Leiden des Jungen Werthers (1774), however, repeats a generally held perception of the work. Her biography diverges from more typical accounts of Foscolo in her attention to his lyric poetry, which she writes about perceptively. Perhaps most interesting are Mary Shelley’s omissions; although she herself used Foscolo’s ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’ in composing the life, she does not mention the text or its publication as part of John Cam Hobhouse’s Historical Illustrations to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1818). TILAR J. MAZZEO

Notes 1

Letter to Leigh Hunt, 3 Feb. 1835 (MWSL, II, p. 219). Longman Archive, Reel 29, Ledger of Costs and Sales, p. 336. ‘Drake’ is probably Dr Nathan Drake (1766–1836), physician and minor literary man (see DNB). Thomas Roscoe is the son of William Roscoe. The four rejected lives cost Longman £62. 5s in all; as elsewhere the payment to Roscoe is given as £15, Dr Drake must have been paid £47. 5s for his three items. 3 Letter of 17 July 1834 to Maria Gisborne. 4 ‘My copy has run short (as I find yours did also) and another monthly gentleman has been substituted for me, this time, but I am bound to render up my quantity against the 1st of April’. Moore to Mary Shelley, 27 Feb. 1835, Letters of Thomas Moore, ed. Wilfred S. Dowden, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), II, p. 789. What she might have written by way of infilling can only be guesswork, but the short lives of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s circle must be among the prime suspects. It is clear from Mary Shelley’s correspondence concerning the French Lives that typesetting (and the return of proofs) occurred in batches when the author had produced sufficient press-copy. 5 The same ‘Explanation’ states that payment to the ‘Authors’ of the two Italian volumes amounted to £200 per volume. It can be deduced, then, that she had to divide her share between Montgomery and Brewster. Montgomery was paid £60 for ‘Dante’ and ‘Ariosto’ (4 Mar. 1833) and £36 for Tasso (11 Jan. 1836). On 8 June 1832 a payment of £83 was made for the lives of four astronomers (Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Kepler and Galileo), probably all by Brewster. The fee for ‘Galileo’ is not likely to have been less than a quarter of the total. 6 She appears to have given copies of Italian Lives I to Jane Hogg and Maria Gisborne (MWSL, II, p. 247). Review copies of Italian Lives I and Italian Lives II were sent out on 2 Feb. and 30 Sept. 1835 respectively. On 5 Apr. 1838 Longman sent Leigh Hunt complimentary copies of Mary Shelley’s three volumes (Longman Archive, Reel 29). William Godwin read at least part of the Italian Lives II from 1–16 Dec. 1835, during which time Mary Shelley visited him frequently. His diary mentions specifically the lives of Tasso, Foscolo, Monti, Alfieri, Galileo, Guarini, Chiabrera and Goldoni (Abinger MSS in the Bodleian Library, Dep. 227; information supplied by Pamela Clemit). 2

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IN TR OD U CT ION : IT ALIAN LIV ES 7 The following reviews and notices have been located for Vol. I: Spectator, no. 345 (7 Feb. 1835), 138–9; Sunday Times, no 642 (8 Feb. 1835), 1; Athenæum, no 383 (28 Feb. 1835), 168; Monthly Review, I (Mar. 1835), 297–315; ‘Petrarch and Boccaccio’, Leigh Hunt’s London Journal, no 52 (25 Mar., 1835), 96. For Vol. II: Literary Gazette, no 976 (3 Oct. 1835), 634; Spectator (31 Oct. 1835), 1045; Monthly Magazine, XX (Nov. 1835), 480; Monthly Review, III (Nov. 1835), 317–32. For both: Graham’s Magazine, XVIII, no 1 (Jan. 1841), 144. 8 Monthly Review, I (Mar. 1835), 299, 298; Monthly Review, III (Nov. 1835), 317. 9 The same firm had pirated an edition of the French Lives in 1840 and editions of several of Mary Shelley’s novels, including The Last Man (1833), Frankenstein (1833) and Perkin Warbeck (1834). 10 Poe’s probable authorship of this review and the influence of Mary Shelley’s works on his own oeuvre were first noted by Burton R. Pollin in Discoveries in Poe (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1970). 11 The wording varies but after Southey’s departure, Montgomery is always named first in publicity material as, for example: ‘LITERARY and SCIENTIFIC MEN of ITALY , SPAIN , &c. Vols. 1 and 2, J . MONTGOMERY , &c.’ (Athenæum advertisement, Jul. 1837); ‘Authors of Italy, &c [by] J. Montgomery, &c.’ (‘Synoptical Table’, Cyclopædia publicity brochure, 1843–4); ‘MONT GOMERY ’ S LIVES OF AUTHORS OF ITALY , SPAIN , & PORTUGAL […] By Mrs Shelley, Sir D. Brewster, J. Montgomery, &c.’ (‘Analytical Catalogue’, 1845–6); ‘Montgomery and Shelley’s Eminent Italian, Spanish and Portuguese Authors’ (Longman advertising matter, bound into another publication, 1852). 12 ‘Tasso’ is the most interesting, perhaps because of a strong element of self-identification with its subject. Montgomery underwent imprisonment in the 1790s as a dangerous subversive and also experienced a period of mental illness – at least P. B. Shelley believed so in 1812 on Robert Southey’s testimony (PBSL, I, p. 216). 13 Spectator (31 Oct. 1835), 1045. 14 The parallels of Mary Shelley’s work in the Italian Lives with the biographical studies of Godwin and Johnson are discussed by Palacio (1969); see especially pp. 504–9. 15 William Godwin, Memoirs of the Author of ‘The Rights of Woman’ (1798) in Collected Novels and Memoirs of William Godwin, vol. 1, ed. Mark Philp, (London: William Pickering, 1992) and ‘Of History and Romance’ (composed 1797), in Political and Philosophical Writings of William Godwin, vol. 5, ed. Pamela Clemit (London: William Pickering, 1993). 16 Biographical and autobiographical elements have been identified in The Last Man, Lodore and Falkner. Sir Timothy’s refusal to allow a regular biography of P. B. Shelley may have encouraged Mary Shelley’s subversive historiography. 17 ‘La compilation tient ici du plagiat’ (Palacio, p. 523). Palacio is sympathetic and offers a defence of her practice. 18 For discussions of the precise nature of Romantic plagiarism see Susan Eilenberg, Strange Powers of Speech: Wordsworth, Coleridge and Literary Possession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992) and Tilar J. Mazzeo, ‘A mixture of all the styles: Colonialism, Nationalism, and Plagiarism in Shelley’s Indian Circle’, European Romantic Review, 8, no 2 (Spring 1997), 155–68. 19 Her complaint (MWSL, II, p. 260) that there was no ‘Spanish Circulating Library’ might imply that there was an Italian one in London. Possible lenders of books include Leigh Hunt and Dr Bowring. 20 A list of Italian short story writers (Bodleian MS Shelley adds. c. 5, f. 155r–v) is probably not preliminary reading for Italian Lives; see Note on ‘The Italian Novelists’, vol. 4. 21 Noted in George E. Dorris, Paolo Rolli and the Italian Circle in London, 1715–44 (Paris: Mouton, 1967), p. 14. 22 Noted in A. Lytton Sells, The Italian Influence in English Poetry (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1955), p. 85. 23 See in particular ‘Monti’. 24 Dorris, Paolo Rolli, p. 17. 25 Monthly Review, 1 (Mar. 1835), 298. 26 An argument developed in J. G. Robertson, Studies in the Genesis of Romantic Theory in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1923), pp. 248–9.

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1

Ibid. Herbert G. Wright, Boccaccio in England, from Chaucer to Tennyson (London: University of London, Athlone Press, 1957), p. 334. 29 William Wordsworth, ‘Epitaphs, Translated from Chiabrera’ (Poems, 5th collective edn, 1836–7); Leigh Hunt, Amyntas: Tale of the Woods; from the Italian of Tasso (1820). To this list might be added Hemans’s translations of dramatic scenes from Alfieri, Monti, and Manzoni and of lyrics and sonnets by Lorenzo de’ Medici, Filicaia, Metastasio and others. 30 See Margaret C. W. Wicks, The Italian Exiles in London, 1816–1848 (New York: Books for Libraries Press, 1968). Tories tended to be less welcoming. For a cynical contemporary Tory view of Italian revolutionary exiles of the period, see chapters 1 and 20 of Charles MacFarlane’s Reminiscences of a Literary Life (London: John Murray, 1917). MacFarlane (who had met P. B. Shelley and Rossetti in Naples in 1819) judged the political exiles to be, with the exception of Pecchio, violent plotters, duplicitous equivocators or wrong-headed fools. Political attitudes polarised further after Mazzini took up residence in England in 1837. 31 MWSN, vol. 8, pp. 328–9. 28

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Dr. Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia in 1844, before publication of the final volumes of Bishop Thirlwall’s Greece (1844) and Thomas Moore’s Ireland (1846).

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LITERARY LIVES ITALIAN LIVES VOLUME ONE

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Title Page Vignette: clockwise from the top, the portraits are of Chaucer, Boccaccio, Copernicus and Dante, indicating that the plate was designed and engraved before the decision was taken to devote a volume of the Cabinet Cyclopædia exclusively to Italian Lives. Examination of the engraving under a magnifying glass shows that the original date was 1833 and that the second ‘3’ has been turned into a 5. Designed by Henry Corbould (1787–1844) and engraved by Edward Finden (1791–1857).

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CONTENTS.

DANTE

[1

Omitted]

[61]

9

BOCCACCIO

[116]

52

LORENZO DE’ MEDICI, &c.

[150]

77

BOJARDO

[181]

103

BERNI

[188]

109

[196

Omitted]

[256]

116

PETRARCH

ARIOSTO MACHIAVELLI

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[The first Life, DANTE ALIGHIERI, has been omitted.]

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PETRARCH.

FRANCESCO PETRARCA was of Florentine extraction, and sprung from a respectable family. His progenitors had been notaries. His great grandfather has been distinguished for his integrity, benevolence, and long life: his youth had been active, his old age was serene; he died in his sleep when more than 100 years old, an age scarcely ever heard of in Italy. His father exercised the same profession as those who had gone before him; and, being held in great esteem by his fellow citizens, he had filled several public offices. When the Ghibelines were banished Florence in 1302, Petraccolo was included in the number of exiles; his property was confiscated, and he retired with his wife, Eletta Canigiani, whom he had lately married, to the town of Arezzo in Tuscany.a Two years after, the Ghibeline exiles endeavoured to reinstate themselves in their native city by force of arms, but they failed in their enterprise, and were forced to retreat. The attempt took place on the night of the 20th of July, 1304; and, on returning discomfited on the morrow, Petraccolo found that during the intervening hours his wife had, after a period of great difficulty and danger, given birth to a son. The child was baptized Francesco, and the surname of di Petracco was added, as was the custom in those days, to distinguish him as the son of Petracco. Orthography, at that time, was very inexact; and the poet’s ear for harmony caused him to give a more euphonious sound to his patronymic: he wrote his name Petrarca, and by this he was known during his life, and to all posterity.b When the child was seven months old his mother was permitted to return from banishment, and she established herself at a country house belonging to her husband near Ancisa, a small town fifteen miles / from Florence. The infant, who, at his birth, it was supposed, would not survive, was exposed to imminent peril during this journey. In fording a rapid stream, the man who had charge of him, carried him, wrapped in his swaddling clothes, at the end of a stick; he fell from his horse, and the babe slipped from the fastenings into the water; but he was a

Petrarch’s father, Ser Petrarca dell’ Incisa, or Petraccolo (c. 1266–1326), a Florentine clerk and intimate of Dante Alighieri (1265–1321), was a Ghibellinite or pro-imperial White Guelph. He was banished from Florence when the pro-papal Charles of Valois (1270–1325) was made governor of the city in 1302. Also pro-papal, the Old or Black Guelphs were elevated to local administrative power by Charles. Eletta Canigiani (c. 1280–1318) married Petraccolo in 1302. b The preceding paragraph summarises Sade, I, pp. 16–17, with some details added from P. L. Ginguené (1748–1816), Histoire littéraire d’Italie, II, ch. xii, pp. 337–8.

9

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-2

1305.

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1312. Ætat. 8. 1313. Ætat. 9.

1315. Ætat. 11.

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saved, for how could Petrarch die until he had seen Laura? His mother remained for seven years at Ancisa. Petraccolo meanwhile wandered from place to place, seeking to earn a subsistence, and endeavouring to forward the Ghibeline cause. He visited his wife by stealth on various occasions, and she gave birth during this period to two sons; one of whom died in infancy, and the other, Gherardo, or Gerard, was the companion and friend of Francesco for many years.a When Petrarch was eight years of age, his parents removed to Pisa, and remained there for nearly a year; when, finding his party entirely ruined, Petraccolo resolved to emigrate to Avignon; for, the pope having fixed his residence in that city, it became a resort for the Italians, who found it advantageous to follow his court. Petraccolo embarked with his wife and two children at Leghorn, and proceeded by sea to Marseilles. They were wrecked and exposed to great danger when not far from port; but landing at last in safety, they proceeded to Avignon. The eyes of the young Petrarch had become familiar with the stately cities of his native country: for the last year he had lived at Pisa, where the marble palaces of the Lung’ Arno, and the free open squares surrounded by majestic structures, were continually before him. The squalid aspect of the ill-built streets of Avignon were in painful contrast; and thus that veneration for Italy, and contempt for transalpine countries, which exercised a great influence over his future life, was early implanted in Petrarch’s heart.b The papal court, and consequent concourse of strangers, filled Avignon to overflowing, and rendered it an / expensive place of residence.c Accordingly Petraccolo quitted it for Carpentras, a small rural town twelve miles distant. A Genoese named Settimo, lately arrived at Avignon with his wife and young son, had formed an intimacy with Petraccolo, and joined him in this fresh migration. The youth of Petrarch was obscure in point of fortune, but it was attended by all the happiness that springs from family concord, and the excellent character of his parents. His father was a man of probity and talent, attentive to his son’s education and improvement, and, at the same time, kind and indulgent. His mother was distinguished for the virtues that most adorn her sex; she was domestic, and affectionate in her disposition; and he had two youthful friends, in his brother Gerard and Guido Settimo, whom he tenderly loved. Add to this, he studied under Convennole, a kind-hearted man, to whom he became warmly attached. Under his care, and during several visits to Avignon, Petrarch learned as much of grammar, dialectics, and rhetoric, as suited his age, or was taught in the schools

a

Gherardo Petrarca (b. 1307), later a Chartreuse monk; paragraph adapted from Sade, I, pp. 17–18. b Much of this paragraph is extracted from Sade, I, pp. 26–8, but the remarks on the Pisan townscape draw on Mary Shelley’s memories of 1820–2, when she occupied various apartments on the Lung’Arno. c Avignon served as the papal residence from 1309–1403.

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which he frequented; and how little that was, any one conversant with the learning of those times can readily divine.*a At the age of fifteen Petrarch was sent to study at the university of Montpellier, then frequented by a vast concourse of students. Petraccolo intended his son to pursue the study of the law, as the profession best suited to insure his reputation and fortune; but to this pursuit Francesco was invincibly repugnant. “It was not,” he tells us, in the account he wrote for the information of Posterity, “that I was not pleased with the venerable authority of the laws, full, as they doubtless are, of the spirit of ancient Rome, but because their use was depraved by the wickedness of man; and it was tedious to learn that by which I could not profit without dishonour.”b Petraccolo was alarmed by the dislike shown / by his son for the career for which he destined him, and by the taste he displayed for literature. He made a journey to Montpellier, reproached him for his idleness, and seizing on the precious manuscripts, which the youth vainly endeavoured to hide, threw them into the fire: but the anguish and cries of Petrarch moved him to repent his severity: he snatched the remnants of Virgil and Cicero from the flames, and gave them back, bidding him find consolation in the one, and encouragement in the other, to pursue his studies.c He was soon after sent to Bologna. The chairs of this university were filled by the ablest professors of the age; and, under them, Petrarch made considerable progress in the study of the law, moved to this exertion, doubtless, by the entreaties of his excellent father. He proved that indolence was not the cause of his aversion to this profession. His master of civil law, Cino da Pistoia,d gives most honourable testimony of his industry and talents. “I quickly discovered and appreciated your genius,” he says, in a letter written some time after, “and treated you rather like a beloved son than as a pupil. You returned my affection, and repaid me by observance and respect, and thus gained a reputation among the professors and students for morality and prudence. Your progress in study will never be forgotten in the university. In the space of four years you learned by heart the entire body of civil law, with as much facility as another would have acquired the romance of Launcelot and Ginevra.”e After three years spent at Bologna, Petrarch was recalled to France by the death of his father. Soon after his mother died also, and he and his brother were left entirely to their own guidance, with very slender means, and those diminished * Epist. ad Posterit. a The preceding two paragraphs draw on Sade, I, pp. 29–30. Guido Settimo or Sette was Archbishop of Genoa (c. 1304–67); Prato da Acconcio or Convenevole del Prato (c. 1270– 1338) was also an exiled White Guelph. References to the Epistola ad Posteritatem (Letter to Posterity), written c. 1371, are correct throughout this life and are not further noted. b Quoted in Sade, I, pp. 38–9. c Detail from Sade, I, pp. 44–5. d Guittoncino dei Sinbaldi or Cino da Pistoia (1270–1337), poet and humanist. e This paragraph from Sade, I, pp. 138–9; the paragraph following from I, p. 56. ‘Ginevra’ is better known as Guinevere, adulterous wife of King Arthur and lover of Launcelot.

11

1319. Ætat. 15.

1323. Ætat. 19.

1326. Ætat. 22.

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by the dishonesty of those whom their father had named as trustees to their fortune. Under these circumstances Petrarch entirely abandoned law, as it occurred to both him and his brother that the clerical profession was their best resource in a city where the priesthood reigned supreme. / They resided at Avignon, and became the favourites and companions of the ecclesiastical and lay nobles who formed the papal court, to a degree which, in aftertimes, excited Petrarch’s wonder, though the self-sufficiency and ardour of youth then blinded him to the peculiar favour with which he was regarded. His talents and accomplishments were, of course, the cause of this distinction; besides that his personal advantages were such as to prepossess every one in his favour. He was so handsome as frequently to attract observation as he passed along the streets: his complexion was between dark and fair; he had sparkling eyes, and a vivacious and pleasing expression of countenance. His person was rather elegant than robust; and he increased the gracefulness of his appearance by a sedulous attention to dress. “Do you remember,” he wrote to his brother Gerard, many years after, “our white robes; and our chagrin when their studied elegance suffered the least injury, either in the disposition of their folds, or in their spotless cleanliness? do you remember our tight shoes and how we bore the tortures which they inflicted without a murmur? and our care lest the breezes should disturb the arrangement of our hair?”a Such tastes befit the season of youth, which, always in extremes, is apt otherwise to diverge into negligence and disorder. But Petrarch could not give up his entire mind to frivolity and the pleasures of society: he sought the intercourse of the wise, and his warm and tender heart attached itself with filial or fraternal affection to his good and learned friends. Among these was John of Florence,b canon of Pisa, a venerable man, devoted to learning, and passionately attached to his native country. With him Petrarch could recur to his beloved studies and antique manuscripts. Sometimes, however, the young man was seized with the spirit of despondency. During such a mood, he had one day recourse to his excellent friend, and poured out his heart in complaints. “You know,” he said, “the pains I have taken to distinguish myself from the crowd, and / to acquire a reputation for knowledge. You have often told me that I am responsible to God for the use I make of my talents; and your praises have spurred me on to exertion: but I know not why, even at the moment when I hoped for success in my endeavours, I find myself dispirited, and the sources of my understanding dried up. I stumble at every step; and in my despair I have recourse to you. Advise me. Shall I give up my studies? shall I enter on another career? Have pity on me, my father: raise me from the frightful condition into which I have fallen.”c Petrarch shed tears as he spoke; but the old man encouraged him with sagacity and kindness. He told him that his best hopes for improvement must be founded a

Quotation translated from Sade, I, p. 73. Also known as Giovanni dell’ Incisa (d. ?1331), Prior of Florence; Sade, I, p. 73. c Quotation translated, with omissions, from Sade, I, p. 93; the quotation in the following paragraph is from I, p. 94. b

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on the discovery he had made of his ignorance. “The veil is now raised,” he said, “and you perceive the darkness which was before concealed by the presumption of youth. Embark upon the sea before you: the further you advance, the more immense it will appear; but do not be deterred. Follow the course which I have counselled you to take, and be persuaded that God will not abandon you.” These words re-assured Petrarch, and gave fresh strength to his good intentions. The incident is worthy of record, as giving a lively picture of an ingenuous and ambitious mind struggling with and overcoming the toils of learning. At this period commenced his friendship with Giacomo Colonna,a who had resided at Bologna at the same time with him, and had even then been attracted by his prepossessing appearance and irreproachable conduct, though he did not seek to be acquainted with him till their return to Avignon. The family of Colonna was the most illustrious of Rome: they had fallen under the displeasure, and incurred the interdict, of pope Boniface VIII. who confiscated their estates and drove them into exile.b The head of the family was Stefano, a man of heroic and magnanimous mind. He wandered for many years a banished man / in France and Germany, and a price was set on his head. On one occasion, a band of armed men, desirous of earning the ill reward attendant on delivering him up to his enemies, seized on him, and asked his name, under the belief that he would fear to acknowledge himself. He replied, “I am Stefano Colonna, a citizen of Rome;” and the mercenaries into whose hands he had fallen, struck by his majesty and resolution, set him free. On another occasion, he appeared suddenly in Italy, on a field of battle, to aid his own party against the papal forces. Being surrounded and pressed upon by his foes, one of his friends exclaimed, “O, Stefano, where is your fortress?” He placed his hand upon his heart, and with a smile replied, “Here!”c This illustrious man had a family of ten children, all distinguished by their virtues and talents. The third among them was Giacomo. Petrarch describes his friend in glowing colours. “He was,” he says, “generous, faithful, and true; modest, though endowed with splendid talents; handsome in person, yet of irreproachable conduct: he possessed, moreover, the gift of eloquence to an extraordinary degree; so that he held the hearts of men in his hands, and carried them along with him by force of words.”d Petrarch was readily ensnared in the net of his fascinations. Giacomo introduced his new friend to his brother, the cardinal Giovanni Colonna, under whose roof he subsequently spent many years, and who acted towards him, not as a master, but rather as a a Giacomo Colonna (d. 1350), brother of Giovanni Colonna (1298–1348), see below. Paragraph adapted from Sade, I, p. 96. b Benedetto Gaetano, Pope Boniface VIII (1235–1303). His campaign against the Colonna family, begun in 1297, involved mass excommunication and the demanding of hostages. Boniface was deposed later that year. Bertrand de Got, Pope Clement V (1264–1314) restored the Colonna to their possessions in 1305. c Taken from Sade, I, p. 105; Mary Shelley has Italianised Sade’s ‘Etienne Colonna’ (Stefano Colonna, d. 1338). d Quotation from Sade, I, p. 97.

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partial brother.* Petrarch records the kindness of his patrons, in the language of enthusiastic gratitude. Doubtless, they deserved the encomiums of his free spirit, a spirit to be subdued only by the power of affection. We must, however, consider them peculiarly fortunate in being able to command the society of one whose undeviating integrity, whose gentleness, and fidelity, adorned talents which have merited eternal renown. The peculiar charm of Petrarch’s character is warmth of heart, and a native / ingenuousness of disposition, which readily laid bare his soul to those around: there was nothing factitious, nothing put on for show, in the temper of his mind; he desired to be great and good in God’s eyes, and in those of his friends, for conscience sake, and as the worthy aim of a Christian man. He did not, therefore, wish to hide his imperfections; but rather sought them out, that he might bring a remedy; and betrayed the uneasiness they occasioned, with the utmost simplicity and singleness of mind. When to this delightful frankness were added splendid talents, the charm of poetry, so highly valued in the country of the Troubadours,a an affectionate and generous disposition, vivacious and engaging manners, and an attractive exterior; we cannot wonder that Petrarch was the darling of his age, the associate of its greatest men, and the man whom princes delighted to honour. Hitherto the feelings of friendship had engrossed him: love had not yet robbed him of sleep, nor dimmed his eyes with tears; and he wondered to behold such weakness in others.*b Now at the age of twenty-three, after the fire of mere boyhood had evaporated, he felt the power of a violent and inextinguishable passion. At six in the morning, on the 6th of April, A . D . 1327 (he often fondly records the exact year, day, and hour), on occasion of the festival of Easter, he visited the church of Sainte Claire at Avignon, and beheld, for the first time, Laura de Sâde.c She was just twenty years of age, and in the bloom of beauty, – a beauty so touching and heavenly, so irradiated by purity and smiling innocence, and so adorned by gentleness and modesty, that the first sight stamped the image in the poet’s heart, never hereafter to be erased. Laura was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, a noble and a knight: she lost her father in her early youth; and at the age of seventeen, her mother married her * Epist. ad Posterit. † Canzone iv. a i.e. Provence, of which Avignon was a leading cultural centre. Sismondi, one of Mary Shelley’s sources, devotes three chapters to troubadour manners and poetry (Sismondi, I, chs iii–v; see especially pp. 94–5). b Paraphrasing ‘Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade’ (In the sweet season of the first age), ll. 24–9, called canzone iv (Rime Sparse, 23, following present standard numbering of Petrarch’s lyric poetry; see Petrarch’s Lyric Poems: The Rime Sparse and Other Lyrics [parallel text], trans. and ed. Robert M. Durling (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976)). c Laure (c. 1310–48); paragraph loosely translated from Sade, I, pp. 122–3 and 134. She was the ancestor of Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, better known as the Marquis de Sade (1740–1814).

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to Hugh de Sâde, a young noble only a few years older / than his bride.a She was distinguished by her rank and fortune, but more by her loveliness, her sweetness, and the untained purity of her life and manners in the midst of a society noted for its licentiousness.*b Now she is known as the subject of Petrarch’s verses; as the woman who inspired an immortal passion, and, kindling into living fire the dormant sensibility of the poet, gave origin to the most beautiful and refined, the most passionate, and yet the most delicate, amatory poetry that exists in the world. Petrarch beheld the loveliness and sweetness of the young beauty, and was transfixed. He sought acquaintance with her; and while the manners of the times prevented his entering her house†,c he enjoyed many opportunities of meeting her in society, and of conversing with her. He would have declared his love, but her reserve enforced silence. “She opened my breast,” he writes, “and took my heart into her hand, saying, ‘Speak no word of this.’” Yet the reverence inspired by her modesty and dignity was not always sufficient to restrain her lover: being alone with her, and she appearing more gracious than usual, Petrarch, on one occasion, tremblingly and fearfully confessed his passion, but she, with altered looks, replied, “I am not the person you take me for!” Her displeasure froze the very heart of the poet, so that he fled from her presence in grief and dismay.‡d / * Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ. † Abbé de Sâde. ‡ Canzone iv. In this, one of the most beautiful of his canzoni, Petrarch narrates the early story of his love. In it occur the following lines:– “I’ segui’ tanto avanti il mio desire, Ch’ un dì cacciando si com’ io solea, Mi mossi; e quella fera bella e cruda In una fonte ignuda Si stava, quanto ’l Sol più forte ardea, Io, perchè d’ altra vista non m’ appago, Stetti a mirarla: ond’ ella ebbe vergogna, E per farne vendetta, o per celarse, L’acqua nel viso con le mane mi sparse, Vero dirò, forse e parrà menzogna: Ch’ i, senti, trarmi della propria imago; Ed un cervo solitario, e vago, Di selva in selva ratto mi transformo, Ed ancor de’ miei can’ fuggo lo stormo.”e a

Sentence translated from Sade, I, pp. 128–9. From The Secret of Francis Petrarch (c. 1343), composed as three dialogues between himself and St Augustine; extracts were included in Sade, II, pp. 102–38. This detail is from Secretum I (Sade, II, p. 115). c Sade, I, p. 186. d Loosely extracted from ‘Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade’, ll. 73–83. e Canzone iv, ll. 147–60: ‘I went so far toward my desire that one day hunting, as I often did, I went forth; and this lovely and savage wild creature was lying naked in a fountain, when the sun blazed stronger. I, unsatisfied by any other sight, stopped to gaze on her; whereupon she became bashful; and, for revenge, or to hide herself, she scattered water in my face with her b

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No attentions on his part could make any impression on her steady and virtuous mind. While love and youth drove him on, she remained impregnable and firm; and when she found that he still rushed wildly forward, she preferred forsaking, to following him to the precipice down which he would have hurried her. Meanwhile, as he gazed on her angelic countenance, and saw purity painted on it, his love grew as spotless as herself. Love transforms the true lover into a resemblance of the object of his passion. In a town, which was the asylum of vice, calumny never breathed a taint upon Laura’s name: her actions, her words, the very expression of her countenance, and her slightest gestures were replete with a modest reserve combined with sweetness, and won the applause of all.*a The passion of Petrarch was purified and exalted at the same time. Laura filled him with noble aspirations, and divided him from the common herd. He felt that her influence made him superior to vulgar ambition; and rendered him wise, true, and great. She saved him in the dangerous period of youth, and gave a worthy aim to all his endeavours. The manners of his age permitted one solace; a Platonic attachment was the fashion of the day. The troubadours had each his lady to adore, to wait upon, and to celebrate in song; without its being supposed that she made him any return beyond a gracious acceptance of his devoirs, and the allowing him to make her the heroine of his verses. Petrarch endeavoured to merge the living passion of his soul into this airy and unsubstantial devotion. Laura permitted the homage: she perceived his merit, and was proud of his admiration; / she felt the truth of his affection, and indulged the wish of preserving it and her own honour at the same time. Without her inflexibility, this had been a dangerous experiment: but she always kept her lover distant from her; rewarding his reserve by smiles, and repressing by frowns all the overflowings of his heart.

The Abbé de Sâde, commenting on this poem with true French dryness / of fancy, supposes that the scene actually occurred, and would point out the very spot in the environs of Avignon; not perceiving that the poet, in an exquisite allegory, founded on the story of Acteon, describes the wanderings of his mind, and the reveries in which he indulged concerning her he loved; and that both lady and fountain are the creations of his imagination, which so duped and absorbed him; that passion changed him to a solitary being, and his thoughts became the pursuers that perpetually followed and tormented him. * I adopt Petrarch’s own words, here and elsewhere, translated from the “Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ.” hand. I shall speak the truth (though it will seem a lie): I felt my own human form drawn from me, and I was that instant transformed into a lonely stag, wandering from wood to wood; and still I flee my cry of hounds.’ The Actaeon of classical legend was transformed into a stag and pursued by his own hounds as a punishment for gazing on Diana. The allegorical reading put forward by Mary Shelley also applies to the Actaeon image in P. B. Shelley’s Epipsychidion and Adonais (both of 1821). The account of Petrarch’s first encounter with Laura and of her history is loosely summarised from Sade, I, pp. 111–37. Sade regards Petrarch’s poetry as a reliable source of biographical material, but does not offer any extended commentary on canzone iv. a Secretum, III; adapted from Sade, II, pp. 115–18; further summaries noted by Mary Shelley are accurate.

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By her resolute severity, she incurred the danger of ceasing to be the object of his attachment, and of losing the gift of an immortal name, which he has conferred upon her. But Petrarch’s constancy was proof against hopelessness and time. He had too fervent an admiration of her qualities, ever to change: he controlled the vivacity of his feelings, and they became deeper rooted. The struggle cost him his peace of mind. From the moment that love had seized upon his heart, the tenor of his life was changed. He fed upon tears, and took a fatal pleasure in complaints and sighs; his nights became sleepless, and the beloved name dwelt upon his lips during the hours of darkness. He desired death, and sought solitude, devouring there his own heart. He grew pale and thin, and the flower of youth faded before its time. The day began and closed in sorrow; the varieties of her behaviour towards him alone imparted joy or grief. He strove to flee and to forget; but her memory became, and for ever remained, the ruling law of his existence.* From this time his poetic life is dated. He probably composed verses before he saw Laura; but none have been preserved except such as celebrate his passion. How soon, after seeing her, he began thus to pour forth his full heart, cannot be told; probably love, which turns the man of the most prosaic temperament into a versifier, impelled him, at its birth, to give harmonious expression to the rush of thought and feeling that it created. Latin was in use among the learned; but ladies, unskilled in a dead language, were accustomed to be sung by the Troubadours in their native Provençal dialect. Petrarch loved / Italy, and all things Italian – he perceived the melody, the grace, the earnestness, which it could embody. The residence of the popes at Avignon caused it to be generally understood; and in the language of his native Florence, the poet addressed his lady, though she was born under a less favoured sky. His sonnets and canzoni obtained the applause they deserved: they became popular; and he, no doubt, hoped that the description of his misery, his admiration, his almost idolatry, would gain him favour in Laura’s heart. Petrarch had always a great predilection for travelling: the paucity of books rendered this a mode, – in his eyes, almost the only mode, – for the attainment of the knowledge for which his nature craved. The first journey he made after his return from Bologna, was to accompany Giacomo Colonna on his visit to the diocese of Lombes, of which he had lately been installed bishop. Lombes is a small town of Languedoc, not far from Thoulouse; it had been erected into a bishopric by pope John XXII.,a who conferred it on Giacomo Colonna, in recompence of an act of intrepid daring successfully achieved in his behalf. It was the summer season, and the travellers proceeded through the most picturesque part of France, among the Pyrenees, to the banks of the Garonne. Besides Petrarch, the bishop was accompanied by Lello, the son of Pietro Stefani, a Roman gentleman; and a * Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ. a

Jacques d’Ense, Pope John XXII (1249–1334); detail from Sade, I, pp. 148–9.

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Frenchman named Louis.a The friendship that Petrarch formed with both, on this occasion, continued to the end of their lives: many of his familiar letters are addressed to them under the appellations of Lælius and Socrates; for Petrarch’s contempt of his own age gave him that tinge of pedantry which caused him to confer on his favourites the names of the ancients. Lello was a man of education and learning; he had long lived under the protection of the Colonna family, by the members of which he was treated as a son or brother. The transalpine birth of Louis made Petrarch call him a barbarian; but he found him cultivated and refined, endowed with a lively imagination, a gay temper, and / addicted to music and poetry. In the society of these men, Petrarch passed a divine summer; it was one of those periods in his life, towards which his thoughts frequently turned in after-times with yearning and regret.* On his return from Lombes, Petrarch became an inmate in the house of cardinal Colonna. He had leisure to indulge in his taste for literature: he was unwearied in the labour of discovering, collating, and copying ancient manuscripts. To him we owe the preservation of many Latin authors, which, buried in the dust of monastic libraries, and endangered by the ignorance of their monkish possessors, had been wholly lost to the world, but for the enthusiasm and industry of a few learned men, among whom Petrarch ranks pre-eminent. He thought no toil burthensome, however arduous, which drew from oblivion these monuments of former wisdom. Often he would not trust to the carelessness of copyists, but transcribed these works with his own hand. His library was lost to the world, after his death, through the culpable negligence of the republic of Venice, to which he had given it; but there still exists, in the Laurentian library of Florence, the orations of Cicero, and his letters to Atticus in Petrarch’s handwriting.b His ardour for acquiring knowledge was unbounded, – the society of a single town, and the few books that he possessed, could not satisfy him. He believed that travelling was the best school for learning. His great desire was to visit Rome; and a journey hither was projected by him and the bishop of Lombes. Delays intervening, which prevented their immediate departure, Petrarch made the tour of France, Flanders, and Brabant: “For which journey,” he says, “whatever cause may have been alleged, the real motive was a fervent desire of extending my experience.”† He first visited Paris, and took pleasure in satisfying himself of the / truth or falsehood of the accounts he had heard of that city. His curiosity was * Epist. ad Posterit. † Ibid. a Ludovico Santo di Beringen (1304–61) or ‘Socrates’, a Belgian musician in the service of Giovanni Colonna and Lello di Stefano dei Tosetti (d. ?1364) or ‘Laelius’, a Roman living at Avignon. Detail adapted from Sade, I, pp. 158–9. b Petrarch’s collection, still in the Laurentian Library (1530), includes correspondence between Atticus (Herodes Atticus) (c. 101–77), discovered in 1345 at Verona, and Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero) (106–43 BC), discovered in Liège.

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insatiable; when the day did not suffice, he devoted the night to his enquiries. He found the city ill built and disagreeable, but he was pleased with the inhabitants; describing them, as a traveller might of the present day, as gay, and fond of society; facile and animated in conversation, and amiable in their assemblies and feasts; eager in their search after amusement, and driving away care by pleasure; prompt to discover and to ridicule the faults of others, and covering their own with a thick veil.* From Paris, Petrarch continued his travels through Liege, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Cologne. In all places he searched for ancient manuscripts. At Liege he discovered two orations of Cicero, but could not find any one capable of copying them in the whole town: it was with difficulty that he procured some yellow and pale ink, with which he transcribed them himself.†a From Cologne he turned his steps homeward, passing through Ardennes on his way to Lyons. His heart warmed at the expectation of returning to his friends; and the image of Laura took possession of his imagination. Whilst wandering alone through the wild forest, which armed men feared to traverse, no idea of danger occurred to him; love occupied all his thoughts: the form of Laura flitted among the trees; and the waving branches, and the song of birds, and the murmuring streams, made her movements and her voice present to his senses with all the liveliness of reality. Twilight closed in, and imparted a portion of dismay, till, emerging from the dark trees, he beheld the Rhone, which threaded the plains towards the native town of the lady of his love; and at sight of the familiar river, a joyous rapture took place of gloom. Two of the most graceful of his sonnets were written to describe the fantastic images that haunted him as he traversed the forest, and the kindling of his soul when, emerging from its depths, he was, as it were, / serenely welcomed by the delightful country and beloved river which appeared before him.‡b * Epist. ad Posterit. † Epist. Fam. ‡ Sonnets 53, 54. The Abbé de Sâde notices these sonnets. They prove that the order of time is not preserved in the arrangement of his sonnets; as his letters prove that this journey through the forest of Ardennes preceded many events recorded in poems which are represented as if of an earlier date. a Epistolae familiares, bk I, pt 3, as cited in Sade, I, p. 206. Petrarch divided his letters into four sections, each containing many books: Epistolae familiares (or Rerum Familiarum Libri, Letters concerning Familiar Things) written c. 1325–66; Epistolae seniles (Rerum Senilium Libri, Letters of Riper Years) written c. 1361–74, his verse epistles and his untitled letters. Most of Petrarch’s letters quoted or mentioned by Mary Shelley appear to have been taken from Sade, though she would also seem to be collating Sade’s French with a Latin text, either with the extracts in Latin selectively included in Sade or with another text. Sade’s referencing differs from that used in modern editions, but appears to match Foscolo’s. b Sade, II, pp. 215–18; alluding to the sonnets ‘Per mezz’i boschi inospiti e selvaggi’ (Through the inhospitable and savage woods) and ‘Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi’ (A thousand shores in a day and a thousand banks), respectively (Rime Sparse, 176 and 177). The numbers ‘53, 54’ in Mary Shelley’s reference are ‘153, 154’ in Sade.

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At Lyons a disappointment awaited him: he met, on his arrival, a servant of the Colonna family, whom he eagerly questioned concerning his friends; and heard, to his infinite mortification, that Giacomo had departed for Italy, without waiting for his return. Deeply hurt by this apparent neglect, he wrote a letter to the bishop, full of bitter reproaches, which he enclosed to cardinal Colonna, to be forwarded to his brother; while he delayed somewhat his homeward journey, spending some weeks at Lyons. He was absent from Avignon, on this occasion, scarcely more than three months. On his return, he found that Giacomo Colonna was not to blame; he having repaired to Rome by command of the pope, that he might pacify the discontented citizens, and quell the disturbances occasioned by the insurgent nobles. Petrarch did not immediately join his friend: he had a duty to perform towards cardinal Colonna; and the chains which Laura threw around him, made him slow to quit a city which she inhabited. At length he embarked, and proceeded by sea to Cività Vecchia.a The troubled state of the country around Rome rendered it unsafe for a solitary traveller. Petrarch took refuge in the romantic castle of Capranica,b and wrote to his friends, announcing his arrival. They came instantly to welcome and escort him. Petrarch at length reached the city of his dreams. His excited imagination had painted the fallen mistress of the world in splendid colours; and, warned by his friends, he had feared disappointment. But the sight of Rome produced no such effect: he was too real a poet, not to look with awe and reverence on the mighty and beautiful remains which meet the wanderer’s eye at every turn in the streets of Rome. Petrarch’s admiration grew, instead of diminishing. / He found the eternal city greater and more majestic in her ruins than he had before figured; and, instead of wondering how it was that she had given laws to the whole earth, he was only surprised that her supremacy had not been more speedily acknowledged.*c He found inexhaustible gratification in contemplating the magnificent ruins scattered around. He was accompanied in his researches by Giovanni da San Vito,d brother of Stefano Colonna, who, enveloped in the exile of his family, had wandered for many years in Persia, Arabia, and Egypt. Stefano Colonna himself resided in the capital; and Petrarch found in him an image of those majestic heroes who illustrated the annals of ancient Rome. On leaving Italy, Petrarch gratified his avidity for travel by a long journey through Spain to Cadiz, and northward, by the sea-shore, as far as the coasts of * Epist. Fam. a

Cività Vecchia, the ancient port-city of Rome. Capranica, located some fifty miles north of Rome. Presumably, Petrarch refers to Anguillara castle, held by Count Orso dell’Anguillara, the brother-in-law of Giacomo and Giovanni Colonna. c Epistolae familiares, VI. 2; from Sade, I, pp. 320–1. d Giovanni di San Vita, Dominican monk; Stefano Colonna was also a cardinal and Roman senator. b

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England. He went to escape from the chains which awaited him at Avignon; and, seeking a cure for the wounds which his heart had received, he endeavoured to obtain health and liberty by visiting distant countries. It is thus that he speaks of this tour in his letters. But, though he went far, he did not stay long; for, on the 16th of August of the same year, he returned to Avignon. He came back with the same feelings; and grew more and more dissatisfied with himself, and the state of agitation and slavery to which the vicinity of Laura reduced him. The young wife was now the mother of a family, and more disinclined than ever to tarnish her good name, or to endanger her peace, by the sad vicissitudes of illicit passion. Disturbed, and struggling with himself, Petrarch sought various remedies for the ill that beset him. Among other attempts to divert his thoughts, he made an excursion to Mont Ventoux, one of the highest mountains of Europe; which, placed in a country where every other hill is much lower, commands a splendid and extensive / view. There is a letter of his to his friend and spiritual director, father Dionisio Robertis,a of San Sepolcro, whom he knew in Paris, giving an account of the expedition. It was a work of labour to climb the precipitous mountain; with difficulty, and after many fatiguing deviations from the right road, he reached its summit. He gazed around on the earth, spread like a map below; he fixed his eyes on the Alps, which divided him from Italy; and then, reverting to himself, he thought – “Ten years ago you quitted Bologna: how are you changed since then!” The purity of the air, and the vast prospect before him, gave subtlety and quickness to his perceptions. He reflected on the agitation of his soul, but not yet arrived in port, he felt that he ought not to let his thoughts dwell on the tempests that shook his nature. He thought of her he loved, not, as before, with hope and animation, but with a sad struggling love, for which he blushed. He would have changed his feeling to hate; but such an attempt were vain: he felt ashamed and desperate, as he repeated the verse of Ovid– “Odero, si potero; si non, invitus amabo.”b

For three years this passion had reigned over him without control: he now combated it; but his struggles saddened, while they sobered him. Again he turned his eyes from his own heart to the scene around. As the sun declined, he regarded the vast expanse of the distant Mediterranean, the long chain of mountains which divides France from Spain, and the Rhone which flowed at his feet. He feasted his eyes long on this glorious spectacle, while pious emotions filled his bosom. He had taken with him (for Petrarch was never without a book) the volume of St. Augustin’s Confessions: he opened it by chance, and his eyes fell on the following passage:– “Men make journeys to visit the summits of mountains, the waves of the sea, the course of rivers, and the immensity of ocean, while they neglect their own a

Dionisio da Borgo Robertis (d. ?1342), Augustinian theologian, recipient of Epistolae familiares, IV, 1; this letter is taken from Sade, I, p. 112. b Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso) (43 BC–AD 17), Amores, III. xi. 35 (‘I would hate, if I could; if not, I will love against my will’); Sade, I, p. 110.

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souls.”a Struck by the coincidence, Petrarch turned / his thoughts inward, and prayed that he might be enabled to vanquish himself. The moon shone upon their descent from the mountain (he was accompanied by his brother Gerard, whom he had selected from among his friends to join him in his excursion); and arriving at Maulaçene, a town at the foot of Mont Ventoux, Petrarch relieved his mind by pouring out his heart in a letter to Dionisio Robertis. The immediate result of the reflections thus awakened, was his retirement to Vaucluse. When a boy, he had visited this picturesque valley and its fountain, in company with his father, mother, and brother. He had then been charmed by its beauty and seclusion: and now, weary of travelling, and resolved to fly from Laura, he took refuge in the solitude he could here command. He bought a small house and field, removed his books, and established himself. Since then Vaucluse has been often visited for his sake; and he who was enchanted by its loneliness and beauty, has described, in letters and verses, with fond and glowing expressions, the charm that it possessed for him. The valley is narrow, as its name testifies – shut in by high and craggy hills; the river Sorgue traverses its depth; and on one side, a vast cavern in the precipitous rock presents itself, from which the fountain flows, that is the source of the river. Within the cave, the shadows are black as night; the hills are clothed by umbrageous trees, under whose shadow the tender grass, starred by innumerable flowers, offers agreeable repose. The murmur of the torrent is perennial: that, and the song of the birds, are the only sounds heard. Such was the retreat that the poet chose.b He saw none but the peasants who took care of his house and tended his little farm. The only woman near was the hard-working wife of the peasant, old and withered. No sounds of music visited his ears: he heard, instead, the carolling of the birds, and the brawling waters. Often he remained in silence from morning till night, wandering among the hills while the sun was yet low; and taking refuge, during the heat of the day, / in his shady garden, which, sloping down towards the Sorgue, was terminated on one side by inaccessible rocks. At night, after performing his clerical duties (for he was canon of Lombes), he rambled among the hills; often entering, at midnight, the cavern, whose gloom, even during the day, struck the soul with awe.c The peasantry about him were poor and hard-working. His food was usually black bread; and he was so abstemious, that the servant he brought with him from Avignon quitted him, unable to endure the solitude and privations of his retreat. He was then waited on by the neighbouring cottager, a fisherman, whose life had a

St Augustine of Hippo (354–430), Confessions, X. viii. sec. 15. This description of the Vaucluse derives from Petrarch’s descriptions in Latin hexameters, where details such as the flowers are found. These are collected in Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, Appendix 1, pp. 211–13; also in Sade, I, pp. 149–53. c Paragraph from Sade, I, p. 154; quotations in the next paragraph are taken from Sade, I, pp. 161–2, who in turn is drawing upon Petrarch’s letters; Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch (p. 142), produces a similar passage, woven together from Epistolae familiares, VI. 1, III. 28 and IX. 2. b

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been spent among fountains and rivers, deriving his subsistence from the rocks. “To call this man faithful,” says Petrarch, “is a tame expression: he was fidelity itself.” Without being able to read, he revered and cherished the books his master loved; and, all rude and illiterate, his pious regard for the poet raised him almost to the rank of a friend. His wife was yet more rustic. Her skin was burned by the sun till it resembled nothing human. She was humble, faithful, and laborious; passing her life in the fields, working under the noonday sun; while the evening was dedicated to indoor labour. She never complained, nor ever showed any mark of discontent. She slept on straw: her food was the coarsest black bread; her drink water, in which she mingled a little wine, as sour as vinegar. It was here that Petrarch hoped to subdue his passion, and to forget Laura. “Fool that I was!” he exclaims in after-life, “not to have remembered the first school-boy lesson – that solitude is the nurse of love!”a How, with his thoughts for his sole companions, preying perpetually on his own heart, could he forget her who occupied him exclusively in courts and cities? And thus he tells, in musical and thrilling accents, how, amidst woods, and hills, and murmuring waves, her image was painted on every object, and contemplated by him till he forgot himself to stone, more dead than the living rocks among which he wandered. It is almost / impossible to translate Petrarch’s poetry; for his subtle and delicate thoughts, when generalised, seem common-place; and his harmony and grace, which have never been equalled, are inimitable. The only translations which retain the spirit of the original, are by lady Dacre;b and we extract her version of one of the canzoni, as a specimen of his style, and as affording a vivid picture of his wild melancholy life among the solitary mountains. “From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: If ’mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, Or deep embosom’d a low valley lie, In its calm shade my trembling heart is still; And there, if Love so will, I smile, or weep, or fondly hope or fear, While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, The wild emotions roll, Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; That whosoe’er has proved the lover’s state Would say, ‘He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.’

a

This appears to be derived from Epistolae familiares, VIII. 3. Barbarina Ogle Brand, Lady Dacre (1768–1854). Selections from Lady Dacre’s translations from Petrarch were included in Ugo Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch (1823), Mary Shelley’s probable source here; see ‘Foscolo’, p. 355 (Dacre’s translations were later collected in Translations from the Italian (1836)). b

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“On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, I find repose, and from the throng’d resort Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside; At each lone step thoughts ever new arise Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs; Yet e’en these ills I prize, Though bitter, sweet – nor would they were removed; For my heart whispers me, ‘Love yet has power To grant a happier hour: Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved.’ E’en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe? “Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave, I stay my footsteps; and on some rude stone, With thought intense, her beauteous face engrave: Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find With tears, and cry, ‘Ah! whither thus alone Hast thou far wander’d? and whom left behind?’ But as with fixed mind On this fair image I impassion’d rest, And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, Love my rapt fancy fills; In its own error sweet the soul is blest, While all around so bright the visions glide; O! might the cheat endure, – I ask not aught beside. “Her form portray’d within the lucid stream Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam So lovely fair, that Leda’s self might say, Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn A star when cover’d by the solar ray: And, as o’er wilds I stray, Where the eye nought but savage nature meets, / There Fancy most her brightest tints employs; But when rude truth destroys The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, I sit me down on the cold rugged stone, Less cold, less dead than I, and think and weep alone. “Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime, On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings, Led by desire intense the steep I climb; And tracing in the boundless space each woe, Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, Tears, that bespeak the heart o’erfraught, will flow. While viewing all below, 24

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From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide The beauteous form, still absent and still near! Then chiding soft the tear, I whisper, low, haply she, too, has sigh’d That thou art far away; a thought so sweet A while my labouring soul will of its burden cheat. “Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene: There, by a murmuring stream, may I be found, Whose gentle airs around Waft grateful odours from the laurel green; Nought but my empty form roams here unblest, There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.”*a

Petrarch’s Italian poetry, written either to please his lady or to relieve the overflowing of his heart, bears in every line the stamp of warm and genuine, though of refined and chivalric, passion. It has been criticised as too imaginative, and defaced by conceits: of the latter there are a few, confined to a small portion of the sonnets. They will not be admired now, yet, perhaps, they are not those of the poems which came least spontaneously from the heart. Those have experienced little of the effects of passion, of love, grief, or terror, who do not know that conceits often spring naturally from such. Shakspeare knew this; and he seldom describes the outbursts of passion unaccompanied by fanciful imagery which borders on conceit. Still more false is the notion, that passion is not, in its essence, highly imaginative. Hard and dry critics, who neither feel themselves nor sympathise in the feelings of others, alone can have made this accusation:b these people, / whose inactive and colourless fancy naturally suggests no new combination nor fresh tint of beauty, suppose that is a cold exercise of the mind, when “The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.”

As they with difficulty arrive at comprehending poetic creations, they believe that they were produced by dint of hard labour and deep study. The truth is the opposite of this. To the imaginative, fanciful imagery and thoughts, whose expression seems steeped in the hues of dawn, are natural and unforced: when the mind of * The envoi shows that this canzone was written in Italy, probably when Petrarch was residing at Parma, a few years after. Yet being able to quote only a poem of which there exists a worthy translation, I could not refrain from extracting it; and though alluding to another country, and finished there, it is almost impossible not to believe that it was conceived at Vaucluse, and that it breathes the spirit that filled him in that solitude. a

‘Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte’ (Rime Sparse, 129). Perhaps recalling P. B Shelley’s Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude (1815), a poem strongly influenced by ‘Di pensier in pensier’; the preface similarly contrasts ‘dry’ hearts with those of the sympathetic and the passionate. b

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such is calm, their conceptions resemble those of other men; but when excited by passion, when love, or patriotism, or the influence of nature, kindles the soul, it becomes natural, nay, imperative to them to embody their thoughts, and to give “a local habitation and a name” to the emotions that possess them. The remarks of critics on the overflowings of poetic minds remind one of the traveller who expressed such wonder when, on landing at Calais, he heard little children talk French.a Petrarch, on the other hand, would deceive us, or rather deceived himself, when he alludes depreciatingly to his Italian poetry. Latin was the language of learned men: he deemed it degrading to write for the people; and, fancying that the difficulty of writing Latin was an obstacle glorious to overcome, he treated with disdain any works expressed in the vulgar tongue. Yet even while he said that these compositions were puerile, he felt in his heart the contrary. He bestowed great pains on correcting them, and giving them that polished grace for which they are remarkable. Still his reason (which in this instance, as in others, is often less to be depended upon than our intuitive convictions,) assured him that he could never hold a high place among poets till he composed a Latin poem.b While living in solitude at Vaucluse, yet ambitious that the knowledge of his name should pass beyond the confines of his narrow valley, and be heard even in / Italy, he mediated some great work worthy of the genius he felt within him. He at first contemplated writing a history of Rome, from Romulus to Titus;c till one day the idea of an epic poem, on the subject of his favourite hero, Scipio Africanus, struck him. He instantly commenced it with all the ardour of a first conception, and continued for some time to build up cold dull Latin hexameters.d It is curious to mark how ill he succeeded: but the structure and spirit of the language he used was then totally unknown; so that, while we lament the misspending of his time, we cannot wonder at his failure.

a Cf. Mary Shelley’s ‘The English in Italy’ in which she comments on her first impressions of Calais in 1814: ‘we saw shepherds in opera-hats, and post-boys in jack-boots; and (pour comble de merveille) heard little boys and girls talk French’ (MWSN, vol. 2, p. 148). The origin of the joke has not been traced. Quotations in the above paragraph are from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, V. i. 12–13 and 17. b This paragraph takes up points also made by Ginguené, II, ch. xiii, pp. 444–5. Ginguené is, however, more sympathetic, and stresses Petrarch’s achievement in seeking models in classical writers rather than in the theological Latin of his day. c Romulus, legendary founder of Rome, and the emperor Titus (ruled AD 79–81), who counted every day lost on which he did not do a good deed. d Petrarch’s Africa (c. 1337) celebrates the hero of the Second Punic War (218–202 BC), Publius Cornelius Scipio (c. 239–184 BC), surnamed Africanus after defeating Hannibal at the battle of Zama. Mary Shelley’s opinion squares with that of Byron (‘that long dull epic’), as reported by Thomas Medwin. In January 1822 Byron was asked to translate Mago’s deathspeech from Africa as a contribution to Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch. The translation went under Byron’s name, but is mostly by Medwin; see Medwin, Conversations of Lord Byron (1832 edn), I, pp. 132–3. Mary Shelley’s fair-copy of ‘The Death of Mago’ is in the Murray archive.

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He passed several years thus almost cut off from society: his books were his great resource; he was never without one in his hand. He relates in a letter, how, as a playful experiment, a friend locked up his library, intending to exclude him from it for three days; but the poet’s misery caused him to restore the key on the first evening:– “And I verily believe I should have become insane,” Petrarch writes, “if my mind had been longer deprived of its necessary nourishment.”a The friend who thus played with his passion for reading, was Philip de Cabassoles, bishop of Cavaillon.b Cavaillon is a pretty but insignificant town, situated on the slope of a mountain near the Durance, twelve miles distant from Avignon, and six from Vaucluse. He became intimate with Petrarch here, and they cemented a friendship which lasted his life. Sometimes Petrarch visited Cabassoles at Cabrières, where he resided; often the bishop came to the poet’s cottage. They frequently passed the livelong day together in the woods, without thinking of refreshment, or whole nights among their books, when morning often dawned upon them unawares. After two years’ residence in this seclusion, Petrarch continued so pleased with it, that he wrote to Giacomo Colonna, who had endeavoured, by promises of preferment and advantage, to entice him from it, imploring him to let him remain in a position so congenial to his disposition. “You know,” he says, “how false and vain are the / enticements of a court; and that the men most in favour there are the fools and rogues who attain dignities and places through adulation and simony. Why, then, should you, a man of honour, desire that I should return to a court? And even if it were possible that I should obtain any thing from the munificence of the pope, the detestable vices of the court are horrible to me. When I quitted the papal residence, know that I sang the psalm ‘In exitu Israel ex Ægypto.’c I enjoy, in the delightful solitude of Vaucluse, a sweet and imperturbable tranquillity, and the placid and blameless leisure of study. Any spare time I may have I go to Cabrières to amuse myself. Ah! if you were permitted to take up your abode in this valley, you would assuredly be disgusted, not only with the pope and cardinals, but the whole world. I am firmly resolved never to behold the court again.”d In this letter, however, he but half expresses the cause of his hatred to Avignon; for he does not allude to Laura, while it was the memory of her that not only made him fly the city in which she lived, but tremble at the mere thought of a

Quoted from Sade, I, p. 405. Phillip de Cabassoles (d. 1372), to whom Petrarch dedicated his De vita solitaria (Solitary Life) in 1346; follows Sade, I, pp. 168–70. c ‘When Israel came out of Egypt’, the opening line of Psalm 114. d Letter in Italian, written ‘On the 10th of the Calends of June, 1338’. Mary Shelley follows Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, pp. 118–20 (which prints an English translation of the text) and Appendix V (which prints a facsimile of an extract and a transcript). Her translation is made afresh from the Italian. The letter was an unpublished one, lent by Lord Holland, the owner, to Foscolo, who lost it. The facsimile is endorsed with an engraved advertisement offering a reward to the finder, placed there by the mortified Foscolo. (He later found that he had misplaced it in his own library.) b

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how near he still was. And while he describes the heavenly tranquillity of his seclusion, and the beauty that adorned it, he exclaims, “But the vicinity of Avignon poisons all.”a So deep was his fear of reviving his passion by seeing its object, that he never even visited that city for a few days. On one occasion, hearing that his friend, William da Pastrengo,b had arrived there, he repaired thither instantly to see him: but, on his arrival within the precincts of the fatal walls, he felt his chains fall so heavily around him, that, resolved to cast them off at once, without tarrying an hour, without seeing his friend, the same night he returned to Vaucluse, and then wrote to excuse himself; alleging, as his motive, his desire to escape from the net of passion that enveloped him in that town. At the same time, with the contradictory impulses of a lover, he entreated the painter, Simon Memmi,c a pupil of Giotto, just arrived in Provence, and in high esteem / with the pope and cardinals, to execute for him a small portrait of Laura.* Simon consented; and was so pleased with the model thus presented him, that he frequently afterwards introduced her face into his pictures of saints and angels. Petrarch repaid his friend’s complaisance by two sonnets of praise and commendation.d In the imaginary conversations which Petrarch pictures himself to have held with St. Augustine, the saint tells him that he is bound by two adamantine chains – love and glory.e To free himself from the first of these he had retreated to Vau* This was not a painting, but a small marble medallion. It has been, since the fourteenth century, in possession of the Peruzzi family at Florence. Behind the portrait of Laura are four Italian verses, not inserted in any editions of Petrarch:– “Splendida luce cui chiaro se vede Quel bel che può mostrar nel mondo amore, O vero exemplo del sopran valore E d’ogni meraviglia intiera fede.” There is a medallion also of Petrarch, similar in form to the other, behind which is inscribed – “Simion de Senis me fecit, Sub Anno Domini MCCCXLIIII .” The authenticity of these bas-reliefs is acknowledged in Italy; a pamphlet, giving an account of them, was published in Paris, 1821, written by one of the Peruzzi family.f a Epistolae familiares, XX. 8. ‘But the vicinity of Avignon poisons all’ are the exact words of Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, p. 25; the phrase is also quoted by Sade in French (I, p. 348). b Guglielmo da Pastrengo (d. ?1370), a lawyer in the service of Mastino dalla Scala, Lord of Verona. c Simon Memmi or Simone Martini (c. 1283–1344), Sienese painter. d ‘Quando giunse a Simon l’alto concerto’ (When high fancy came to Simon) and ‘Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso’ (To see Polycletus intently prove), identified by Sade as sonnets 55 and 56 (vol. I, appendix vii, p. 71) (Rime Sparse, 77, 78). e Referring to the Secretum; ‘love and glory’ taken from Sade, I, p. 427. f Notizie sopra due piccoli ritratti in bassorilievo rappresentanti il Petrarca e Madonna Laura: che esistono in Casa Peruzzi di Firenze, con delle iscrizioni del XIV secolo (Paris: Dondey–Dupré, 1821). The inscriptions may be translated:‘Splendid brightness that illuminates what it sees, the beauty of which manifests a world of love, true exemplar of great value, and which to every marvel gives complete faith.’ and ‘Simon of Siena made me, in the Year of Our Lord 1344’.

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cluse, and found the attempt vain. The second passion of his soul became even more strong, allying itself to the first, for he wished Laura’s lover to be renowned. This was also more successful, as, beside the honour in which he was held by all who knew him, it proved that his name was heard in distant countries, and his merit acknowledged. He had before entertained a vague wish for the laurel crown of poetry; but it was beyond his hopes, when, on the same day, the 24th of August, 1340, while at Vaucluse, he received letters from the Roman senate, and from the chancellor of the university of Paris, inviting him to receive it. Hesitating to which city to yield the preference, he wrote to ask the advice of cardinal Colonna; and, counselled by him, as well as following his own predilection, decided in favour of Rome.a Another circumstance influenced Petrarch in this choice. Not long before, his friend Dionisio Robertis had visited him at Vaucluse on his way to the court of / Robert king of Naples. From him Petrarch heard of the literary tastes and liberal disposition of this amiable monarch. He had already meditated a visit to him, and letters had been interchanged between them. The circumstance of his coronation gave him a fair excuse for paying him a visit. In the ardour of an age scarcely yet mature, he believed himself worthy of the honour conferred on him; but he tells us that he felt ashamed of relying only on his own testimony and that of the persons who invited him. Perhaps the desire of display, and of proving to the world that he was no illiterate pretender, was the stronger motive. However this might be, he made choice of the king of Naples, more illustrious in his eyes for his learning than his crown, to examine his claim to distinction, and be the judge of his deserts.* He lost no time in repairing to the court of king Robert, who received him with a warmth of friendship that excited his deepest gratitude. Hearing the object of the poet’s visit, he expressed great delight, and considered the choice made of him, among all mortals, to be the judge of his merits, as glorious to himself. During the many conversations they held together, Petrarch showed the monarch the commencement of his poem on Africa. Robert, highly delighted, begged that it might be dedicated to him: the poet gladly assented, and kept his promise, though the king died before it could be fulfilled. The examination of his acquirements lasted three days, after which the king declared him worthy of the laurel, and sent an ambassador to be present on his part when the crown was conferred. Petrarch repaired to Rome for the ceremony, and was crowned in the capitol with great solemnity, in presence of all the nobles and high-born ladies of the city. “I then,” writes Petrarch, “thought myself worthy of the honour: love and enthusiasm bore me on. But the laurel did not increase my knowledge, while it gave birth to envy in the hearts of many.”†/ * Epist. ad Posterit. † Ibid. a

The letters referred to above are given in Sade, I, pp. 428–30.

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Leaving Rome soon after his coronation, Petrarch intended to return to Avignon, but passing through Parma he was detained by his friend Azzo Correggio,a who ruled the city, governing it with incomparable wisdom and moderation. The friendship between Azzo and Petrarch had commenced at Avignon, where, for the first and only time, Petrarch had been induced to take on himself the office of a barrister, and pleaded the cause of the Correggii against their enemies the Rossi before the pope, and succeeded in obtaining a decision in their favour. This, as is mentioned, is the only occasion on which Petrarch played the advocate; and he boasts of having gained the cause for his clients without using towards their adversaries the language of derision and sarcasm. Petrarch, meanwhile, remembering the honour he had received, was solicitous not to appear unworthy of it; and, on a day, wandering among the hills and crossing the river Ensa, he entered the wood of Selva Piana:b struck by the beauty of the place, he turned his thoughts to his neglected poem of Africa; and, excited by an enthusiasm for his subject which had long been dormant, he composed that day, and on each following one, some verses. On returning to Parma he sought and found a tranquil and fit dwelling: buying the house that thus pleased him, he fixed himself at Parma, and continued to occupy himself with his poem with so much ardour, that he brought it to a conclusion with a speed that excited his own surprise.* At this time Petrarch suffered the first of those losses which afterwards cast such gloomy shadows over his life, in the death, first of Thomas of Messina, and then of a dearer friend, Giacomo Colonna. Tommaso Caloria of Messinac had studied with Petrarch at Bologna, and many of his letters are addressed to him. There existed a strict friendship between them, both loving and cultivating literature. His early death deeply affected the warm-hearted poet. The impression / he received was so melancholy and bitter, that he desired to die also; and a fever, the consequence of his grief, made him imagine that in reality his end was approaching. To add to his disquietude, he heard of the illness of Giacomo Colonna. The bishop was at that time residing at Lombes, apart from all his family, and Petrarch was about to join him to fulfil his duties as canon. At this time he one night dreamt that he saw Giacomo Colonna, in his garden at Parma, crossing the rivulet that traversed it. He went to meet him, asking him, with surprise, whence he came? whither he was going in such haste? and wherefore unattended? The bishop replied, smiling, “Do you not remember when you visited the Garonne with me, how you disliked the thunder-storms of the Pyrenees? They now annoy me also, and I am returning to Rome.” So saying he hastened on, repelling with * Epist. ad Posterit. a Azzo da Correggio (d. 1365). During the 1340s, the families of Correggio and Rossi fought for control of Parma. b Ensa and Selva Piana, both located near Parma. c Tommaso Caloria (or Calorio) di Messina (1302–41).

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his hand Petrarch, who was about to follow him, saying, “Remain, you must not now accompany me.” As he spoke, his countenance changed, and it was overspread with the hues of death. Nearly a month after, Petrarch heard that the bishop had died during the night on which this dream had occurred.a The poet was a faithful and believing son of the church of Rome, but he was not superstitious, and saw nothing supernatural in this affecting coincidence. The loss of his friend and patron grieved him deeply, and his mourning was renewed soon after by the death of Dionisio Robertis. These reiterated losses made so profound an impression, that he trembled and turned pale on receiving any letter, and feared at each instant to hear of some new disaster. Satisfied with the tranquillity which he enjoyed at Parma, he resisted the frequent and earnest solicitations of his friends at Avignon to return among them. He did not forget Laura. Her image often occupied him. It was here we may believe that he wrote the canzone before quoted, and many sonnets, which showed with what lively and earnest thoughts he cherished the passion which had so long reigned over him. He could / not write letters; but as it is a lover’s dearest solace to make his mistress aware that his attachment survives time and absence, Petrarch, we may easily suppose, was glad, by the medium of his heart-felt poetry, to communicate with her who, he hoped, prized his affection, even if she did not silently return it. Still love, while far from her, did not so pertinaciously and cruelly torment, and he was unwilling to trust himself within the influence of her presence. It required a powerful motive to induce him to pass the Alps; but this occurred after no long period of time. Italy, and especially Rome, was torn by domestic faction and the lawlessness of the nobles. Petrarch saw in the secession of the popes to Avignon the cause of these disasters. His patriotic spirit kindled with indignation, that the head of the church and the world should desert the queen of cities, and inhabit an insignificant province. He had often exerted all his eloquence to induce successive popes to return to the palaces and temples of Italy. Pope Benedict XII. died at this time, and Clement VI. was elected to fill the papal chair.b One of the first incidents of his reign was the arrival of an embassy from Rome, soliciting the restoration of the papal residence. Petrarch, having been already made citizen of that city, was chosen one of the deputies.* He and Rienzi (who afterwards played so celebrated a part) addressed the pope.c Their * Abbé de Sâde. [II, p. 46] a Recounted in Sade, II, pp. 24, 27–8 with additions following from II, p. 38; cf. Mary Shelley’s own interest in prescient dreams and ‘something beyond us of which we are ignorant’ (‘On Ghosts’, MWSN, vol. 2, pp. 140–6, in which she quotes Petrarch). b Jacques Fournier, Pope Benedict XII (d. 1342), and Pierre Roger, Pope Clement VI (1291– 1352). c Nicola di Rienzi (1313–54), Roman popular revolutionary whose attempt to curb the power of the nobles and restore the ideals of the ancient Roman republic ended in provoking strife and bloodshed, partly because of his own excessive zeal.

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representations were of no avail; but Clement rewarded the poet by naming him prior of Migliarino in the diocese of Pisa. Petrarch remained at Avignon. The sight of Laura gave fresh energy to a passion which had survived the lapse of fifteen years. She was no longer the blooming girl who had first charmed him. The cares of life had dimmed her beauty. She was the mother of many children, and had been afflicted at various times by illnesses.a Her home was not happy. Her husband, without loving or appreciating her, was ill-tempered and jealous. Petrarch acknowledged that if her personal / charms had been her sole attraction he had already ceased to love her. But his passion was nourished by sympathy and esteem; and above all, by that mysterious tyranny of love, which, while it exists, the mind of man seems to have no power of resisting, though in feebler minds it sometimes vanishes like a dream. Petrarch was also changed in personal appearance. His hair was sprinkled with grey, and lines of care and sorrow trenched his face. On both sides the tenderness of affection began to replace, in him the violence of passion, in her the coyness and severity she had found necessary to check his pursuit. The jealousy of her husband opposed obstacles to their seeing each other.*b They met as they could in public walks and assemblies. Laura sang to him, and a soothing familiarity grew up between them as her fears became allayed, and he looked forward to the time when they might sit together and converse without dread. He had a confidant in a Florentine poet, Sennucio del Bene,c attached to the service of cardinal Colonna, to whom many of his sonnets are addressed, now asking him for advice, now relating the slight but valued incidents of a lover’s life. He had another confidant into whose ear to pour the history of his heart. This was the public. In those days, when books were rare, reading was a luxury reserved for a few, and it was chiefly by oral communication that a poet’s contemporaries became acquainted with his productions; and there was a class of men, not poets themselves, who chiefly subsisted by repeating the productions of others: – “men,” writes Petrarch, “of no genius, but endowed with memory and industry. Unable to compose themselves, they recite the verses of others at the tables of the great, and receive gifts in return. They are chiefly solicitous to please their audience by novelty. How often have they importuned me with entreaties for my yet unfinished poems! Often I refused. Sometimes, moved by the poverty or worth of * Abbé de Sâde. a On Laura’s 11 children hinged a dispute as to whether she had had real existence, and, if so, whether she had been a virtuous wife or a stony-hearted virgin. In the Secretum, Petrarch wrote ‘Corpus eius crebris ptbs exhaustum’ (Her body was worn out by frequent [ptbs]’). The Abbé de Sade regarded ‘ptbs’ as a contraction of ‘partubus’ (childbirths), which Foscolo (pp. 11– 12) and Mary Shelley accept, while James Beattie proposed (1784) ‘perturbationibus’ (afflictions), accepted by Hobhouse and Byron in the Notes to Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, IV (1818). b Paragraph loosely summarises Sade, II, pp. 53–63; Mary Shelley infers the jealousy of Laura’s husband from Petrarch’s sonnets and correspondence. c Sennuccio del Bene (c. 1275–1349).

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my applicants, I yield to their desires. The loss is / small to me, the gain to them is great. Many have visited me, poor and naked, who, having obtained what they asked, returned, loaded with presents, and dressed in silk, to thank me.”a These were the booksellers of the middle ages. It was thus that the Italian poetry of Petrarch became known; and he, finding that it was often disfigured in repetition, took pains at last to collect and revise it. He performed the latter task with much care; and afterwards said, that though he saw a thousand faults in his other works, he had brought his Italian poetry to as great a degree of perfection as he was capable of bestowing. He applied himself to Greek at this time under Bernardo Barlaam, a Calabrian by birth, but educated at Constantinople. He had come to Avignon as ambassador from the Greek emperor Andronicus, for the purpose of reconciling the Greek and Roman churches.b They read several of the Dialogues of Plato together. The book entitled “The Secret of Francesco Petrarca” was written at this period. This work is in the form of dialogues with St. Augustin. Petrarch, assisted by the questions and remarks of the saint, examines the state of his mind, laying bare every secret of his soul, its weaknesses and its fears, with the utmost ingenuousness. He relates the struggles of his passion for Laura, and accuses himself of that love of glory which was the spur of so many of his actions. He speaks of the constitutional melancholy of his disposition, which often rendered him gloomy and almost despairing; and he is bid by the saint to seek a remedy for his sorrows, and make atonement for his faults, by dedicating hereafter all his faculties to God. His literary pursuits were interrupted by a public duty. His friend Robert, king of Naples, died, and was succeeded by his daughter Giovanna, married to Andrea, prince of Hungary.c The greatest dissension reigned between the royal pair; besides which, the young queen was not of an age to govern, and the pope had pretensions to supremacy during her minority. / Petrarch was sent as ambassador to establish the papal claim; and he was commissioned, also, by cardinal Colonna, to obtain the release of some prisoners of rank unjustly detained at Naples.d During this mission he became attached to the party of queen Giovanna, who inherited her father’s love of letters; so that afterwards, when her husband was murdered, he believed her to be innocent of all share in the crime. He was displeased, however, with the court and the gladiatorial exhibitions in fashion there. Having obtained the liberty of the prisoners, and brought his mission from the pope to a successful conclusion, he returned to Parma. This part of Italy was in a state of dreadful disturbance, arising from the wars carried on by the various lords of Parma, Verona, Ferrara, Bologna, and Padua. Petrarch, besieged, as it were, in a

Not traced. Bernado Barlaam of Calabria, Bishop of Gerace (d. ?1348) was ambassador for the Byzantine Emperor Andronicus III (c. 1296–1341). c Robert of Anjou (1278–1343); Giovanna I, Queen of Naples (1327–81); Andrea, King of Hungary (d. 1345). d An embassy described in Sade, II, pp. 162–77. b

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the first-named town, was obliged to remain. He had still the house he had bought, and the books he had collected and left in Italy. He loved his cisalpine Parnassus, as he named his Italian home, in contradistinction to his transalpine Parnassus at Vaucluse;a and, occupying himself with his poem of Africa, he was content to prolong his stay in his native country. At length the roads became safe, and he returned to Avignon. And now an event occurred which electrified Italy, and filled the papal court with astonishment and disquietude. Nicola di Rienzi, inspired by a desire to free his townsmen from the cruel tyranny of the nobles, with wonderful promptitude and energy, seized upon the government of Rome, assumed the name of tribune, and reduced all the men of rank, with Stefano Colonna at their head, to make public submission to his power. The change he produced in the state of the country was miraculous. Before, travellers scarcely ventured, though armed and in bodies, to traverse the various states: under him the roads became secure; and his emissaries, bearing merely a white wand in their hands, passed unmolested from one end of Italy to the other. Order and plenty reigned through the land. The pope and cardinals / were filled with alarm; while Petrarch hailed with glowing enthusiasm the restoration of peace and empire to his beloved country. He wrote the tribune letters full of encouragement and praise. His heart swelled with delight at the prospect of the renewed glories of Rome; and such was his blind exultation, that he scarcely mourned the death of several of the most distinguished members of the Colonna family, who fell in the struggle between the nobles and Rienzi.b He desired to return to Italy to enjoy the triumph of liberty and law over oppression and licence. More and more he hated Avignon. Pope Clement VI. was a man of refinement, and a munificent prince: but he was luxurious and dissolute; so that the vices of the court, which filled the poet with immeasurable abhorrence, increased during his reign. He had offered Petrarch the dignity of bishop, and the honourable and influential post of apostolic secretary; but the poet declined to accept the proferred rank. Love of independence was strong in his heart; and he desired no wealth beyond competence, which was secured to him by the preferment he already enjoyed. He was at this time archdeacon of Parma, as well as canon of various cathedrals. He obtained with difficulty the consent of his friends to abandon Avignon for Italy. Cardinal Colonna reproached him bitterly for deserting him; and Laura saw him depart with regret. When he went to take leave of her, he found her (as he describes in several of his sonnets) surrounded by a circle of ladies. Her mien was dejected; a cloud overcast her face, whose expression seemed to say, “Who takes my faithful friend from me?” a

See Epistolae familiares, V. 6. Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch (p. 136), remarks on this too, quoting Petrarch’s words ‘The Colonnas are dearer to me than my life; but Rome is dearer to me still’ (Epistolae familiares, XI. 16). b

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Petrarch was struck to the heart by a sad presentiment: the emotion was mutual; they both seemed to feel that they should never meet again.a Yet, restless and discontented, he would not stay. He had no ties of home. His brother Gerard had taken vows, and become a Carthusian monk: he invited Petrarch to follow his example; but the poet’s love of independence prevented this, as well as every other / servitude. Belonging to the Romish church, he could not marry; and though he had two children he was not attached to their mother, of whom nothing more is known except the declaration, in the letters of legitimacy obtained afterwards for her son, that she was not a married woman. Of these two children the daughter was yet an infant. The boy, now ten years of age, he had placed at Verona, under the care of Rinaldo da Villafranca.b Leaving Avignon, Petrarch passed through Genoa, where he heard of the follies and downfall of Rienzi; instead, therefore, of proceeding to Rome, he repaired to his house at Parma. The fatal year now began which cast mourning and gloom over the rest of his life. It was a year fatal to the whole world. The plague, which had been extending its ravages over Asia, entered Europe. As if for an omen of the greater calamity, a disastrous earthquake occurred on the 25th of January. Petrarch was timid: he feared thunder – he dreaded the sea; and the alarming concussion of nature that shook / Italy filled him with terror. The plague then extended its inroads to increase his alarm. It spread its mortal ravages far and wide: nearly one half of the population of the world became its prey.c Petrarch saw thousands die around him, and he trembled for his friends: he heard that it was at Avignon, and his friend Sennucio del Bene had fallen its victim. A thousand sad presentiments haunted his mind. He recollected the altered countenance of Laura when he last saw her; he dreamed of her as dead; her pale image hovered near his couch, bidding him never expect to see her more. At last, the fatal truth reached him: he received intelligence of her death on the 19th of May. By a singular coincidence, she died on the anniversary of the day when he first saw her. She was taken ill on the 3d of April, and languished but three days. As soon as the symptoms of the plague declared themselves, she prepared to die: she made her will, which is dated on the 3d of / April*, and received the sacraments of the church. On the 6th she died, surrounded to the last by her friends and the noble ladies of Avignon, who braved the danger of infection to attend on one so lovely and so beloved. On the evening of the same day on which she died, she was interred in the chapel of the Cross which her husband had lately built in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon. * Abbé de Sâde. a ‘Chi mi allontana il mio fedele amico’, l. 14 of ‘Quel vago impallidir che’l dolce riso’ (That lovely paleness on her sweet smile) (Rime Sparse, 123). Petrarch’s presentiments are described in Sade, II, pp. 387–8. b His son Giovanni (1337–61), later legitimised by Clement VI, and daughter Francesca (b. 1343). c Bubonic plague outbreak of 1348 eventually killed an estimated 25 million people.

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With her was buried a leaden box, fastened with wire, which enclosed a medal and a sealed parchment, on which was inscribed an Italian sonnet.a If the sonnet were the composition of Petrarch, as the sense of it would intimate, although its want of merit renders it doubtful, this box must have been placed in the grave at a subsequent period. The sensitive heart of Petrarch had often dwelt on the possibility of Laura’s death. Although she was only three years his junior, he comforted himself by the reflection that as he had entered life first so he should be the first to quit it.* This fond hope was disappointed: he lost her who, for more than twenty years, had continually been the object of all his thoughts: he lost her at a period when he began to hope that, while time diminished the violence of his passion, it might draw them nearer as friends. The sole melancholy consolation now afforded him was derived from the contemplation of the past. That at each hour of the day her memory might be more vividly present to his thoughts, he fixed to the binding of his copy of Virgil a record of her death, written in Latin, of which the following is a translation:– “Laura, illustrious through her own virtues, and long celebrated by my verses, first appeared to me in my youth, in the year of our Lord 1327, on the sixth day of April, in the church of Ste. Claire, at Avignon, at the ninth hour†b of the morning. And in the same city, during the same month of April, on the same day / of the month, and at the same early hour, but in the year 1348, this light was withdrawn from the world; while I, alas! ignorant of my fate, chanced to be at Verona. The unhappy intelligence reached me through the letters of my friend Louis, at Parma, in the same year, on the morning of the nineteenth of May. Her chaste and beautiful body was deposited, on the evening of her death in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon.‡ Her soul, as Seneca says of Africanus, I believe to have returned to the heaven whence it came.c To mingle some sweetness with the bitter memory of this miserable event, I have selected this place to record it, which often meets my eyes; so that by frequent view of these words, and by due estimation of the swift passage of time, I may be reminded that nothing henceforth can please me in life, and that, my chief tie being broken, it is time that I * Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ. † Petrarch uses church time, in which the ninth hour answers to six A . M . ‡ The perfect accord between this record in Petrarch’s handwriting, and the inscription on the coffin of Laura de Sâde, discovered in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon, puts the identity of the lady beyond all doubt. This seems to have taken place for the very purpose of informing posterity of who she was whom the poet had celebrated, yet whose actual name he never mentioned. a

The sonnet begins ‘Qui riposan quei caste & felici ossa’ (Sade, III, appendix XI, p. 41). Details of the death of Laura are from Sade, I, appendix III, pp. 11–12, who includes a transcription of her will in III, appendix XXVI, pp. 83–5. b Ginguené calls this the first hour. c Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC–AD 65), Letters, 86.

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should escape from this Babylon; and, by the grace of God, I shall find this easy, while I resolutely and boldly reflect on the vain cares of years gone by, on my futile hopes, and on their unexpected downfall.”*a Death consecrates and deepens the sentiment with which we regard a beloved object; it is no wonder, therefore, that Petrarch, whose sensibility and warmth of feeling surpassed that of all other men, should have gone beyond himself in the poems he wrote subsequent to Laura’s death. Nothing can be more tender, more / instinct with the spirit of passionate melancholy, and, at the same time, more beautiful, than the sonnets and canzoni which lament her loss. It was his only consolation to recur to all the marks of affection he had ever received from her, and to believe that she regarded him with tender interest from her place of bliss in heaven. He indulged, also, in another truly catholic mode of testifying his affection, by giving large sums in charity for the sake of her soul, and causing so many masses to be said for the same purpose, that, as a priest who was his contemporary, informed his congregation, in a sermon, “they had been sufficient to withdraw her from the hands of the devil, had she been the worst woman in the world; while, on the contrary, her death was holy.”† The death of Laura, overwhelming as it was, was but a prelude to numerous others. Petrarch had lived among many dear friends; but the plague appeared, and their silent graves were soon all that remained to him of them. Cardinal Colonna died in the course of this same year. He was the last surviving son of the hero Stefano, who lived to become childless in his old age. Petrarch relates in a letter, that during his first visit to Rome, he was walking one evening with Stefano in the wide street that led from the Colonna palace to the Capitol, and they paused in an open place formed by the meeting of several streets. They both leant their elbows on an antique marble, and their conversation turned on the actual * “The Virgil to which this note is appended is preserved in the Ambrosian library at Milan. In 1795, a part of the leaf on which it was written became detached from the cover, and the librarians perceived other writing beneath. Curiosity engaged them to take off the entire leaf, in which process, the parchment being tightly glued, the writing, nearly effaced, remained on the wood of the binding. They found beneath a note in the handwriting of Petrarch, containing the dates of the loss he had once suffered of the book itself, and its restitution. There is, in addition, a record of the dates of the death of various of his friends, mingled with exclamations of regret and sorrow, and complaints of the increasing solitude to which he finds himself reduced through these reiterated bereavements.” – Ginguene.b † Tiraboschi.c a Quoted by both Foscolo (pp. 35–6) and Ginguené (II, ch. xii, pp. 442–3), but this is closer to Ginguené’s French than Foscolo’s English. Ginguené discusses (and dismisses) doubts raised about the authenticity of the handwriting. It is accepted as one of the stronger pieces of evidence for the actual existence of Petrarch’s Laura. b Translation of Ginguené, II, pp. 586–7, supplementary note. This famous copy of Virgil (70–19 BC), where Petrarch recorded significant personal and family events, is still in the Ambrosian Library of Milan (est. 1605). c From Tiraboschi, V, pt 2, p. 481n., whose source is the Abate di Carlo de’ Marchesi Trivulzi.

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condition of the Colonna family: after other observations that fell from Stefano, he turned to Petrarch with tears in his eyes, saying, “With regard to the heir of my possessions, I desire and ought to leave them to my sons; but fate has ordered otherwise. By a reversal of the order of nature, which I deplore, it is I – decrepit old man as I am – who will inherit from all my children.” As he spoke, grief seized upon his heart, and interrupted further speech. Now / this singular prophecy was fulfilled; and Petrarch, in his letter of condolence, reminds the unhappy father of this scene.a The old man, however, survived but a few months the last of his sons. Petrarch, during the autumn, visited Giacomo da Carrara, lord of Padua, who had often invited him with a warmth and pertinacity, which he found it at length impossible to resist.b He passed many months in that town, visiting occasionally Parma, Mantua, and Ferrara, being much favoured and beloved by the various lords of these cities. On occasion of the jubilee, he went to Rome in pilgrimage, to avail himself of the religious indulgences afforded on that occasion. On his way through Florence, which he visited for the first time, he saw Boccaccio, with whom he had lately entered into a correspondence. Continuing his journey, he met with a serious injury from the kick of a horse on his knee, on the road near Bolsena, which occasioned him great pain, and on his arrival at Rome confined him to his bed for some days. As soon as he was able to rise, he performed his religious duties, and, with earnest prayers and good resolutions, dedicated his future life to the practices of virtue and piety. Returning from Rome, he passed through his native town of Arezzo. The inhabitants received him with every mark of honour: they showed him the house in which he was born, which they had never permitted to be pulled down nor altered, and attended on him during his visit with zealous affection. On his arrival at Padua he was afflicted by hearing of the death of his friend and protector Giacomo da Carrara; who, but a few days before, had been assassinated by a relative. The son of Giacomo succeeded to him, and though the difference of age prevented the same intimacy of friendship, the young lord loved and honoured Petrarch as his father had done; so that he continued to reside in the city, over which the youth ruled. Sometimes he visited Venice, to which beautiful and singular town he was much attached. The doge, Andrea Dandolo,c was / his friend; and he exerted his influence to put an end to the destructive war carried on between Venice and Genoa, writing forcible and eloquent letters to the doge. His endeavours were without success; but the injuries which the republics mutually inflicted and received might make them afterwards repent that they had not listened to the voice of the peace-maker. Nor was the poet’s heart wholly closed against the feelings of love; nor could the image of the dead Laura possess all the empire which had been hers, cold and a

Letter of 8 Sept. 1348, quoted above from Sade, III, pp. 2–7. Giacomo II da Carrara, Lord of Padua (rgn. 1345–50), assassinated in 1350. c Andrea Dandolo (b. 1307, rgn. 1343–54), ‘the earliest historian and the most ambitious warrior of Venice’ (Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, p. 131). b

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reserved as she was, during her life. His sonnets give evidence that passion had spread fresh nets to ensnare him, when the new object of his admiration died, and death quenched and scattered once again the fire which he was unable to resist.* Again, he could think only of Laura; and, on the third anniversary of her death, exclaimed, “How sweet it had been to die three years ago!”a It was on this anniversary that Boccaccio arrived at Padua, bringing the decree of the Florentine republic, which reinstated him in his paternal inheritance, together with letters inviting him to accept of a professor’s chair in their new university. Such an employment scarcely suited one, who, for the sake of freedom, had declined the highest honours of the catholic church. Petrarch testified great gratitude for the restitution of his property, but passed over their offered professorship in silence. Instead of repairing, as he had been invited, to Florence, he set out to revisit Avignon and Vaucluse. “I had resolved,” he writes, “to return here no more; but my desires overcame my resolution, and, in justification of my inconstancy, I have nothing to allege but the necessity I felt for solitude. In my own country I am too well known, too much courted, too greatly praised. I am sick of adulation; and that place becomes dear to me, where / I can live to myself alone, abstracted from the crowd, unannoyed by the voice of fame. Habit, which is a second nature, has rendered Vaucluse my true country.”b His son accompanied him on this occasion. The boy was now fourteen years of age: he was quiet and docile; but invincibly repugnant to learning, to the no slight mortification of his father, who vainly tried, by reprehension, raillery, and sarcasm, to awaken emulation in his mind. When Petrarch arrived at Avignon, Clement VI. was very ill, and expected to die. He asked the poet’s opinion concerning his disorder; and Petrarch wrote him a letter to give him his advice with regard to the choice of a physician, entreating him to adhere to one, as affording a better prospect, where all was chance, of having his malady understood.c The learned body of medical men was highly offended by this letter: they attacked the writer with acrimony;d and Petrarch replied in a style of vituperation, little accordant with his usual mild manner. He was highly esteemed in the papal court, and consulted by the four cardinals, deputed to * “Morte m’ ha liberato un’ altra volta, E rotto ’l nodo, e ’l foco ha spento, e sparso, Contra la qual non val forza nè ’ngegno.” Part II. Sonnet III.e a Rime Sparse, 278, ‘Ne l’età sua più bella e più fiorita’ (In her most beautiful and most blossoming age’), l. 14: ‘Oh, che bel morir era, oggi, è terzo anno’; given in Sade, III, p. 124. b Epistolae familiares, XI. 12; extracted from Sade, III, pp. 133–4. c Letter of 13 March 1352, quoted from Sade, III, p. 399. d Epistolae familiares, V. 19; given in Sade, III, pp. 210–15. e Rime Sparse, 271,‘L’ardente nodo ov’io fui d’ora in ora’ (The ardent knot where I was hour upon hour), ll. 12–14: ‘Death has liberated me another time, has broken the knot, and extinguished and scattered the flame against which neither strength nor skill avails’.

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reform the government of Rome; and was again solicited to accept the place of apostolic secretary, which he again refused. “I am content,” he said, in reply to his friend the cardinal Talleirand: “I desire nothing more. My health is good; labour renders me cheerful; I have every kind of book; and I have friends, whom I consider the most precious blessing of life, if they do not seek to deprive me of my liberty.”a This letter was written from Vaucluse. Petrarch’s heart had opened to a thousand sad and tender emotions, when he returned to the valley which had so frequently heard his laments: his sonnets on his return to Provence breathe the softest spirit of sadness and devoted love.b He gladly took refuge in his former home from the vices and turbulence of Avignon. He renewed the wandering lonely life he had lived twelve years before. The old peasant still lived with his aged wife; and the poet amused himself with improvements in his garden, / which an inundation of the Sorgue overwhelmed and destroyed. On the death of Clement VI. he was succeeded by Innocent VI.c He was an ignorant man; and, from Petrarch’s perpetual study of Virgil (who was reputed to be an adept in the art magic),d he fancied that the poet was a magician also. Petrarch was now most anxious to return to Italy, yet still lingered at Vaucluse. He made an excursion to visit the Carthusian convent, where his brother Gerard had taken the vows. Gerard had acted an admirable and heroic part during the visitation of the plague, and survived the dangers to which he fearlessly exposed himself. Petrarch was received in his monastery with respect and affection; and, in compliance with the request of the monks, wrote his treatise “On Solitary Life.”e Winter advanced, and he was most anxious to cross the Alps. He visited his old friend, the bishop of Cavaillon, at Cabrieres, and was entreated by him to remain “one day more.”f Petrarch consented with reluctance; and on that very night such storms came on, as impeded his journey for several weeks. At length he crossed the Alps, and arrived at Milan, on his way southward, not having determined in his own mind in what town he should fix his residence, wavering between Parma, Padua, Verona, and Venice. While in this state of indecision, the hospitable reception and earnest invitation of Giovanni Visconti, lord and bishop of Milan, induced him to remain in that city.g a

Cardinal Elie de Taillerand, Count of Perigord (d. ?1361); quoted from Sade, III, p. 284. Sonnets such as ‘Valle che’ de lamenti miei se piena’ (Valleys that are filled with my laments), ‘Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta’ (Beautiful soul, loosened from that knot), and ‘Quel sol che mi mostrava il camin destro’ (The sun that showed me the right path) (Rime Sparse, 301, 305, 306). c Étienne Aubert, Pope Innocent VI (1282–1362). d Archaic for ‘magic art’; see Wisdom 17: 7. e De vita solitaria (1352); paragraph extracted from Sade, III, pp. 294–5. f Quoted from Sade, III, p. 266. g Giovanni Visconti, Lord of Milan (1290–1354). His nephew, Galeazzo II (d. 1378), referred to below, was also Petrarch’s protector. b

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Louis of Baviere, emperor of Germany, had been deposed by pope John XXII., and each succeeding pontiff confirmed the interdict. Clement VI. raised Charles, the son of John of Luxembourg, king of Bohemia, to the imperial throne, imposing on him, at the same time, rigorous and disgraceful conditions with regard to his rights over Italy, forcing him into an engagement never to pass a single night at Rome, but enter it merely for the ceremony of his coronation.a Charles and his father had visited Avignon in the year 1346, to arrange the / stipulations.* Some time after, Petrarch wrote a long and eloquent letter to the emperor, imploring him to enter Italy, and to deliver it from the disasters that oppressed it.b It is singular that two such lovers of their country, as Dante and Petrarch, should both have invited German emperors to take possession of it: but the emperor was then the representative of the sovereigns of the Western empire, and they believed that, crowned and reigning at Rome, that city would again become the capital of the world, and Germany sink into a mere province. For though Petrarch earnestly implores the emperor to enter Italy, various imprecations against the Germans are scattered through his poems.c Charles did not answer the poet’s letter immediately, but he entertained a profound admiration for him; and when he entered Italy, being at Mantua, he sent one of his esquires to Milan, to invite Petrarch to come to him. The poet immediately obeyed, though frost and snow rendered his journey slow and difficult. The emperor received him with the greatest kindness and distinction. Petrarch used the utmost freedom of speech in his exhortations to the emperor to deliver Italy. He made him a present of a collection of antique medals, among which was an admirable one of Augustus, saying to him, “These heroes ought to serve you as examples. The medals are dear to me: I would not part with them to any one but * The Abbé de Sade attributes to this prince the kiss bestowed on Laura at a ball, by one of royal blood. The prince with his hand beckoned aside every other elder or more noble lady, and kissed her on her brow and eyelids. Petrarch, who was present, was filled at once with envy and triumph (Sonnet cci.).d If her beauty, and not the celebrity conferred on her by the poet, was the occasion of this compliment, it is difficult not to believe that it was bestowed before she had lost the bloom of youth, especially as it is mentioned that the prince put aside all ladies older than herself. a Louis of Bavaria (c. 1287–1347), Emperor of Germany (1314–47) and, as Louis IV, Holy Roman Emperor 1328–47; he was a supporter of Castruccio Castracani (see Valperga). In the dual election of 1314, Louis and Frederick of Austria (1286–1330) both claimed to have been elected Emperor. Pope John XXII (1244–1334) preferred Frederick but in 1322 Louis defeated Frederick in battle. John XXII excommunicated Louis, who set up an anti-pope, Nicholas V, and eventually became Emperor. Papal animosity toward Louis IV continued. In 1346 Clement VI declared Charles of Luxemburg (1316–78) to be the Emperor Charles IV. b Epistolae familiares, XIX. 3; given in Sade, III, p. 377. c Referring particularly to phrases in the canzone ‘Italia mia, ben che’l parlar sia indarno’: ‘la tedesca rabbia’ (Teutonic rage) and ‘bavarico inganno’ (Bavarian treachery) (Rime Sparse, 128, ll. 35, 66). d Rime Sparse, 238, ‘Real natura, angelico intelletto’ (A royal nature, an angelic intellect). Modern scholars are not agreed that this refers to Charles.

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you. I know the lives and acts of the great men whom they represent; this knowledge is not enough for you; you ought to imitate them.”a Petrarch’s admonitions were vain. After a progress through Italy, and the ceremony of his coronation at Rome; after having made a mere traffic of his power and prerogatives, Charles hastened to repass the Alps, / and returned to Germany, as a contemporary historian observes, “with a full purse, but shorn of honour.”b After the death of the bishop-lord Giovanni Visconti, Petrarch continued to reside at Milan under the protection of his nephew Galeazzo: he was sent by him at one time to Venice to negotiate a peace, and on another to Prague, on an embassy to the emperor Charles. Afterwards he was sent to Paris to congratulate king John on his return from his imprisonment in England: he was shocked, in travelling through France, to find that it had been laid waste by fire and sword.c The invasion of the English had reduced the whole land to a frightful state of solitude; the fields were desolate, and no house was left standing, except such as were fortified. Paris presented a yet more painful spectacle; grass grew in the deserted streets; the sounds of gaiety and the silence of learning were exchanged for the tumult of soldiery and the fabrication of arms. Petrarch was well received, especially by the dauphin, Charles, who cultivated letters and loved literary men.d Here, as in every other court he visited, the poet was solicited to remain; but he found the barbarism of Paris little congenial to his habits, and he hastened back to Italy. When not employed on public affairs, Petrarch lived a life of peace and retirement at Milan. In the summer, he inhabited a country-house three miles from the city, near the Garignano, to which he gave the name of Linterno: when in the city, he dwelt in a sequestered quarter near the church of St. Ambrose.e “My life,” he says in a letter to the friend of his childhood, Guido Settimo, “has been uniform ever since age tamed the fervour of youth, and extinguished that fatal passion which so long tormented me; and though I often change place, my mode of spending my time is the same in all. Remember my former occupations, and you will know what my present ones are. It seems to me that you ought not only to know my acts, but even my dreams. a

From Sade, III, p. 381. Quotation not traced; it pithily sums up Sismondi’s account of the hatred aroused by Charles’s greed among his Italian subjects (Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, ch. xliii; chapter numbers given here and elsewhere in this volume match those in multi-volume unabridged editions with continuous numbering). c Jean II ‘Le Bon’, King of France (1319–64), captured by the Edward the Black Prince (1330–76) at the Battle of Poitiers (1356) during the Hundred Years War. Ransomed (1361) in exchange for several noble hostages, Jean surrendered himself again (1364), on a point of honour, when one of these hostages escaped. Mary Shelley witnessed similar scenes of wardevastation in France in 1814 (see ‘History of a Six Weeks’ Tour’, MWSN, vol. 8, pp. 21–2). d Charles (1338–80) was regent during the imprisonment of his father King Jean II. e Paragraph to this point taken from Sade, III, pp. 522–3. b

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“Like a weary traveller, I quicken my steps as I / proceed. I read and write day and night, one occupation relieving another. This is all my amusement and employment: my eyes are worn out with reading, my fingers weary with holding the pen. My health is so good and robust that I scarcely feel the advance of years. My feelings are as warm as in my youth, but I control their vivacity, so that my repose is seldom disturbed by them. One thing only is the source of disquietude: I am esteemed more than I deserve, so that a vast concourse of people come to see me. Not only am I honoured and loved by the prince of this city and his court, but the whole population pays me respect: yet, living in a distant quarter of the city, the visits I receive are infrequent, and I am often left in solitude. I am unchanged in my habits as to sleep and food. I remain in bed only to sleep, for slumber appears to me to resemble death, and my bed the grave, which renders it hateful. The moment I awake I hurry to my library. Solitude and quiet are dear to me; yet I appear talkative to my friends, and make up for the silence of a year by the conversation of a day. My income is increased, I confess, but my expenditure increases with it. You know me, and that I am never richer nor poorer: the more I have, the less I desire, and abundance renders me moderate: gold passes through my fingers, but never sticks to them.”a The literary work on which his busy leisure was employed, was “De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ,”b which he dedicated to Azzo di Coreggio. Azzo, who had formerly protected him, had been driven into exile, and, alternately a prisoner and an outcast, was reduced to a state of the heaviest adversity. Petrarch never ceased to treat him with respect; and for his comfort and consolation composed this treatise, of how to bring a remedy to the evils consequent on both prosperous and adverse fortune. Honoured by all men, beloved by his friends, with whom he kept up a constant and affectionate correspondence, courted by monarchs, and refusing the offers / made him of the highest preferment in the church, Petrarch spent his latter years in peace and independence. His chief source of care was derived from his son. The youth was at first modest and docile, but his disinclination to literature was so great, that he abhorred the very sight of books. As he grew older he became rebellious, and a separation ensued between him and his father, soon made up again on the submission of the young man and his promises of amendment. The poet’s tranquillity was at last broken in upon by the wars of the Visconti, and the plague, which again ravaged Italy. It had spared Milan by a singular exemption in the year 1348, but during its second visitation it was more fatal to this city than to any other. Petrarch had to mourn the loss of many friends; and his son, who died at this time, was probably one of its victims. Petrarch records his death in his Virgil, in these words: – “He who was born for my trouble and sorrow, who while he lived was the cause of heavy care, and who dying, inflicted on me a painful wound,

12.

a

Alluded to in Sade, III, pp. 527–9, but Mary Shelley's source is Epistolae familiares, XXIII.

b

Upon the Remedies for Prosperity and Adversity (1366).

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having enjoyed but few happy days in the course of his life, died A . D . 1361, at the age of twenty-five.”*a These combined causes induced Petrarch to take up his abode at Padua, of whose cathedral he was a canon. During the remainder of his life he usually spent the period of Lent there, and the summer at Pavia; which, belonging to Galeazzo Visconti, he visited as his guest. A great portion of his time also was passed at Venice: he had made the republic a present of his library, and a palace was decreed to him for its reception, in which he often resided. Andrea Dando was dead; his heart had been broken by the reverses which the republic suffered in its struggle with Genoa. Marino Faliero, who succeeded to him, had already met his fate; but the new doge, Lorenzo Celsi, was Petrarch’s warm friend.b During this year he gave his daughter Francesca, who was scarcely twenty years of age, in marriage to Francesco Brossano, a Milanese gentleman. She was / gentle and modest, attached to her duties, and averse to the pleasures of general society: in person she resembled her father to a singular degree. Her husband had a pleasing exterior; his physiognomy was remarkably placid, his conversation was unassuming, and his manners mild and obliging. Petrarch was much attached to his son-in-law: the new married pair inhabited his house at Venice, and the domestic union was never disturbed to the end of his life. One of his principal friends at this period was Boccaccio. Boccaccio, in the earnestness of his admiration and the singleness of his heart, sent him a copy of Dante, transcribed by his own hand, with a letter inviting him to study a poet whose works he neglected and depreciated. Petrarch, in answer, endeavoured to exculpate himself from the charge of envying or despising the father of Italian poetry. But his very excuses betray a latent feeling of irritation; and he asks, how he could be supposed to envy a man whose highest flights were in the vulgar tongue, while such of his own poems as were composed in that language he regarded as mere pastime. The poetry of Dante and Petrarch is essentially different. There is more refinement in Petrarch, and more elegance of versification, but scarcely more grace of expression. The force, beauty, and truth, with which Dante describes the objects of nature, and the sympathetic feeling that vivifies his touches of human passion, is of a different style from the outpouring of sentiment, and earnest dwelling on the writer’s own emotions, which form the soul of Petrarch’s verses. The characters of the poets were also in contrast.† Dante was * Ugo Foscolo. † Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo. [pp. 163–208] a Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, pp. 148–9 and n.; Mary Shelley again disregards Foscolo’s translation and more faithfully retranslates afresh from the original Latin given in Foscolo’s footnote. b Venetian Doges Marino Faliero (rgn. 1354–5) and Lorenzo Celsi (rgn. 1361–5). The short reign of the former is the subject of Byron’s Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice (1821). The contraction of ‘Dandolo’ to ‘Dando’ is probably an error.

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a proud, high-spirited, unyielding man: his haughty soul bent itself to God and the sense of virtue only; he loved deeply, but it was as a poet and a boy; and his afterlife, spent in adversity, is tinged only with sombre colours. He possessed the essentials of a hero. Petrarch was amiable and conciliating: he was incapable of / venality or baseness; on the contrary, his disposition was frank, independent, and generous; but he was vain even to weakness; and there was a touch of almost feminine softness in his nature, which was even accompanied by physical timidity of temper. His ardent affections made him, to a degree, fear his friends; he was versatile rather than vigorous in his conceptions; and it was easier for him to plan new works, than to execute one begun, and to persevere to the end. He wrote for the learned in Latin; he was averse to communicate with the ignorant in Italian verse, yet he never made Laura the subject of poetry except in his native tongue. Even to the last he wrote of her; and one of his latest productions, chiefly in her honour, were the “Triumphs.” One of these, “The Triumph of Death,” is among the most perfect and beautiful of his productions.a His description of Laura’s death; the assemblage of her friends who came to witness her last moments, and asked what would become of them when she was gone; her own calmness and resignation; her life fading as a flame that consumes itself away, not that is violently extinguished; her countenance fair, not pale; her attitude, reposing like one fatigued, a sweet sleep closing her beautiful eyes; all is told with touching simplicity and grace. The second part relates the imagined visit of her spirit to the pillow of her bereaved lover on the night of her death. She approached him, and, sighing, gave him her hand: delight sprung up in his heart at taking the desired hand in his. “Recognise her,” she said, “who abstracted you from the beaten path when your young heart first opened itself to her.” Then, with a thoughtful and composed mien, she sat, and made him sit on a bank shaded by a laurel and a beech. “How should I fail to know my sweet deity!” replied the poet, weeping, and doubtful whether he spoke to one alive or dead. She comforted and exhorted him to give up those mundane thoughts which made death a pain. “To the good,” she said, “death is a delivery from a dark prison. I had approached / near the last moment; the flesh was weak, but my spirit ready, when I heard a low sad voice saying, ‘O miserable is he who counts the days; and one appears to endure a thousand years – and who lives in vain – who wanders over earth and sea, thinking only of her – speaking only of her!’ Then,” continues Laura, “I turned my languid eyes, and saw the spirit who had impelled me and checked you; I recognised her aspect; for in my younger days, when I was dearest to you, she made life bitter, and death, which is seldom pleasant to mortals, sweet; so that at that sad moment I was happy, except for the compassion I felt for you.” – “Ah! lady,” said the poet, “tell me, I beseech you, did love never inspire you with a wish to pity my sufferings, without detracting from your own virtuous resolves? For your sweet anger and gentle indignation, and the soft peace written in your a

Il Trionfo della morte (1348).

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eyes, held my soul in doubt for many years.” A smile brightened the lady’s countenance as she hastily replied, “My heart never was, nor can be, divided from yours; but I tempered your fire with my coldness, for there was no other way of saving our young names from slander, – nor is a mother less kind because she is severe. Sometimes I said, ‘He rather burns than loves, and I must watch;’ but she watches ill who fears or desires. You saw my outward mien, but did not discern the inward thought. Often anger was painted on my countenance, while love warmed my heart; – but reason was never in me conquered by feeling. Then, when I saw you subdued by grief, I turned my eyes tenderly on you, and saved your life, and our honour. These were my arts, my deceits, my kind or disdainful treatment; and thus, either sad or gay, I have led you to the end, and rejoice, though weary.” – “Lady,” replied the poet, “this were reward for all my devotion, could I believe you.” – “Never will I say whether you pleased my eyes in life,” answered his visitant; “but the chains which your heart wore pleased me, as well as the name which, far and near, you have conferred on me. Your love needed moderation only; our / mutual affection might be equal; but you displayed yours, I concealed mine. You were hoarse with demanding pity, while I continued silent, – for shame or fear made much suffering appear slight in my eyes. Grief is not decreased by silence, nor is it augmented by complaints; yet every veil was riven when alone I listened to you singing, ‘Dir più non osa il nostro amore.’a My heart was with you, while my eyes were bent to earth. But you do not perceive,” she continued, “how the hours fly, and that dawn is, from her golden bed, bringing back day to mortals. We must part – alas! If you would say more, speak briefly.” – “I would know, lady,” said the poet, “whether I shall soon follow you, or tarry long behind.” She, already moving away, replied, “In my belief, you will remain on earth without me many years.”b Thus fondly, in age, and after the many years which Laura had prophesied had gone over his head, Petrarch dwelt on the slight variations and events that checkered the history of his love. It may be remarked, also, that he grew to hold in slight esteem his Latin poetry; he could never be prevailed upon to communicate his “Africa,” and begged that after his death it might be destroyed. To the last he interested himself deeply in the political state of his country. He exceedingly exulted when, on the death of Innocent VI., pope Urban V.c removed his court to Rome. At the same time that he refused the reiterated offer of the place of apostolic secretary, he asked his friends to solicit church-preferment for him – he cared not what, so that it did not demand the sacrifice of his liberty, nor include the responsibility attendant on the care of souls. It would seem that his income had become diminished at this time, for he often said that it was not in old age that he should seek to increase his means; doubtless his expenses increased on his daughter’s account, and he had given up several of his a b c

‘My love dares speak no more’. An accurate summary of most of The Triumph of Death, parts I and II. Guillaume de Grimoard, Pope Urban V (1310–70).

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canonicates to his friends. He was a generous man, and had many dependents always / about him; so that it is no wonder that he wished not to find his capacity of benefiting others inconveniently straitened. Boccaccio became warmly attached to Petrarch; at one time he spent the three summer months of June, July, and August, with him at Venice, in company with a Greek named Leonzio Pilato – a singular man, of a sombre, acid, and irritable disposition, but valuable to the friends as an expounder of the Greek language.a Pilato left them to return to Constantinople; but his restless gloomy spirit quickly prompted him to wish to revisit Italy. He wrote Petrarch a letter, “as long and dirty,” says the poet, “as his own hair and beard. This Greek,” he continues, in a letter to Boccaccio, “would be useful to us in our studies, were he not an absolute savage; but I will never invite him here again. Let him go, if he will, with his mantle and ferocious manners, and inhabit the labyrinth of Crete, in which he has already spent many years.”b This severity was tempered afterwards, when he heard of the death of Pilato, who was struck by lightning during a storm on board ship, while returning by sea to Italy. “This unhappy man,” writes Petrarch, “died as he lived, miserably. I do not think he ever enjoyed a tranquil hour: I cannot imagine how the spirit of poetry contrived to enter his tempestuous soul.”c When Urban V. arrived at Rome, Petrarch wrote him a long letter, expressive of the transport he felt on this auspicious event. He praised his courage in having vanquished every obstacle; adding, “Permit me to praise you; I shall not be suspected of flattery, for I ask nothing except your benediction.”d The pope replied to this letter by an eulogium on its eloquence; declaring, at the same time, that he had the greatest desire to see and be of service to him. But old age had advanced on Petrarch. He had for several years suffered, each autumn, the attacks of a tertian fever, probably the effect of the climate of Lombardy, where that malady is prevalent; and this tended rapidly to diminish his strength. When Urban V. wrote / to him with his own hand to reproach him for not having come to Rome, and urging his instant journey, his letter found Petrarch at Padua, recovering slowly from an attack of this kind. He was unable to mount a horse, and was obliged to defer obeying the mandate. Somewhat recovered during the following winter, he prepared for his journey, making his will, which he wrote with his own hand. He then set out, but got no further than Ferrara; he there fell into a sort of swoon, in which he continued for thirty hours without giving any sign of life. The most violent remedies were administered, and he felt them no more than a marble statue. The report went abroad that he was dead, and the city was filled with mourning and lamentation. As soon as he was somewhat recovered, he would have proceeded on his journey, notwithstanding the representations of the physicians, who declared that he would not arrive at a

A Calabrian Greek scholar and a friend of Giovanni Boccaccio. Conflating Epistolae seniles, III. 5 and VI. 1, both quoted in Sade, III, pp. 671–2. c Epistolae seniles, VI. 1; from Sade, III, p. 672. d Epistolae seniles, IX. 1; from Sade, III, p. 712; the pope’s reply is given in Sade, III, p. 714. b

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1363. Ætat. 59. 1365. Ætat. 61.

1367. Ætat. 63.

1369. Ætat. 65.

April 4. 1570. Ætat. 66.

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May 7. 1371. Ætat. 67.

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Rome alive: but he was too weak to get on horseback; so he was carried back to Padua in a gondola, and was received, on his unexpected arrival, with the liveliest demonstrations of joy, by Francesco da Carrara, the lord of the town, and by its inhabitants. For the sake of tranquillity, and to recover his health, he sought a house in the country, and established himself at Arquà, a village situated north of Padua, among the Euganean hills, not far from the ancient and picturesque town of Este. The country around, presenting the vast plains of Lombardy in prospect, and the dells and acclivities of the hills in the immediate vicinity, is charming beyond description. There is a luxuriance of vegetation, a richness of produce, which belongs to Italy, while the climate affords a perpetual spring. Petrarch built a small but agreeable house at the end of the village, surrounded by vineyards and gardens.a He busied himself in this retreat by finishing a work begun three years before, which he had better have left wholly undone. It was founded on a curious incident, of which he has preserved the knowledge, and which otherwise would have sunk into oblivion. There were / a set of young men at Venice, disciples of Aristotle, or rather of his Arabian translator, Averroes,b who set up his philosophy as the law of the world, who despised the Christian religion, and turned the apostles and fathers of the church into ridicule: there was an open war of opinion between these men and the pious Petrarch. Four among them, in the presumption and vivacity of youth, instituted a kind of mock tribunal, at which they tried the merits of their amiable and learned countryman; and pronounced the sentence, that “Petrarch was a good sort of a man, but exceedingly ignorant.” He relates this incident in his treatise, “On my own Ignorance and that of others,” which he commences by pretending to be satisfied with the decision. “Be it so,” he says, “I am content; let my judges be wise, while I am virtuous!” and then he goes on to prove the fallacy of their judgment by a great display of erudition.c He continued to get weaker, and his illnesses were violent, though transient. On one occasion he was attacked by a fever, and the physician sent to him by Francesco da Carrara, declared that he could not survive the night. The next morning he was found, apparently well, risen from his bed and occupied by his books. “This,” he says, “has happened to me ten times in the course of ten years.”d The vital powers were thus exhausted, and it was not likely that he could live to extreme age. a A description deriving from personal recollection of the Shelleys’ sojourn at Este in the autumn of 1818, shortly after the death, from fever, of their baby daughter Clara. Mary Shelley’s earlier remark on the prevalence of fever in northern Italy may have a personal dimension too. Petrarch’s house at Arquà still stands. b Abul-Waleed Muhammad ibn Rushd, known as Averroes (1128–1198), who translated Aristotle’s De Anima in 1172. c His critics were reputedly Venetian scholars who disdained his traditional Platonist views; referring throughout to De sui ipsius et multorum ignorantia (1370); from Sade, III, p. 756. d Epistolae seniles, XVI. 16; from Sade, III, p. 777.

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“You ask me how I am,” he writes to a friend: “I am tranquil, and liberated from the passions of youth. I enjoyed health for a long time – during the last two years I am grown infirm. My life has been declared to be in imminent danger, yet I am still alive. I am at present at Padua, fulfilling my duties as canon. I have quitted Venice, and rejoice to have done so, on account of the war between the republic and the lord of this city. In Venice I should have been suspected; here I am beloved. I pass a great part of my time in the country, which I always prefer to town. I read, / I write, I think. I neither hate nor envy any man. During the early season of youth, I despised every one except myself – in maturer years I despised myself only – in my old age I despise almost all – and myself more than any. I fear only those whom I love, and my desires are limited to the ending my life well. I try to avoid my numerous visiters, and have a small agreeable house among the Euganean hills, where I hope to pass the rest of my days in peace – with the absent or the dead, perpetually in my thoughts. I have been invited by the pope, the emperor, and the king of France, who have often and earnestly solicited me to take up my abode at their several courts; but I have constantly refused, preferring my liberty before all things.”a It is a singular circumstance that one of the last acts of Petrarch was, to read the “Decameron.” Notwithstanding his intimate friendship with the author during twenty years, Boccaccio’s modesty prevented his speaking of the work, and it fell into Petrarch’s hands by chance. “I have not had time,” he writes to his friend, “to read the whole, so that I am not a fair judge; but it has pleased me exceedingly. Its great freedom is sufficiently excused by the age at which you wrote it, the lightness of the subject, and of the readers for whom it was destined. With many gay and laughable things, are mingled many that are serious and pious. I have read principally at the beginning and end. Your description of the state of our country during the plague, appears to me very true and very pathetic. The tale at the conclusion made so lively an impression on me, that I committed it to memory, that I might sometimes relate it to my friends.” This is the story of Griselda. Petrarch translated it into Latin for the sake of those who did not understand Italian, and often read it and had it read to him.b He relates, that frequently the friend who read it broke off, interrupted by tears. Among others to whom he communicated this favourite tale was our English poet Chaucer, who in his prologue to the story of Griselda says that he / “Learned it at Padowe of a worthy clerke, Francis Petrarch.”

a This and the quotation in the next paragraph are from Epistolae seniles, I. 13 and XVI. 1– 2; from Sade, III, pp. 785–6 and 796, respectively. b The translation was forwarded to Boccaccio in a letter dated April 1373 (Epistolae seniles, XVII. 2).

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Padua, Jan. 5. 1372. Ætat. 68.

June 8. 1374, Ætat. 70.

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Chaucer had been sent ambassador to Genoa just at this time.a The letter to Boccaccio accompanying the Latin translation of the story was probably the last that Petrarch ever wrote. The life of this great and good man had nearly arrived at its conclusion. On the morning of the 19th of July, 1374, he was found by his attendants in his library, his head resting on a book. As he often passed whole hours and even days in this attitude, it at first excited no peculiar attention; but the immovability of his posture at length grew alarming, and on inspection it was found that he was no more. The intelligence of his death spread through Arquà, the Euganean hills, and Padua, and occasioned general consternation: people flocked from far and near to attend his funeral. Francesco da Carrara, with all the nobility of the city of Padua, was present. The bishop, with the chapter and clergy, performed the ceremony. The funeral oration was pronounced by Bonaventura da Peraga, of the order of the hermits of St. Augustin.b The body was first interred in a chapel of the church at Arquà, dedicated to the Virgin, which Petrarch had himself built. A short time after, his son-in-law, Francesco Brossano, erected a marble monument opposite the church, and caused the body to be transferred to it; inscribing on the tomb four bad Latin verses, which it is said that Petrarch himself composed, ordering that no epitaph of greater pretension should record his death. Petrarch directed in his will that none should weep his death. “Tears,” he says, “are useless to the dead, and they injure the living;” he requested only that alms should be given to the poor, that they might pray for his soul. He continues, “Let them do what they will with my body; it imports nothing to me.”c He left Francesco Brossano his heir, and begs him, as his beloved son, to divide the money he should find into two parts; to keep one himself, and to give the other to the person / he has mentioned to him. This is said to mean his daughter. He left several legacies to hospitals and religious houses. He bequeathed his good lute to Thomas Barbari, wherewith to sing the praises of God;d and to Boccaccio he left fifty golden florins, to buy a robe lined with fur, for his winter studies; apologising at the same time for leaving so trifling a sum to so great a man. This is a brief and imperfect sketch of Petrarch’s life – drawn from the ample materials which his Latin prose works afford, and the careful researches of various biographers, particularly of the Abbé de Sade, who ascertained, by infinite labour and perseverance, several doubtful facts concerning the persons with whom the a Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1343–1400), Canterbury Tales (c. 1386), adapted from ‘The Clerke’s Prologue’, XXXVI. 27. ll. 31–2, with omissions. Griselda is a humble peasant made the wife of a ‘tyrant of Lombardy’. He tests her obedience to the limit, and she endures with hardly a murmur. Petrarch interpreted the story as an allegory of God’s testing of the human soul. The tradition that Chaucer met Petrarch in Italy is not now generally credited. b Paragraph to this point taken from Sade, III, p. 799. Cardinal Bonaventura da Peraga (1332–89) was a renowned theologian. c Translated from Petrarch’s Latin will and testament; quoted in Sade, III, pp. 802–3; see also Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch, p. 91. d Recorded in Petrarch’s will as ‘Magistro Thomoe Bombasio de Ferrara’.

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poet’s life is chiefly connected. Much more might be said of one whose history is pregnant with profound and various interest. It will be enough if these pages contain a faithful portrait, and impress the reader with a just sense, of his honest worth, his admirable genius, his high-toned feelings, and the many virtues that adorned his long career. /

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BOCCACCIO.

1313.

THE family of Giovanni Boccaccio derived itself originally from the Ardovini and Bertaldi, of the castle of Certaldo, a fortress of Val d’Elsa, ten miles distant from Florence. His progenitors migrated to that town, and became citizens of the republic. His father’s name was Boccaccio di Chellino, derived from that of his father Michele, diminished to Michellino or Chellino; such, as in the Highlands of Scotland and other places in the infancy of society, was the mode by which the Italians formed their names; with the exception of a few, who retained the appellation of some illustrious ancestor. The son of Boccaccio was named Giovanni, and he always designated himself at full length, as Giovanni di Boccaccio da Certaldo.a Little is known of the early life of Boccaccio, except the slender and vague details which he has interspersed in his works. His father was a merchant; he was a man in good repute, and had filled several offices under the Florentine government. His commercial speculations caused him to make frequent journeys, and he lived at one time for some years at Paris. Boccaccio was most probably born in that city. His mother was a French girl of highly respectable family, though not noble. It has been disputed whether in the sequel Boccaccio di Chellino married her; but it seems likely that she died soon after the birth of her son, and never became his wife. It is certain that Giovanni was illegitimate; as he was obliged to obtain a bull to legitimise himself, when late in life he entered the ecclesiastical profession. Boccaccio was born in the year 1313, and at the age of seven accompanied his father to Florence. He tells us / of himself that he gave early tokens of his future inventive and romantic talents. When seven years old a desire of inventing fictions seized him, and he even then fabricated tales, childish and inartificial it is true, though he had never heard any stories or fables, nor frequented the society of literary men; and though he was scarcely acquainted with the first elements of letters.*b His father had, however, plans with regard to him wholly at variance with these tastes. For a short time he gave him Giovanni da Strada, father of the * Genealogia Deorum. a

Extracted from Ginguené, III, ch. xv, pp. 2–3, and, less directly, from Baldelli, appendix 2. De Genealogiis deorum gentilium (On the History of the Gods of the Gentiles) (1373). Ginguené, III, ch. xv, p. 3 also draws on this account. b

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-3

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poet Zenobio, for an instructor in the rudiments of learning, and then placed him under the charge of a merchant, from whom he was to learn arithmetic, and to be initiated in other parts of knowledge appertaining to commerce. In this way, to use his own words, he lost six valuable and irrecoverable years. Some friends then assured his father that he was better fitted for literature than trade, and his parent yielded so far to these remonstrances, as to permit him to enter on the study of the canonical law, placing him under a celebrated professor. It is very uncertain in what country he resided during this time. He travelled a good deal, and we have evidence of his visiting Ravenna, Naples, and Paris, both while he was with his mercantile instructor, and afterwards. It has been conjectured that at the former place he, as a child, knew Dante, who discovered and cherished his infant talents. But this idea rests on a very slender foundation, arising from Boccaccio speaking of him as his guide from whom he derived all good; and Petrarch, alluding to him in a letter to Boccaccio, as “he who was in your youth the first leader, the first torch that led you to study.”a Dante died in 1321, when Boccaccio was only eight years old; it seems probable, therefore, that Boccaccio looked on Dante as his master and guide from the reasons that made Dante give those names to Virgil; and the works of the Italian poet formed the torch that lighted his countryman in his search after knowledge. Another discussion / has arisen concerning who his master of canonical law was; it is known that he passed much time in Paris, and was familiar with the language, manners, and customs of the French; and as he was intimate with Dionisio Robertis, the friend of Petrarch, it is supposed that he studied under him.* It is certain, from his own words, that he was at that time at a distance from home, and that his father, discontented with the career he was pursuing, vexed him with reproachful letters. It would seem that Boccaccio di Chellino was a penurious and ill-tempered man. The project of making him a lawyer did not succeed better than the former one. The imaginative youth was disgusted with the hard dry study; nor could the counsels of his preceptor, nor the continual admonitions of his parent, nor the reproaches of his friends, induce him to pursue his new career with any industry. Displeased by the little progress he made, his father put an end to the experiment, and bringing him back to his commercial pursuits, sent him to Naples, ordering him there to remain; or, as it would appear, from some allusions in his works, recalled him to his home, which was then in that city; as at one time it is certain Boccaccio lived under the paternal roof at Naples; and it is also known that at a later period he continued there, while his father lived at Florence. Boccaccio describes himself as very happy at this time, associating on equal terms with the young nobles, with whom he practised a system of great reserve, fearing to have his independence infringed upon. But his society was courted, and * Baldelli. [p. 13] a ‘ille, tibi adolescentulo, primus studiorum dux, prima fax fuerit’; quoted in Ginguené, III, ch. xv, pp. 4–5, n. 2.

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1323. Ætat. 10. 1329. Ætat. 16.

1333. Ætat. 20.

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his disposition and manners were formed by a familiar intercourse with the licentious but refined nobility of king Robert’s court. Yet he had better thoughts and more worthy talents dormant in his heart, which only required a slight spark to kindle into an inextinguishable flame. One day, by chance, he visited the tomb of Virgil.*a The tomb of the Mantuan poet is situated on the height / of Pausilippo: it consists of a small structure shaped like a rude hut, but evidently of ancient date. It is overgrown with rich vegetation; the wild aloe and prickly pear issue from its clefts, and ivy and other parasites climb up its sides and cling thickly to its summit. A dark rock rises immediately before; it is shut in, secluded and tranquil: but at the distance of only a few yards, a short ascent leads to the top of the hill, where the whole of the bay of Naples opens itself to the eye. The exceeding beauty of this scene fills every gazer with delight; the wide-spread sea is adorned by various islands, and by picturesque promontories, which shut in secluded bays; the earth is varied by hills, dells, and lakes, by towering heights and woody ravines; the sky, serenely though darkly blue, imparts matchless hues to the elements beneath. Nature presents her most enchanting aspect; and the voice of human genius breathing from the silent tomb, speaks of the influence of the imagination of man, and of the power which he possesses to communicate his ideas in all their warmth and beauty to his fellow creatures.b Such is the tomb of Virgil now – such was it five hundred years ago, when Boccaccio’s heart glowed with new-born enthusiasm as he gazed upon it. He remained long contemplating the spot, and calling to mind with admiration the fame of him whose ashes reposed in the structure before him: then he began to lament his evil fortune, which obliged him to give up his faculties to baser pursuits. Touched suddenly and deeply by an ardent desire of cultivating poetry, he, on his return home, cast aside all thoughts of business, and eagerly gave himself up to the Muses. And thus, at nearly mature age, impelled by his own wishes only, excited and led by none, his father averse, and always vituperating literature, he, untaught by any, applied to the cultivation of his understanding, devoting himself to the study of such authors as he could comprehend, with the greatest avidity and delight.† His genius and fervour / conjoined to facilitate his progress; and his father, become aware of the inutility of opposition, at length consented that he should follow his own inclinations, and gave him the necessary assistance. Another circumstance occurred not long after to confirm his predilection for literature, and to exalt it in his eyes. He was present when Petrarch was examined * Filippo Villani. † Geneal. Deor. [XIV. iv–v] a In De Origine civitatis Florentinae (Concerning the Origin of the City of Florence); the Florentine chronicler Fillippo Villani (d. 1405) described Boccaccio’s visit in his Vita del Boccaccio, noted in Baldelli, p. 372. b The description derives from Mary Shelley’s memories in Naples in Dec. 1818–Jan. 1819; the Shelleys visited the tomb of Virgil at Pozzuoli, a customary stop on the Grand Tour itinerary (MWSJ, I, p. 243; PBSL, II, p. 76).

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by Robert, king of Naples, previous to his coronation in the Capitol. King Robert was a philosopher, a physician, and an astrologer, but hitherto he had despised poetry, being only acquainted with some Sicilian rhymes, and a few of the compositions of the Troubadours. Petrarch, discovering the ignorance of his royal patron, took an opportunity, at the conclusion of his examination, to deliver an oration in praise of poetry, setting forth its magical beauty and its beneficent influence over the minds and manners of men; and so exalted his art, that the king said, in Boccaccio’s hearing*, that he had never before suspected that the foolish rind of verse enclosed matter so lofty and sublime; and declared that now, in his old age, he would learn to appreciate and understand it, asking Petrarch, as an honour which he coveted, to dedicate his poem of Africa to him. From this time the lover of Laura became the Magnus Apollo of the more youthful Boccaccio:a he named him his guide and preceptor, and became, in process of time, his most intimate friend. The liberal tastes and generous patronage of king Robert drew to his court many of the most illustrious men of the age. Boccaccio was exceedingly desirous, from boyhood, of seeing men celebrated for learning†, and he cultivated a friendship with many of those who lived at Naples. Under the Calabrian Barlaam he studied Greek. Barbato, the chancellor of the king, Dionisio Robertis, bishop of Monopoli, Paolo Perugini, royal librarian, Giovanni Barrili, – these were all his particular friends; conversing with whom, he cultivated / the literary tastes to which he entirely devoted himself. An ardent love of poetry, and an assiduous cultivation of his imagination, made the study of his own nature and its impulses a principal subject of contemplation; and thus softening his heart, opened an easy entrance to the passion of love. He became attached to a lady of his rank at Naples, whom he has celebrated in many of his works. He relates the commencement of this attachment in various and contradictory ways; on which account a celebrated Italian critic has doubted whether the truth is contained in any of his narrations‡; it is more credible that they are founded on fact. The object of his passion, as is proved by a variety of circumstances, and by his own express declaration§, was a natural daughter of Robert king of Naples.b To prevent the injury which would have accrued to her mother’s name, had her * † ‡ §

Geneal. Deor. Ibid. [XIV. 8] Tiraboschi. [V. pt 2, p. 521] Filocopo.c

a Meus Magnus Apollo (My great Apollo), i.e., one’s oracle or authority; De genealogiis deorum, XIV. 22. b Maria (b. ?1314), perhaps the wife of the Count of Acquino; for theories of her identity, see Baldelli, pp. 358–61. Sismondi assumes her identity with Princess Mary (Sismondi, II, ch. i, p. 4). c Usually Il Filocolo (c. 1338); see Baldelli, pp. 23–4, 265.

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parentage been avowed, her royal father caused her to be adopted by a noble of the house of Achino. She was educated with extreme care, and married, when very young, to a Neapolitan noble. They first saw each other at the church of San Lorenzo, on a day of high festival. She was in all the bloom of youth and beauty, dressed with splendour, and surrounded by all that rank and prosperity can impart of brilliancy. The passion was sudden and mutual.* But it is in vain that he endeavours to engage our sympathy. In spite of all the interest which he tries to throw over their attachment, it bears the appearance of a mere intrigue. The lady Mary was a wife, and, in all probability, a mother. Her lover makes her relate, in one of his works†, that she was married to / a noble of equal age; that until she saw Boccaccio, they were happy in each other; her husband adoring her, and she affectionately attached to him. A passion which could disturb such an union appears a phrensy as well as a crime. That the lovers suffered great misery, may serve as a warning, as well as an example, of how such attachments, from their very nature, from the separations, suspicions, and violations of delicacy and truth entailed upon them, must, under the most favorable auspices, be fruitful of solicitude and wretchedness. An adherence to truth is the noblest attribute of human nature. The perpetual infringement which results from a secret intrigue degrades in their own eyes those who practise the falsehood. In the details which Boccaccio has given of his passion, we perceive the violation of the most beautiful of social ties; while deceit is substituted for sincerity, and mystery for frankness. The lover perceived a perpetual lie on the lips of her he loved; and, had his attachment been of an ennobling nature, he would rather have given up its gratification, than have sought it in the humiliation and error of its object. The lady Mary was eminently beautiful. Her hair, of the palest gold, shaded a forehead remarkable for its ample proportion; her brows were black and delicately marked; her eyes bright and expressive; her beautiful mouth was terminated by a small, round, and dimpled chin; her complexion was brilliant, her person well formed and elegant. She excelled in the dance and song, and, above all, in the vivacious, airy spirit of conversation. Her disposition was generous and magnificent. Boccaccio himself was handsome: his good looks were too early injured by plumpness; but, at this time, being only twenty-eight years of age, he was in the pride of life. His eyes were full of vivacity; his features regular; he was peculiarly agreeable and lively in society; his manners were polite and noble; he was proud, * This lady Mary cannot be the princess Mary, an acknowledged natural daughter of king Robert. The latter was beheaded during the troubles at Naples, a year after Boccaccio’s death. The poems of Boccaccio declare that he outlived his lady Mary, Fiammetta, as he called her, many years; and his writings give proof that her royal and illegitimate origin was always preserved a secret. † La Fiammetta.a a

L’Amorosa Fiammetta (Amorous Fiammetta) (c. 1343).

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taking his origin from a republic where equality of rank prevailed; but, frequenting the society of the / Neapolitan nobility, he preserved a dignified independence and courteous reserve, which commanded respect. Hitherto Boccaccio had been collecting materials, by study, for future composition; but he had written nothing. According to his own declaration, his mind had become sluggish and debased through frivolity and indolence, when his love for the lady Mary awoke him to exertion*a, and incited him to pursue that career which has caused his name to be numbered among the illustrious writers of his country. His first work, written at the request of his fair mistress, in the early days of their passion, was the “Filocopo.” The foundation of this tale resembles St. John’sb tales – those of “The Seven Wise Masters,” &c., which were adopted from Arabia, and coloured, in their details, by descriptions of Eastern manners, with which the conquest of Granada by the Moors, and the expeditions of the crusaders, varied the rude chivalry of the North.c A Roman noble and his wife make a pilgrimage to Spain. The husband dies fighting against the Mahometan Felix, king of Marmorina. His wife fell into the hands of the victor, and died at the court of Felix, on giving birth to her daughter Biancafiore, on the very day on which Florio, the son of Felix, was born. The children were educated together. The parentage of Biancafiore was unknown, her parents having died without declaring their names and descent from the Scipios and Cæsars; but, despite her obscure origin, Florio becomes enamoured of his lovely companion; and his father, enraged by this ill-assorted attachment, separates them; and, after cruelly persecuting the unfortunate girl, at last sells her to a merchant, who takes her to Alexandria, where she is bought by a noble, who shuts her up in a tower. Florio wanders into various countries to seek her; they go through a variety of disasters, which end in their happy marriage; and, the birth of Biancafiore being discovered, they are converted / to the Christian faith. The story is long drawn out and very unreadable; though interspersed by traits of genius peculiar to Boccaccio, natural touches of genuine feeling, and charming descriptions. Florio, during his erratic travels in search of Biancafiore, arrives at Naples: the author introduces him into the company of his lady and himself, under the names of Fiammetta and Caleone. Having once engaged in writing, Boccaccio became very diligent: his next work was a poem, entitled the “Teseide,” or the “Thesiad.” The subject is familiar to the English reader, as the “Knight’s Tale” in Chaucer, modernised by Dryden, * Rime. a There are several poems in the Rime answering to this description; probably sonnet 27, described in Baldelli, p. 25, is meant. b Most probably referring to Johannes de Alta Silva (fl. 1184–1212), described by Ginguené as a French monk, though not as a saint. He compiled Dolopathos, or the King and the Seven Wise Men, a collection of tales, many of them Indian in origin. c Sources include Sismondi, II, ch. xi and Ginguené, III, ch. xv, pp. 55–6.

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under the title of “Palamon and Arcite.” Boccaccio was, if not the inventor of the ottava rima, or octave stanza (some Sicilian and French poets are supposed to have preceded him in the use of it), yet the first to render it familiar to the Italians.a It has been duly appreciated by them, and used, as peculiarly adapted to narrative poetry. The ease with which the Italian language lends itself to rhythm and to rhyme, enabled Boccaccio to dress his thoughts in the guise of poetry; but he was, essentially, not a poet. It were too long to enter here into the distinction between the power of the imagination which creates fable and character, and even produces ideal imagery, and the peculiar attributes of poetry, which consists in a greater force and concentration of language, and an ear for the framing poetic numbers. The sublimity, yet delicacy, of Dante, the grace and harmony of Petrarch, are quite unapproached by Boccaccio: nor, indeed, can he compete with even the second and third rate of Italian poets. His style is diffuse and incult, and altogether wanting in the higher graces of poetic diction. Still, there is nature, pathos, and beauty in the narration. The story of the “Thesiad,” if unborrowed, – and there is no previous trace of it, – is worthy of the author of the “Decameron:” it is full of passion and variety. He had the merit, also, of discarding the machinery of dreams and visions, then so much in vogue among his / countrymen, which took from their compositions all reality and truth of feeling – giving us empty personifications, instead of fellow-creatures, formed of flesh and blood. Boccaccio had not long enjoyed the favour of his lady, when he was obliged to return to Florence. His father had lost his wife and children, and recalled his son, to be the companion of his declining years. He separated himself from the lady Mary with infinite regret; a feeling which she so fully shared, that he afterwards wrote a work, entitled “La Fiammetta,” in which she, as the narratress, gives the history of their attachment, and complains bitterly of the misery they suffered during their separation. There is less of redundancy, and more unaffected nature in this work than in his former; and the commencement calls up forcibly the author of the “Decameron,” from the vividness and strength of the language. In one respect, his visit to Florence, at this time, was evidently beneficial: it familiarised him with the pure and elegant language of Tuscany: he does not allude to it; but the barbarous dialect of Naples must have injured his style; and we cannot doubt that he recognised at once, and adopted, the expressive idiom of his native town. The “Decameron” is a model of the Tuscan dialect, if such a name can be given to a tongue differing from the Italian spoken in every other portion of the peninsula, and infinitely superior to all in grace, energy, and conciseness. He found his home, with his father, sufficiently disagreeable.*b The house was gloomy and silent; nor was the sound of gaiety ever heard within its walls. His * Ameto. a Sismondi contains details about Boccaccio’s predecessors in the use of ottava rima (II, ch. i, p. 15). Teseida (c. 1341), later retold abridged by Chaucer in The Canterbury Tales and by John Dryden (1631–1700) in ‘Palamon and Arcite’ (1700); also mentioned in Ginguené, III, ch. xvi, pp. 106–8. b Baldelli, pp. 23–4, 265, citing Il Ninfale d’Ameto (1342) (The Pastoral of Ameto).

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father was far advanced in years, and had grown, if he had not always been, avaricious and discourteous, discontented and reproachful; so that the necessity of seeing him every day, of each evening returning to his melancholy abode, cast a shadow over Boccaccio’s life. “Ah!” / he exclaims, “how happy are the independent, who possess themselves in freedom!”a To add to his dissatisfaction, Florence was suffering under the oppression of Walter de Brienne, duke of Athens;b whom the people had, in a moment of despondency, set over themselves, and who proved a cruel and gloomy tyrant; till, unable to endure any longer his sanguinary despotism, the citizens rose against him, and regained their liberty. Boccaccio’s chief amusement was derived from his pen. He wrote the “Ameto,” a composition of mingled prose and verse, the first of a kind, since adopted by Sannazaro and sir Philip Sidney.c The “Ameto” is a story somewhat resembling “Cymon and Iphigenia,” in which he again introduces himself and his lady, as he informs the reader, bidding those attend who have a clear understanding, and they will find a hidden truth disclosed in his verses. But a more agreeable change was at hand, to relieve him from his painful position. His father married again, and he was permitted to return to Naples. He found great alterations in this city. King Robert was dead. His daughter Jane succeeded to him: her dissentions with her husband produced a violent party spirit among the courtiers, while the pursuit of pleasure was the order of the day. A Court of Love, in imitation of those held in Provence, was instituted, over which the lady Mary presided. The lovers continued fondly attached to each other, though jealousies and trifling quarrels somewhat diversified the otherwise even course of their loves. The lady passed several months each summer at Baiæ, amidst a society given up to amusement, and to the indulgence of the greatest libertinism. From some unknown cause, Boccaccio did not accompany her on these occasions, and he was tormented by a thousand doubts, fearing that the dissolute manners of the court would corrupt her, whom he calls a mirror of chaste love, and injure her faith towards him. During one of these absences he wrote his poem of “Filostrato,” on the subject of / Troilus and Cressida, which he dedicated as a kind of peace-offering to his lady.d He wrote also the “Amorosa Fiammetta,” which is her fancied complaint, while he was at Florence, and the “Amorosa Visione,” or Vision of Love; which is more poetic in its diction than any of his previous works in verse, though it labours under the disadvantage of being an a

Adapted loosely from Ameto: ‘che se in libertà tutto posseide’; following Baldelli, p. 47. Walter de Brienne VI, Duke of Athens (c. 1304–56), who ruled as Lord of Florence from 1342–43. c Referring to the Arcadia of Jacopo Sannazzaro (1456–1530; composed 1504) and the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney (1554–86), published 1590; following Baldelli, p. 51. ‘Cymon and Iphigenia’, also imitated by Dryden, is Day 5 Novella 1 of the Decameron. d Il Filostrato (1341), in ottava rima, is the source of Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde. Mary Shelley here brings out the parallels between Boccaccio and his hero, Troilo. Troilo, the Trojan prince, is unable to prevent the handing over of his true-love to the Greeks and she is unfaithful to him. b

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acrostic; the initial letters of each verse forming a series of sonnets and canzoni, addressed in the same initials to “Madonna Maria.” During the period when the plague desolated the world, Boccaccio occupied himself by writing the “Decameron,” to amuse, it is said, queen Jane and her court. He gives a somewhat different account in the preface. He tells us in it: “From my youth until the present time, I have been inflamed by an aspiring love for one more noble perhaps than befitted my obscure birth; for which passion I was praised even by the more discreet among those who knew of it, and held in high repute; and yet it was the cause to me of much trouble and suffering, – not certainly through the cruelty of the lady I loved, but from the pain I endured when separated from her. During which time I enjoyed so much relief from the agreeable conversation and kind consolations of a friend, that I truly believe, that but for them I had died. But it has pleased him, who decreed that all earthly things should have an end, that my attachment, which no fear, shame, nor advice could lessen, has by course of time so abated, that, while I still love, I am no longer the victim of uncontrollable passion. Yet I still remember the benefits I formerly received from those who sympathised in my pains; and I propose to myself, as a mark of gratitude to them, to afford to others, labouring as I once did, the same relief which was before bestowed upon me. And who will deny that this book belongs rather to women than men. Fearfully and with shame they conceal within their tender hearts that flame which is fiercer when hidden; and who, besides this, are so restrained from the enjoyment of pleasure by the will of those around them, that they / most frequently struggle with their feelings, and revolve divers thoughts, which cannot be all gay, within the little circuit of their chamber, which must occasion heavy grief and melancholy, if unrelieved by conversation. All which things do not happen to men; who, if afflicted, can frequent society – hunt, shoot, ride, and play – and have a thousand modes of amusing themselves. And, therefore, to counterbalance the unequal award of fortune, who gives most to bear to those who are weakest, I intend to relate, for the amusement and refuge of gentle ladies who love, one hundred stories, fables, parables, or histories, or whatever you please to call them, narrated, during the course of ten days, by seven ladies and three cavaliers, who assembled together at a villa during the late pestilence.”a His description of the plague in Florence, in the introduction, is the finest piece of writing that Boccaccio ever composed: it presents a pathetic, eloquent, and vivid picture of the sufferings induced by that remorseless malady. It is a curious fact, that there is every proof that Boccaccio was residing at Naples during the visitation of the plague in 1348; but it required no violent effort of the imagination to paint the disasters of his native city, as Naples itself presented a similar tragedy: nor is there any thing in the description that stamps it as peculiarly belonging to Florence. a

Decameron, Proem.

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The seven young ladies of the tales meet on a Wednesday morning in the church of Santa Maria Novella, and there agree to leave the miserable city, and to betake themselves, with three gentlemen from among their friends, to one of the villas in the environs, and, shutting out all sight and memory of the frightful disasters they had witnessed, to strive, in the enjoyment of innocent pleasures, to escape from danger. – “Nor,” the lady says, who proposed this plan, “can we be said to abandon any one, for it is we who are abandoned; and remember, that our innocent flight is less blamable than the guilty remaining of others.”a The Italians have taken great pains to discover the / exact spots to which the company of the Decameron retreated. They are found not far from Florence.* The father of Boccaccio possessed a small villa in the village of Majano, and his son pleased himself by describing the adjacent country; and in particular, the pleasant uplands and fertile valleys of the hills around Fiesole, which are in the neighbourhood. It is said that Villa Gherardi was the first place to which the ladies betook themselves; and Villa Palmieri is recognised in the description of the sumptuous abode to which they afterwards removed, to escape being disturbed by visiters. In the exquisite description of the narrow valley to which Eliza conducts her companions, and where they bathe, we discern the little plain surrounded by hills, through which the Affrico flows; when, after having divided two hills, and descended from the rocky heights, it collects itself into a gentle stream, under the Claustro della Doccia of Fiesole.b The assembly being gathered together in this delightful spot, among other modes of amusing themselves, they agree that each one should narrate a tale every day; and during the ten days which form the “Decameron,” a hundred tales are thus related. They give some kind of rule to their amusement, by fixing on a subject for each tale; as for instance, on one day each person is to tell a story in which, after much suffering, the disasters of the hero or heroine come to a happy conclusion. In another, the tale is to end unhappily. The stories vary from gay to pathetic, and in the last, Boccaccio is inimitable in delicacy and tenderness of feeling. All the other works of Boccaccio would have fallen into oblivion, had he not written the “Decameron:” they are scarcely read, even though bearing his name; they are heavy and uninteresting; his poetry is not poetry; his prose is longwinded; but the “Decameron” bears the undoubted stamp of genius. His language

* Baldelli. a

Decameron, I. i. § 69. Baldelli (p. xlix) proposed that the story is set in two estates outside Florence, the Villa di Poggio Gherardo and the Villa Palmieri. The ‘narrow valley’ is described at the end of Day 6, Novella 10; see ‘The Italian Novelists’ (vol. 4 of this edn). Some of the description here may derive from views seen by Mary Shelley from the city of Florence in the autumn of 1819, when she was living near the church of Santa Maria Novella. b

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is a “well of Tuscan undefiled,”a whence, as from its purest source, / all future writers have drawn the rules and examples which form the correct and elegant Italian style. It possesses, to an extraordinary degree, the charm of eloquence. It imports little whence he drew the ground-work of his tales; yet, as far as we know, many of them are original, and the stories of Griselda and Cymon, of the pot of Bazil, and the sorrows of Ghismonda, are unborrowed from any other writer. The tenderness, the passion, the enthusiasm, the pathos, and above all, the heartfelt nature of his best tales, raise him to the highest rank of writers of any age or country. His defects were of the age. Boccaccio’s mind was tarnished by the profligacy of the court of Naples.b He mirrors the licentious manners of the people about him in his “Decameron:” it were better for human nature, that neither the reality nor the reflection had ever existed. The faults of the book rendered it obnoxious, especially to the priests, whom he, in common with all the novelists of his time, treats with galling ridicule. Salvanorola preached against it, and so excited the minds of his fellow citizens, that they brought all their copies of the “Decameron,” as well as of, it may be remarked, the blameless poetry of Petrarch and Dante, into the Piazza de’ Signori on the last day of the carnival of 1497, and made a bonfire of them: on which account the earlier editions of these books are very rare. After Salvanorola,c it continued on the list of prohibited books. This occasioned emended editions to be published, – some of which were so altered as scarcely to retain any thing of the original. It was after many years and with great industry, that the “Decameron” was restored. The first entire edition was published through the care of a society of young Florentines, who were ashamed of the disgraceful condition to which this celebrated work was reduced: this was published in 1527, and goes by the name of the “Ventisettana,” or twenty-seventh, and of the “Delphin.” After this, however, only mutilated editions were printed, and even now, as it still continues a prohibited book, any perfect edition / bears on the title-page the name of some protestant town, London or Amsterdam, as the place where it is printed.d To return to the author. During the year of the jubilee Boccaccio returned to Florence, and the lady Mary was spoken of no more, except in a sonnet, written many years after, on the death of Petrarch, which alludes to her death.e He a

‘well of Tuscan undefiled’, adapted from ‘well of English undefiled’ (Spenser, Faerie Queen (1596), IV. ii. 32, where it describes Chaucer); continuing Mary Shelley’s emphasis on the language question raised in the 14th century, most notably expressed in Dante’s De Vulgaria eloquentia, with reference to Baldelli, appendix 3. b cf. Sismondi, II, ch. i, p. 4: ‘It is to the depraved taste [i.e. of the court of Naples] that one must attribute all that is blameable in the Decameron.’ The stories of Ghismonda and of the ‘Pot of Basil’ are found in Day 4. The first is mentioned in Matilda (MWSN, vol. 2). The second was the source of John Keats’s ‘Isabella, or, the Pot of Basil’ (1820); see also ‘The Italian Novelists’. c i.e. Girolamo Savonarola (1452–98), Dominican monk, zealous reformer and instigator of ‘bonfires of the vanities’. d Details on the corrected edition are from Baldelli, pp. 295, 298–9. e Sonnet 126, ‘Or sei salito, caro signor mio’; following Baldelli, p. 194.

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addresses his lost friend as having entered that heavenly kingdom after which he had long aspired, that he might again see Laura, and where his beautiful Fiammetta sat with her before God. Whether the lady died, therefore, before or after his removal to Florence cannot be told; we have his own authority for knowing, that by this time his ardent passion was subdued into calm affection. His father as well as his mother-in-law was dead, and they had left a young son Jacopo, to whom Boccaccio became guardian. His pecuniary resources had been derived through his father from Florence, and it became necessary to take his place in that city. From this time he continued to reside in Tuscany, and to fulfil the duties of a citizen. One of the occurrences that marked his return, was a visit from Petrarch, who passed through Florence on his return from his pilgrimage to Rome, on occasion of the jubilee. They were already in correspondence; and Boccaccio had seen the poet in his glory nine years before at Naples. But now they met for the first time as friends, and that intimacy commenced which lasted till the end of their lives. Boccaccio, on returning to his native city, entered on a busier scene of life from that which he led among the Neapolitan nobles. He was sent almost immediately on various embassies to the Ordelaffi, to Malalesta, and to Polenta, lords of various towns of Romagna, for the purpose of engaging them in a league against the Visconti, who, being lords of the powerful city of Milan, and having lately acquired the signorship of Bologna, were desirous of extending their princely dominions beyond the Apennines. He had soon after the happiness of being the bearer / to Petrarch of the decree of the republic of Florence, which restored his patrimony, and the letters which invited him to fill a professor’s chair in their new university. During this visit they cemented their friendship. Petrarch was then residing at Padua, and his friend remained some weeks in his house. Boccaccio read or copied Petrarch’s works, while the other pursued his ordinary studies; and in the evening they sat in the poet’s garden, which was adorned with the flowers and verdure of spring, and spent hours in delightful conversation. Their hearts were laid bare to each other, they sympathised in their taste for ancient learning, in their love for their country, and in the views they entertained for the welfare of Italy.*a Boccaccio brought back to Florence Petrarch’s expressed intention to visit his native city. But other feelings interposed – probably the poet was averse to mingle too nearly with the violent factions that agitated the republic. He soon after made a journey to Vaucluse, and never again entered Tuscany. Boccaccio was more of a citizen than his friend, and he fulfilled several offices intrusted to him by the government. Florence was at that time a little empire in itself, agitated by tumults, divided by intestine quarrels, and disturbed by wars * Petrarch’s Letters. a

Petrarch, Epistolae seniles, XI. 5–6.

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with the neighbouring states. Scarce a day passed without an event. The citizens were full of energy and fire; volatile and rash, sometimes they acted a cowardly, sometimes a magnanimous part. They were restless and versatile – but ambitious, and full of that quick intuitive genius which, even now, in their fallen state, belongs to them. They were at enmity with the Visconti, who incited against them the hostility of the great company, a band of mercenary troops, the off-pourings of the invasion of France by the English, which had entered Italy, and sold their services to different standards, or made war on their own account for booty only. The peasants of / the Florentine territory had gone out valiantly against them, and afterwards, assisted by the whole forces of the state, they attacked and destroyed these pernicious bandits. Still the Visconti continued powerful and implacable enemies. Boccaccio was sent to Bohemia to invite Louis of Bavaria, Marquis of Brandenburgh, to come to the assistance of Florence and its league. At another time he was despatched to Avignon, on occasion of the entrance of the emperor Charles into Italy, to discover the intentions of the pope with regard to this monarch. These political negotiations could not be carried on by Boccaccio without inspiring him with violent party feelings: he hated the Visconti as tyrants, and as disturbers of the peace of Italy. He heard with pain and indignation that Petrarch had taken up his abode at Milan, under the protection of its archbishop and lord, Giovanni Visconti. He wrote to his friend to express his regret and disapprobation. “I would be silent,” he wrote, “but I cannot; reverence restrains, but indignation impels me to speak. How has Petrarch forgotten his dignity, the conversations which we have held together concerning the state of Italy, his hatred of the archbishop, his love of solitude and independence, so far as to imprison himself at the court of Milan? As easily could I believe that the wolf fled the lamb, and the tiger became the prey of the fawn, as that Petrarch should act against the dictates of his conscience; and that he who called the Visconti a Polyphemus, and a monster of pride, cruelty, and despotism, should place himself under his yoke.a How could Visconti win that which no pontiff, which neither Robert of Naples nor the emperor could obtain? Have you done this because the citizens of your native town have treated you with contempt, and taken back the patrimony which they at one time restored?”*b / * This singular circumstance is not noticed by Petrarch in any of his letters. Did the Florentines act thus to punish him for his journey to Avignon, at the time they had invited him to take up his abode among / them? Yet, on another occasion, the citizens petitioned the pope to give the poet a benefice within their walls, and so induce him to inhabit their city. Perhaps the expression used in Boccaccio’s letter is ironical. a Polyphemus, from Greek myth, a cannibalistic monster in Homer’s Odyssey who attempts to devour Odysseus and his men. b Epistole, V. pp. 542–3; see also Sade, III, p. 674. References for Boccaccio’s letters are to Epistole e lettere, vol. 5 of Tutte le opere di Giovanni Boccaccio, ed. Vittore Branca, 12 vols (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1964). Mary Shelley asked to borrow Boccaccio’s Latin and Italian letters in 1823, but may not be using them here as her primary source.

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Petrarch’s answer was moderate; his habits were peaceful and recluse, and he preferred trusting an absolute prince who was attached to him, with his safety, to confiding to the caprice of a mob. Personal intercourse also had shown him that the man whom he had denounced so bitterly from political animosity, was worthy of private friendship: he was unwilling to enter the very focus of dissention, such as Florence then was, and he sacrificed his public hatred to the gentler feelings of personal friendship and gratitude. “It is not likely,” he says in his answer, “that I should learn servitude in my old age; but if I become dependent, is it not better to submit to one, than, like you, to a whole people of tyrants?” Petrarch was a patriot in an elevated sense of the word: he exerted himself to civilise his country, and to spread abroad the blessings of knowledge; peace was his perpetual cry;a but in the various tyrannies that distracted Italy, he saw the same ambition under different forms; and taking no part with one against the other, but with the general good against them all, he held himself free to select his friends as sympathy and kindness dictated. Boccaccio continued to correct and add to his Decameron, which it is conjectured was published at this time. It spread rapidly through Italy; its popularity astounded even the author, and must have gratified him, though aware of its errors, and tendency to injure the principles of social life. This sentiment increased in after-times, so that he reproached his friend Mainardo de’ Cavalcanti,b a Florentine by birth, but living at the court of the queen of Naples, for having promised his wife and other ladies of his house that they should read the Decameron. He entreats him to revoke this promise for his own sake, and theirs, that their minds might not be contaminated by narrations in which delicacy and even decency were forgotten; “and if not for their / sake,” he continues, “for the sake of my honour. They will, on reading it, think me the most wicked and licentious of men; for who will be near to allege in my excuse that I wrote it while young, and urged to the work by commands not to be disobeyed?”c Worse for the fame of Boccaccio than the blots that slur the beauty of the Decameron, is a work, which it is to be lamented fell from his pen. This was entitled the “Corbaccio.” He fell in love with a beautiful and noble widow of Florence, who treated him with scorn and derision, and he revenged himself by this production, in which he vilifies the whole sex in general, and this lady in particular, in a style that prevents any one of the present day from attempting to read it.d While we lament such gross ill taste, it is agreeable to forget it, and to record and remember the vast benefits which Boccaccio bestowed on mankind, through his ardent and disinterested love of letters, and especially his extraordinary efforts to create and diffuse a knowledge of the Greek language and writers. In this a ‘peace […] cry’ alludes to the last line of ‘Italia mia’: ‘I’vo gridando: Pace, pace, pace.’ (Rime Sparse, 128); preceeding quotation from Epistolae Seniles, VI. 2, taken from Sade, III, p. 674. b Mainardo de’ Cavalcanti (d. 1380), described in Baldelli, pp. 160–1. c Epistolae, XXII, p. 705. d Il Corbaccio (The Old Crow) (1354); Ginguené similarly condemns it (III, ch. 15, pp. 61–3).

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labour he far excelled Petrarch, who possessed a Homer, but was unable to read it. He proved his enthusiasm in the most undeniable manner. He was born poor, even to privation; yet he spent large sums of money in the acquisition of ancient manuscripts: he transcribed many with his own hand. His labours in this way were immense: many volumes of the poets, orators, and historians, were copied by him: among these are mentioned the whole of the works of Tacitus and Livy, Terence and Boetius, with various treatises of Cicero and Varro, besides many of the productions of the fathers.a He made journeys in search of manuscripts, and records one anecdote, which shows how often disappointment must have attended his labours. He visited the celebrated convent of Monte Cassino,b under the idea that he might find some ancient manuscripts, hitherto unknown. He asked for the library, and was taken up a ladder into a loft, exposed to the weather, / where the books were lying on the floor moth-eaten, and covered with damp mould. While he indignantly regarded the materials of learning which lay desolate before him, he was told, to add to his horror, that the monks were in the habit of effacing the writing from their venerable parchments, and of replacing it by scraps from the ritual, for which they found a ready sale among the neighbouring villagers. Nor was his enthusiasm, like Petrarch’s, confined to the ancients. He could not only feel and appreciate the genius of Dante, but exerted himself to inspire others with the admiration with which he was filled. He awoke the Florentines to a just sense of the merits of this sublime poet, and persuaded them to erect a professorship in their university for the explanation of the Divina Commedia. He himself first filled the chair, and wrote a commentary on several of the books, besides a Life of Dante.c This has been usually considered unauthentic, but it is difficult to see on what grounds this judgment rests. He takes the account of Dante’s love of Beatrice from his own work of the Vita Nuova; and in all other particulars of his life the information he gives is slight; but, as far as we are enabled to form an opinion, correct. His genuine enthusiasm for the beauties of his favourite author led him to regret that Petrarch did not sufficiently admire him. He copied for his use the whole of his poem with care and elegance, and sent it to the laureate, with a poetic epistle, in which he besought him to bestow more attention and admiration on their illustrious countryman. Petrarch was bigoted to the notion that any thing written in the vulgar tongue was beneath the regard of a learned man; and received his present with a coldness that penetrates through his assumed praises. a Tacitus (Publius Cornelius Tacitus) (c. 56–120), Livy (Titus Livius) (59 BC–AD 17), Terence (Publius Terentius Afer) (185–159 BC), Boetius, or Boethius (Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius) (c. 480–525/6), Cicero, and Varro (Marcus Terentius Varro) (116–29 BC). By ‘the fathers’ is meant early Christian theologians. b The principal monastery of the Benedictine order, some 80 miles south of Rome. c La Vita di Dante (c. 1364) which draws on Dante’s La Vita Nuova (The New Life) (1290), and Il Commento sopra la Commedia, left unfinished at Boccaccio’s death in 1375 and addressing only the first 17 cantos of Dante’s poem.

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This celebrated manuscript belongs to the Vatican library.a The epistle mentioned is addressed “To Francis Petrarch, illustrious and only poet,” and is subscribed “thy Giovanni da Certaldo.” The manuscript is illuminated, and the arms of Petrarch, consisting of a gold bar in an azure field, / with a star, adorns the head of each canto. There are a few notes of emendation, and the whole is written in a clear and beautiful hand. By a strange oversight, no care has been taken to collate any modern edition of Dante with this celebrated copy. Boccaccio’s endeavours to promote the study of Greek were still more eminent and singular. At a time when literature was just struggling into notice, it was not strange that a foreign tongue should be entirely forgotten. The knowledge of Greek had been slightly spread during the crusades, when the inhabitants of the West frequently visited Constantinople; and afterwards the commercial relations of Venice and Genoa prevented it from being wholly extinguished. But the language thus brought into use was merely colloquial, and was to a great degree superseded by the Lingua Franca.b Petrarch had read a few of the dialogues of Plato with bishop Barlaam, but his knowledge was very slight. To Boccaccio the praise is due of unwearied and successful labour in the cause of Hellenic literature. He had studied, while at Naples, under Barlaam and Paolo Perugino; but his chief efforts had their date from the period of his establishing himself at Florence. Poor as he was, he spared no expense in collecting manuscripts, so that it is suspected that all the Greek books possessed by the Tuscans, and all the knowledge of them diffused through Europe, before the taking of Constantinople, which was extensive, at least in Italy, was derived from the labours, and procured at the expense, of Boccaccio. When he visited Petrarch at Milan, the laureate mentioned to him incidentally, one Leonzio Pilato, a Calabrian, who, having spent almost all his life in Greece, called himself a native of that country. This man possessed a perfect knowledge of the language: Petrarch had met him at Verona, and they read a few passages of Homer together. Boccaccio saw in this a favourable opportunity for facilitating his laudable attempt to make the Greek language a part of the liberal education of his countrymen. Pilato was at Venice: Boccaccio / obtained a decree from the Florentine government for the erection of a Greek professorship in their university, carried it to Venice, and persuaded Pilato to accept the office, and to return with him to Florence, where he lodged him at his own house.* They laboured together to make a Latin translation of Homer, which Boccaccio transcribed with his own hand. The total want of lexicons and * Guignenè. [III, ch. XV, pp. 15–16]c a Identified in Baldelli, p. 135, as the ‘celebrated manuscript’ Vatican 3199, ‘Dante, le poesie, scritto di mano del Boccaccio, con un’epistola sua in verso latino, diretta al Petraca’, with a dedication and MS description as given. b A trading language made up of Italian, Turkish, Arabic and Persian, general throughout the Eastern Mediterranean. c The eccentric spelling probably derives from Mary Shelley’s manuscript.

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grammars rendered the undertaking inconceivably arduous; and not least among the difficulties with which Boccaccio had to struggle was the violent, untameable, and morose disposition of his guest. This was the man whom Petrarch supposed could never have smiled, and whose manners were so savage, that he declared that not even his love of Greek could induce him to invite him a second time to his house. His aspect was repulsive, his habits disgusting, his conversation gloomy and unsocial. He was proud and violent, and, detesting the Italians, made no secret of his abhorrence; and, discontented with himself and others, he was always wishing himself elsewhere than where he was. Yet the courteous and amiable Boccaccio, who was accustomed to the refinement of a court, and who loved the elegance and gaiety of society, kept him under his roof for three years, humouring his whims, and studying in his company. Meanwhile his moral habits underwent a beneficial change, owing to the admonitions and example of Petrarch. He visited this excellent man at Milan, and spent several weeks in an intimate intercourse, which was of the greatest service to him to the end of his days. Petrarch, whose soul was purified by the struggles of his passion for a noble-minded woman, taught him that learning was of small avail to its possessor, unless combined with moral principle and virtuous habits. These conversations awoke in Boccaccio’s mind a desire to vanquish his passions. He saw and loved the example of delicacy and honour set him by / his friend; and although he could not all at once succeed in imitating him, he became aware of what his duties were: his conscience awoke, and a love of right was engendered, which enabled him, in process of time, to triumph over the habits and vices by which he had hitherto been enslaved. A singular circumstance achieved the work begun by his inestimable friend. Boccaccio’s vivacious and sensitive mind could with difficulty be brought to act from the mere influence of reason. But the change which a love of moral truth and the dictates of good taste were inefficacious to operate, was brought about by the agency of superstition and fear. One day a Carthusian monk arrived at Certaldo, and demanded an interview with Boccaccio, who received him with kindness, and listened to him with attention. The monk first related, that there had lately lived in his convent at Siena a brother named Pietro Petroni, a man of singular piety, who was accustomed to pray with extreme fervour for the conversion of the wicked. On his death-bed he had called his companion, Giovacchino Ciani, to his bedside, and gave him various messages, to be delivered to a number of persons, to the purport that they should change their lives, and study how to be saved. As soon as the monk was dead, Ciani departed to fulfil his commission, and in the first place came to Certaldo. He then made an exposition of Boccaccio’s errors, and above all of the wide-spreading evils occasioned by his writings, and which were a snare and a temptation to the young, imploring him to turn his talents, which he had hitherto exerted in the service of the spirit of evil, to the glory of God and the saints; telling him that he had been incited by a vain glory, which made him rather seek the 68

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applause of the world than the favour of his Creator; and what reward could he expect, except eternal punishment hereafter? “I do not spare your ears,” continued the zealous Ciani, “and am the less scrupulous, because Petroni speaks through me, who is now / looking down from heaven upon us. Therefore, in the words of that blessed man, I exhort, entreat, and command you to change your sinful course of life, to cast aside your poetical studies, and to become a disciple and inculcator of divine truth. If you refuse to obey my voice, I predict, in his name, a miserable end to your depravity, and a speedier death than you anticipate; so that your profane studies and life shall at once be brought to an end;”a and to add the force of supernatural revelation to his words, he communicated to Boccaccio several events of his life, which he presumed to be only known to himself, but which had been revealed to the monk by Petroni; and then he took his leave, saying, that he was about to fulfil a similar mission to several others, and that among them he should visit Petrarch. Boccaccio was aghast. Superstitious fear shook his soul; he gave credulous ear to what he was told, and resolved to give himself up to sacred studies and penitence. His first impulse was to sell his library and to abandon poetry altogether: meanwhile he communicated the visit he had received, and the effect that it had on him, to his dear friend and monitor, Petrarch. Petrarch had subjected himself, during all his life, to moral discipline; he was a self-seeker and a self-reprover. He was not so easily shaken from the calm tenor of his piety and faith by prognostics and denunciations; he replied to his friend in a letter full of good sense and kind feeling. In those days a letter was a treatise; ancient history was ransacked, and the whole learning of the writer poured out in a torrent. But there are passages which deserve to be quoted. “Falsehood and imposture,” he wrote, “often disguise themselves in the habit of religion; but I will not pronounce any decided opinion till I have seen the messenger. The age of the man, his countenance, eyes, manners, gestures, his voice and words, and, above all, the sum and purport of what he says, will serve to enlighten me. It is announced to you that you have but a short / time to live, and that you must renounce poetry and profane literature. These words at first filled me with consternation and grief. How could I anticipate your death without tears? But, on further reflection, I am led to consider that you look with terror and regret on what ought really to be a matter of rejoicing, for thus you are detached from the world, and brought, as we all ought, to meditate upon death, and to aspire to that height where no worldly temptation intrudes to contaminate the soul. You will learn from these admonitions to control your passions, and to reform your habits

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Pietro Petroni of Siena (d. 1362). The first half of this paragraph follows Baldelli, pp. 155– 7; the quotation, while bearing some resemblance to the Italian version given in Baldelli, is not clearly from this source, and it is likely that Mary Shelley quotes from her own translation of Epistolae Seniles, I. 5.

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of life. But I exhort you not to abandon books and learning, which nauseate and injure the weak only, but which invigorate and comfort the strong-minded.”a After placing these considerations in various and strong lights, Petrarch concludes by saying, “If you continue to adhere to your purpose, and determine not only to relinquish study, but to cast aside the instruments of learning, I shall be delighted to possess your books; and I would rather buy them, than that the library of so great a man should be scattered abroad in the world.* I cannot name a price, not knowing their value nor number. Think of these things, and reflect whether you cannot, as I have long wished, pass the remainder of your days with me. As to your debt to me, I do not know of it, nor understand this foolish scruple of conscience. You owe me nothing except love; nor that, since each day you pay me: except, indeed, that, receiving continually from me, you still continue to owe. You complain of poverty. I will not bring forward the usual consolations, nor allege the examples of illustrious men, for you know them already. I applaud you for having preferred poverty, combined with independence, / to the riches and slavery that were offered you; but I do not praise you for refusing the solicitations of a friend. I am not able to enrich you; if I were I should use neither words nor pen, but speak to you in deeds. But what is sufficient for one is enough for two; one house may surely suffice for those who have but one heart. Your disinclination to come injures me, and it is more injurious if you doubt my sincerity.” Boccaccio was convinced by his friend, and the excess of his penitence and zeal died away; but the reform of his moral character was permanent. He adopted the clerical dress, and endeavoured to suppress those writings which scandalised the pious. He was very poor: his patrimony was slender, and shared with his brother Jacopo, and diminished also by various expenses incurred in his zeal to procure books and advance learning. He had passed a life of freedom, however, and shrunk from servitude. The passage in Petrarch’s letter which refers to this, concerns his having refused the honourable and lucrative, but onerous post, of apostolic secretary; nor was he tempted by Petrarch’s invitation, being unwilling to burthen one whose means were very limited. He, however, fell into a most painful mistake when he accepted the offer of a wealthy patron, which originated in pride, and not affection.

* It is not creditable to the learning of those times to learn, that the libraries of these two great revivers of knowledge were lost to the world soon after their deaths. Boccaccio’s, it is true, was destroyed by an accident, being burnt when the convent to which he had left it was consumed by fire. But Petrarch’s mouldered away in the palace given by the republic of Venice for its reception and preservation, so that dusty fragments were afterwards found to be all that remained of the venerable parchments which the laureate had expanded so much time and labour in collecting. a Quoted here and below from Baldelli, pp. 158–9, whose source is Epistolae Seniles, I. 5; the letter is dated 28 May 1362.

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The seneschal Acciajuolo was a Florentine, settled at Naples; he had long been the counsellor and friend of Louis, prince of Tarento, second husband of queen Jane.a He had accompanied him in his flight to France, and stood by him during his adversity. When the affairs of Naples were settled, and Jane and Louis restored to the throne, Acciajuolo became the first man in the kingdom: he was made seneschal; but his power and influence were limited by no mere place. He had pretensions to learning, and was the friend and correspondent of Petrarch: he was proud and arrogant, and wished to be esteemed a munificent man. He invited Boccaccio to come and take up his abode in his palace at Naples, and to employ himself in writing a history of / the seneschal’s life. Boccaccio was seduced, by a belief in the reality of his friendship and the nobleness of his generosity, to accept his offer. He was received by the great man with apparent pleasure, and with many promises of future benefit; but he was undeceived as to the kindness of his welcome, when he was led to the chamber destined for his accommodation. The seneschal lived in a magnificent palace, adorned with all the luxuries known in those days: the room assigned to Boccaccio was mean and squalid; it contained one dirty, ill-furnished bed, for himself and his brother Jacopo, and he was placed at the same table with the stable boys and the lower servants of the house, together with a whole host of needy hangers-on. Boccaccio’s necessities were not so great as to force him to endure this unworthy treatment, and his spirit revolted against it. He removed at once to the house of his friend, Mainardo de’ Cavalcanti, by whom he was cordially and honourably received; and finding, on a second trial, to which he was urged by the servile advice of some friends, that Acciajuolo was wholly ignorant of the duties of hospitality, and totally deficient in generosity and delicacy, he left Naples and proceeded to Venice. He here passed three happy months with Petrarch. The Greek, Leonzio Pilato, joined them. Their society consisted of either learned men, or the Venetian nobility; and the friends reaped great enjoyment from the intimacy and unreserve of their intercourse. After the lapse of three months Boccaccio returned to Florence, though the plague was raging there, and Petrarch entertained a thousand fears on his account. An abode in Florence was nevertheless ill suited to the new course of life which he proposed to himself. The city was perpetually disturbed by domestic strife, or the treachery of the foreign princes, whom they called in to their assistance in time of war. Boccaccio retreated from this scene of discord, and took up his abode at the castle of Certaldo, where he gave himself entirely up to study: his house there is still to be seen. / Certaldo is situated on a hill, and looks down on the a Seneschal, secretary and steward of household affairs; here referring to Niccolò Acciajuoli (1310–65), of a Florentine banking family and an intimate of Louis, Prince of Tarento (1308– 62). Louis married Giovanna I, Queen of Naples, in 1346, after the murder of her first husband, Andrea of Hungary, in 1345. Her involvement in Andrea’s murder led to ongoing struggles with his brother, Louis I, King of Hungary (1326–82), who invaded Naples on several occasions. Following Ginguené, III, ch. xv, 41, although repeated in Baldelli, pp. 165–7.

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fertile valley watered by the river Elsa.*a The country around is picturesque, adorned by various castles and rustic villages. The culture of corn, vines, and olives, adorns the depth of the valley and the uplands; and three successive harvests are brought in by the husbandman. Here Boccaccio composed most of his later works, and the influence of Petrarch is perceptible in his choice of subjects and language. This is to be greatly lamented, since his desertion of Italian was founded upon a mistake, which has given us, instead of works of imagination and genius, heavy treatises and inaccurate histories. Boccaccio’s Latin is bald and tame; he knew nothing of the structure, and was unable to clothe his thoughts with the eloquence natural to him: he rattled the dry bones of the skeleton of a dead language, instead of making use of the young and vigorous tongue to which he had given birth. His first work, under this new direction, was one of great labour and erudition for those times, and was entered upon at the suggestion of Ugo IV., king of Cyprus and Jerusalem.b It treats of the genealogy of the gods, and relates the connection between the various deities of the beautiful Greek mythology. For many years it continued to be a standard book, whence the Italians drew all their knowledge of the subject; and it was doubtless a useful production. In pursuance of his plan of being the schoolmaster of his age, and introducing his countrymen to the knowledge of forgotten lore, he afterwards composed a dictionary of ancient rivers, mountains, and forests. His active mind was always finding new subjects for his pen. He discovered that the female sex possessed no historian, and he dedicated himself to their service by writing the lives of illustrious women.c In this he describes the ideal of a virtuous matron, and goes to the extreme usual to a reformed libertine. Her conduct must not only be strictly / correct, but she must not even look about her; she must speak little, eat little, and avoid singing and dancing. Given up to domestic cares, she must be simple in her dress, and even love her husband moderately. He wrote after this a work entitled, “De Casibus Virorum et Fæminarum Illustrium,”d in which he records the disasters and adversity which history relates to have befallen royal or noble personages. Thus his time was entirely spent among his books, and he acquired a reputation for learning and purity of life, which raised him high in the opinion of his fellow citizens.

* Baldelli. a Baldelli, l–li, cited in Ginguené, III, ch. xv, p. 18; an example of Mary Shelley’s tendency to use general volumes as a bibliographic source for texts offering more specific information. b Hugh IV de Lusignan, King of Cyprus and Jerusalem (1324–59), for whom Boccaccio composed De Genealogiis deorum gentilium. c De Claris Mulieribus (Concerning Famous Women) (1360–74). Mary Shelley’s attention to this text reflects her interest throughout the Italian Lives in the history of women; cf. MWSL, II, p. 115. d On the Fall of Famous Men and Women (c. 1357–63).

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He was, in consequence, appointed, on two occasions, ambassador to pope Urban V. In fulfilment of the first mission, he went to Avignon, where he was honourably received, especially by Philip de Cabassolles, the intimate and beloved friend of Petrarch. On his return, he was very desirous of passing from Genoa to Pavia, to see the laureate; but the duties of his embassy forbade. To indemnify himself, he projected a visit to him at Venice. There is a Latin letter of his extant, which gives an interesting account of this latter journey: it is addressed to Petrarch, whom he missed, as he was again gone to Pavia. Boccaccio did not hear of this circumstance till he reached Bologna; and it almost made him give up his journey. “On my road,” he writes, “I encountered Francesco (the son-in-law of Petrarch), to my great delight. After a glad and friendly meeting, I began to observe the person of this man. His placid countenance, measured language, and mild manners pleased me: I praised your choice, as I praise all you do.” On his arrival at Venice, “I received,” he says, “many invitations, and accepted that of Francesco Allegri. I would not avail myself of your kind offer, and take up my abode under your daughter’s roof, during the absence of her husband. I should have preferred going to an inn to being the cause of the scandal that might have arisen, despite my grey hairs and fat unwieldy figure. “I went, however, to see Francesca; who, when she / heard of my arrival, came to meet me with gladness, as if you yourself had returned: yet, when she saw me, she was abashed, blushed, and cast down her eyes; and then, after a timid welcome, she embraced me with filial and modest affection. After conversing together some little time, we went into your garden, and found several of your friends assembled. Here, in explicit and kind terms, she offered me your house, your books, and every thing belonging to you, in a matronly and becoming manner. While we were conversing, your beloved little granddaughter came up: she looked smilingly at me, and I took her with delight in my arms. At first, methought I saw my own child*: her face resembles hers – the same smile, the same laughing eyes; the gestures, gait, and carriage of her person, though a little taller – for mine was only five years and a half old when I last saw her – were all similar: if their dialect had been the same, their expressions would have resembled in their simplicity. I saw no difference, except that yours has golden hair, and that of mine was black. Alas! while caressing and charmed by her talk, the recollection of my loss drew tears from my eyes; so that I turned my face away, to conceal my emotion. “I cannot tell you all that Francesco said and did upon his return; his frequent visits when he found that I would not remove to his house; and how hospitably he entertained me. One incident will suffice: knowing that I was poor, which I never denied, on my departure from Venice, at a late hour, he withdrew with me * It is unknown who was the mother of this child, or grandchild, who died so young. Boccaccio had, besides, one son established at Florence, whom he does not mention in his will, but who presided at his funeral, and erected a tomb over his remains.

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into another part of his house; and, after taking leave, he stretched out his long arms, and, putting a purse into my hands, made his escape, before I could expostulate with or thank him.”a After having been gratified by these tokens of real friendship, Boccaccio suffered one of those mortifying disappointments which too often occur to those who are / ready to trust to the good-will and offers of assistance of men who call themselves their friends. Niccolò di Montefalcone,b abbot of the celebrated Carthusian monastery of San Stefano in Calabria, invited him to take up his abode with him, describing the agreeable situation of his house, its select library, and the leisure to be enjoyed there. Boccaccio accepted the invitation, and made the journey. He arrived late at night before the gates of the secluded monastery; but, instead of the welcome he expected, he found that the abbot had left the convent hastily, in the middle of the night, on purpose to avoid him. Boccaccio, justly indignant, wrote an angry letter, and, leaving the inhospitable retreat, repaired to Naples, where he was again cordially received by his friend Mainardo de’ Cavalcanti. During his visit to Naples, Boccaccio received many offers of hospitality and patronage: among others, queen Jane of Naples, and Giacomo king of Majorca, endeavoured to persuade him to enter into their service; but Boccaccio was naturally proud and independent:c he had been duped by an appearance of friendship, but recoiled from a state of servitude: he preferred his quiet home at Certaldo to the favours of the great; nor could the renewed solicitations of Petrarch induce him to change his mind; and he returned to Tuscany. When he visited Naples again, it was merely for the sake of seeing his friends, without any ulterior view, and he quickly returned to the quiet of Certaldo, where he busied himself in the publication of his work of the “Genealogy of the Gods.” Age and infirmity advanced on him before their time: he was attacked by a painful and disagreeable disease, which rendered life a burthen to him. He lost his strength, and the powers of his understanding; his limbs became heavy, and the light of heaven intolerable; his memory was impaired, and his books no longer afforded him any pleasure. His thoughts were fixed upon the tomb, towards which he believed himself to be rapidly approaching. After having continued / in this state for several months, he was one day seized with a violent fever, which increased towards night. His disturbed thoughts turned towards the past: his life appeared to him to have been wasted, and fruitful only of remorse. No friend was near him: his sole attendant was an old nurse, who, unable to penetrate the cause of his disquietude, annoyed him by her meaningless and vulgar consolations. His fever increased; he believed himself to be dying, and he feared to die. His courage, which had until now sustained, all at once deserted him. Hitherto he had avoided a

Epistole, XVI, pp. 642–7. Described in Baldelli, p. 195, as Niccolo da Montefalcone, but perhaps an error for Pietro Piccolo da Monteforte (c. 1306–84); cf. Epistole, XV, pp. 634–41. c This sentence follows Baldelli, p. 196. b

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physicians, having no faith in the art: he was now driven to send for one, whose remedies afforded him relief, and restored him to some portion of health.*a The energy of his mind returned with his bodily strength. He had laboured long to induce the Florentine government to bestow some honourable testimonial on the memory of the illustrious Dante. At length, a decree was promulgated, instituting a professorship for the public explanation of the “Divina Commedia,” so to promote, as it was expressed, the advancement of learning and virtue among the living and their posterity. The professorship was bestowed upon Boccaccio: he received a salary of one hundred florins a year, and delivered his lectures in the church of San Stefano. The result was his commentary on the first seventeen cantos of the “Inferno,” written in a clear, simple, and elegant style, full of excellent criticism and valuable illustrations. Thus the remnants of his failing strength were spent upon doing honour to the memory of the celebrated poet, whose genius he so warmly and generously admired, and a depreciation of whom is the sole blot on the otherwise faultless character of Petrarch: but, while he roused his intellects to understand and comment upon the delicate and sublime beauties of Dante, his physical strength decayed, and his sensibility received a severe shock from the death of his beloved friend / Petrarch. He heard it first by public report; and it was afterwards confirmed to him in a letter from Francesco Brossano, the laureate’s son-in-law, who transmitted to him the legacy of fifty florins, for the purchase of a fur dress for his winter studies. Boccaccio wrote, in return, a letter full of grief and admiration. “He did not mourn,” he said, “for the dead, who was receiving the reward of his virtues, but for those who survived him, and were abandoned to the tempestuous sea of life without a pilot.” He would have visited his tomb had his health permitted; and he besought Brossano to take care of his posthumous reputation, and to publish his poem of “Africa,” which was only known to the world in fragments. In compliance with his request, Brossano had the poem copied, and sent it to him; but he did not live to receive it.b He felt his end approaching, and Petrarch’s death loosened his last tie to earth. He made his will, and named the sons of his brother Jacopo his heirs. He left legacies to those to whom he owed return for friendship and services; and he concluded, by leaving his library, in the first instance, to his spiritual director, Martino da Signa, to go, after his death, to the convent of the Spirito Santo, at Florence, for the benefit of the studious. He survived Petrarch one year only, and died at Certaldo, on the 21st December, 1375, in the 63d year of his age. His death was occasioned by a malady of small moment in itself, but fatal in his debilitated state, and aggravated by his * Baldelli, Cod. San. Epist. i. a

Cited in Baldelli, pp. 200–1. The above paragraph and much of the next follow Baldelli, pp. 208–9, 211 and Sade, III. p. 807. b

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continual application. He was buried at Certaldo, in the church of SS. Jacopo and Filippo. His son presided at his funeral, and erected a tomb, on which was inscribed a Latin epitaph, composed by Boccaccio himself, in which he mentions that honourable love of literature which characterised him through life:– “Patria Certaldum; studium fuit alma poesis.”a He was lamented throughout Italy; but his loss was chiefly deplored in his native city, as during his residence there, he had redeemed his early follies / by a course of life devoted to the cultivation of literature and religion, and the duties of a citizen. While all read with delight the purer productions of his imaginative genius, the learned of every age must feel grateful to his unwearied labours in the preservation of the ancient manuscripts, many of which, but for him, had been lost for ever to the world. /

a

‘Native of Certaldo; diligent study has been the nurse of poetry’; from Baldelli, p. 212, n. 1.

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LORENZO DE MEDICI. a ( CONSIDERED

AS A POET );

FICINO, PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA, POLITIAN, THE PULCI, ETC . AFTER the deaths of Petrarch and Boccaccio, the cause of learning was, to a certain degree, lost. The study of Greek and the search for manuscripts was discontinued. The first person who brought that language again into notice, was Emanuel Chrysoloras, a noble Greek, who was frequently sent into Italy on embassies by the emperor of Constantinople, and employed his leisure in teaching his native tongue in Florence. His disciples were numerous: among these, Poggio Bracciolini was the most distinguished. He discovered and collected a vast number of the most valuable manuscripts. Besides the philosophic and beautiful poem of Lucretius, we owe to him the complete copies of Quintilian, Plautus, Statius, Silius Italicus, Columella, and many others.b Several of these exist only from a Although the Holy Roman Emperor was notionally the overlord of Northern Italy, Florence in the 15th century flourished under the Medici as an independent city-state, especially during the rule of Cosimo (or Cosmo) de’ Medici the Elder (1389–1464) and his grandson Lorenzo ‘The Magnificent’ (1449–92). Lorenzo’s second son, Giovanni de’ Medici (1475– 1521), became Pope Leo X in 1513 and his nephew, Giulio de’ Medici (1478–1534) became Pope Clement VII in 1523. The political incompetence of Lorenzo’s son and heir Piero or Pietro ‘lo Sfortunato’ (‘the Unfortunate’, 1472–1503) led to the capitulation of Florence in November 1494 to Charles VIII, king of France. Although Charles withdrew, a citizens’ revolt expelled the Medici. A brief theocracy led by the Dominican reformist zealot, Savonarola (burnt 1498), was succeeded by a return to Florence’s republican traditions. But with the help of Pope Julius II, the Medici eventually returned in 1512 to rule Florence under Piero’s son, Lorenzo II (1492– 1519). The citizens expelled the Medici again in 1527, which gave the emperor Charles V (having first sacked Rome) the excuse to besiege Florence in 1529–30 and reinstate the Medici, now his allies. With both the pope and the emperor leagued against Florence, the city fell, after a heroic defence. The vicious Alessandro de’ Medici was installed as duke of Florence by Charles V and Clement VII, and the city’s ancient liberties extinguished. Sismondi, in particular, highlights the defeat of Florence as one of the most decisive watersheds in Italian history. Although ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’ mostly deals with Lorenzo as poet, it is also a prelude to a narrative of the fall of Florence (taken up in ‘Machiavelli’ and ‘Guicciardini’; see also ‘Modern Italian Romances’, vol. 4). b Lucretius (Titus Lucretius Carus) (c. 98–55 BC), Roman poet whose work De rerum natura (On the Nature of Things) was rediscovered by Bracciolini; Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilian (AD 35–95)), Plautus (Titus Maccius Plautus (c. 254–184 BC)), Statius (Publius Papinus Statius (AD 45–96)), Silius Italicus (AD 25–101), and Columella (Lucius Junius Moderatus Col-

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1453.

1464.

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the copy found by him, and were thus rescued from certain destruction. “I did not find them in libraries,” he says, “which their dignity demanded, but in a dark and obscure dungeon at the bottom of a tower, in which they were leading the life of the damned.”a Filelfo was also an ardent collector.b The discussions between the Roman and Greek churches brought several Greek scholars and philosophers into Italy, and through them the Platonic doctrines were known to the Italians. Gemisthus Pletho, who had been master of Chrysoloras, but who survived him many years, was their chief promulgator.c They were in opposition to the Aristotelian philosophy, which had so long been the only one taught / in the schools of Italy; but their glowing beauty and imagination were adapted to enchant all who heard them. Cosmo de’ Medici became their convert, and resolved to establish an academy at Florence for their study and propagation. He caused Marsiglio Ficino, the son of his favourite physician, to be educated for this purpose by the teachers of Platonic philosophy. Cosmo was also the founder of the Medicean library. The taking of Constantinople by the Turks aided the advancement of learning; and while Cosmo protected many learned Greeks who took refuge at Florence, they spread refinement and knowledge throughout the peninsula.d Cosmo died soon after; and as his son Piero did not long survive him, Lorenzo succeeded to his wealth and political influence. Lorenzo had been brought up with solicitous attention. He was fortunate in his mother, Madonna Lucretia, a lady of considerable talents and accomplishments, a lover of learning, and patroness of learned men. He was first the pupil of Gentile d’ Urbino, bishop of Arezzo; and afterwards of Christofero Landino; and a warm attachment subsisted between master and pupil.e He soon gave manifestations of the magnificence of his disposition; and his love of poetry developed itself at an early age. After the death of Cosmo, and his father Piero, however, his life was no longer one of studious leisure or youthful enjoyment; but visited by many disastrous occurrences. umella (fl. 1st century AD)). Lucretius was among Mary Shelley’s favourite Latin authors. Many of the discoveries of Poggio Bracciolini (1380–1459), pupil of Chrysoloras (c. 1355–1415), were made in monastic libraries during the long negotiations at the Council of Constance in 1415. a Roscoe’s Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, ch. i, identifies the source as Leonardi Bruni, Epistolarum libri, IV. 4. b Francesco Filelfo (1398–1481), student of Chrysoloras; his diplomatic career in the service of the Byzantine Emperor facilitated a passion for manuscript collecting. c Gemisthus Pletho (1355–1450). The Council of Florence (1438–45) was set up to negotiate a reconciliation between the Greek and Roman churches. d The paragraph follows Roscoe, ch. i.; Accademia Platonica (Platonic Academy): established c. 1439 by Cosimo de’ Medici; Medicean Library: also known as the Laurentian, established by Lorenzo and significantly expanded under the Medici popes Leo X and Clement VII. The marginal date relates to the fall of Constantinople. e Lorenzo’s parents: Piero il Gottoso Medici (1416–69) and his wife Lucrezia Tuornaboni (1425–82), whose court became a scene of important political and literary developments; she is also mentioned in ‘Angelo Poliziano’ and ‘Vittoria Colonna’. His teachers: Gentile de’ Becchi da Urbino (d. 1497) and Cristoforo Landino (1424–98), Florentine professor of poetry and rhetoric. Adapted from Roscoe, ch. ii.

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The conspiracy of the Pazzi was directed against his life and that of his brother. Giuliano was its victim; while he with difficulty escaped from the poniard of the assassin. He was scarcely free from these domestic dangers, when he encountered greater foreign ones, from the implacable enmity of Sixtus VI. This pope leagued almost all Italy against Florence, declaring at the same time that Lorenzo was the object of their attack; and that if he were sacrificed, Florence should obtain peace.a Lorenzo maintained the weight of this coalition with firmness and dignity. With heroic / gallantry he took the whole responsibility on his own person, and threw himself into the hands of the king of Naples.b His firmness and talents enabled him to induce this monarch to conclude a treaty beneficial and honourable to Florence, and his authority in the republic was thus confirmed greater than ever. From this time he occupied himself by establishing an enduring peace in Italy; not pursuing his object by pusillanimous concessions, but by an unremitted attention to the course of events, and sound policy in preserving the balance of power among the Italian states. From the anxieties and cares attendant on his public life, he was glad to find relaxation in the cultivation of poetry and the pursuits of philosophy. He loved literature and the fine arts, and devoted much of his time and fortune to their cultivation. He encouraged Greek learning, and was an enthusiastic Platonist. His chief friends were literary men – Politian, Marsiglio Ficino, and the three brothers of the name of Pulci. He busied himself in raising and giving reputation to the university of Pisa. He instituted a yearly celebration of the anniversary of Plato’s birth and death, and was the cause that his refined philosophy became the fashion in Italy. All the learned wrote and spoke Plato; and in Florence in particular, classic learning was an indispensable qualification in a well-educated man.c One of the chief merits of Lorenzo is derived from the revival of his native language. A century had elapsed since the golden age of Petrarch and Boccaccio, but the Italian language, instead of redeeming the promise of its birth, had remained mute and inglorious. The neglect which so speedily darkened the native literature, may be attributed to these very men, and especially to Petrarch, who cast disgrace over what he called the vulgar tongue, and taught that Latin was the only worthy medium by which learned men should communicate their ideas – and such Latin! However, the spirit of improvement, which is the most valuable attribute of / human nature, led the students who succeeded him to cultivate and understand the implement he placed in their hands. They applied themselves to a critical examination of Latin, and after all, it is perhaps, to the bald, unformed a

Following Roscoe, ch. iii. The Pazzi assassination attempt, in which Giuliano (1453–78) was killed, took place on 26 Apr. 1478. ‘Sixtus VI’ is an error for Pope Sixtus IV, Francesco della Rovere (1414–84). His involvement in the Pazzi conspiracy led to the disintegration of relations between Florence and Rome. The conspiracy of the Pazzi is the subject of a play by Alfieri. b Ferdinand I or Ferrante (1423–94), King of Naples from 1458; following Roscoe, ch. ii. c Details in this paragraph are taken from Roscoe, ch. iii. The date of the celebration was reputedly Nov. 7, the anniversary of Plato’s banquet.

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Latinity of Petrarch, that we owe the knowledge which the scholar of the present day possesses of the construction and delicacies of that language. If he had not taught the world, that the object chiefly worthy of their ambition was to imitate the works of Virgil and Cicero, no one had spent the labour necessary to the entire understanding of the language of the Romans. Yet, while this advantage was derived from his mistake, imagination and genius were silenced; little prose and no poetry, either in Latin or the vulgar tongue, appeared in Italy. The writers educated by Cosmo, Politian, and Ficino, still adhered to the hereditary error, and wrote in Latin. Lorenzo first broke through these rules, and expressed in his native language the fragile and delicate ideas inspired by a poetic imagination. He ranks high as a poet: he does not possess the sublimity and grace of Dante, nor the elegance, tenderness, and incomparable sweetness of Petrarch; but his merits are original and conspicuous: simplicity and vivacity adorn his verses. His love poems are full of fire, and come from the heart; his descriptions are delightful, from their truth, elegance, and flow of fancy throughout; his diction is that of a genuine poet. It is singular, that although Lorenzo possessed the germ of real poetry in his mind, he began to work himself up to writing verses in a manner that appears cold to our northern imaginations: he resolved to love, and resolved to write verses on her he loved; yet, being a poet, and a man whose heart easily opened itself to the warmer affections, no doubt a great deal of real feeling accompanied his aspirations. He himself gives the account of all these circumstances in a commentary written on his first sonnets.a / His brother Giuliano had been deeply attached to a lovely girl named Simonetta, who died in the bloom of beauty:b it is supposed, that he alludes to her when he describes the excitement caused by the public funeral of a beautiful young lady, whose admirers crowded round her open bier, and gazed, for the last time, on the pallid face of the object of their adoration, which was exposed uncovered to their view, accompanying the funeral with their tears. All the eloquence and talent of Florence were exerted to pay honour to her memory in prose and verse. Lorenzo himself composed a few sonnets, and to give them greater effect, he tried to imagine that he also was a lover, mourning over the untimely end of one beloved, and then again he reflected that he might write still more feelingly, if he could discover a living object, to whom to address his homage. He looked round among the beauties of Florence, to discover one whose perfections should satisfy his judgment, as worthy of inspiring a sincere and constant attachment. At last, at a public festival, he beheld a girl so lovely and attractive in her appearance, that, as he gazed on her, he said to himself, “If this person were possessed of the a

Commento di Lorenzo de’ Medici sopra alcuni de suoi Sonetti (c. 1486, published 1554). Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci (d. 1476), the beautiful young Florentine depicted in Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus (1485); the paragraph closely follows Roscoe, ch. ii, but with changes of emphasis; whereas, for instance, Roscoe is confident in identifying the beautiful young lady as Simonetta, Mary Shelley is more cautious. b

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delicacy, the understanding, and accomplishments of her who is lately dead, most certainly she excels her in personal charms.”a On becoming acquainted with her, he found his fondest dreams realised: she was perfectly beautiful, clever, vivacious, yet full of dignity and sweetness. It is a pity that this account rather chills us as we read his sonnets, and we feel them rather as coming from the head than heart: yet they are tender and graceful; and it is not difficult for a youth of an ardent disposition, and an Italian, to love a beautiful girl, even at the word of command. One of these sonnets possesses the simplicity and grace which distinguish Lorenzo’s poetry: we give Mr. Roscoe’s translation of it, and yet are not satisfied. Mr. Roscoe wrote at a time when the common-places of versification, brought in by the imitators of Pope, were still in vogue; but this observation applies chiefly / to the beginning of the sonnet; the conclusion is better, yet the whole wants the brightness and spring of the original. Happy are those who can refer to that.* “Seek he who will in grandeur to be blest, Place in proud halls, and splendid courts, his joy; For pleasure or for gold his arts employ, Whilst all his hours unnumber’d cares molest. A little field in native flow’rets drest, A rivulet in soft numbers gliding by, A bird, whose love-sick note salutes the sky, With sweeter magic lull my cares to rest. And shadowy woods, and rocks, and towering hills, And caves obscure, and nature’s free-born train, And some lone nymph that timorous speeds along, Each in my mind some gentle thought instills Of those bright eyes that absence shrouds in vain; Ah, gentle thoughts! soon lost the city cares among.”b * “Cerchi chi vuol, le pompe, e gli alti honori, Le piazze, e tempii e gli edificii magni, Le delicie, il tesor, qual accompagni Mille duri pensier, mille dolori: Un verde praticel pien di bei flori, Un rivolo, che l’ erba intorno bagni, Un augelletto che d’amor si lagni, Acqueta molto meglio i nostri ardori: L’ ombrose selve, i sassi, e gli alti monti Gli antri oscuri, e le fere fuggitive, Qualche leggiadra ninfa paurosa; Quivi veggo io con pensier vaghi e pronti Le belle luci, come fossin vivi. Qui me le toglie or’ una, or’ altra cosa.” a From the Commento, following Roscoe’s translation, but with ‘personal charms’ instead of ‘charms of her person’. b Quoted, with the Italian, from Roscoe; some Italian errors stem from Roscoe’s 1795 text.

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Many sonnets and canzoni were written to celebrate this lady’s perfections and his passion, but he never mentions her name. From contemporary poets, Politian and Verini, who addressed her, and Valori, who wrote a life of Lorenzo, we learn, that her name was Lucretia, of the noble family of Donati; an ancestor of whom, Cuzio Donato, had been celebrated for his military enterprises. But it is mutual love that excites our sympathy, and there is no token that Lucretia regarded her lover with more fervour than he deserved; for, however Verini may undertake to prove that he was worthy of a return for his attachment, a different opinion must be formed, when we find that he married a short time after, not the sighed for Lucretia, but Clarice degli Orsini; and although the usual excuse is given, that this marriage was consented to by him to please his relatives, and as he expresses it, “I took for a wife, or / rather was given me;” yet as Lucretia must have been the victim of his obedience, it is agreeable to find that she gave slight ear to his empty or deceptive protestations.a His other poems were composed as recreation during a busy life, and many of them are animated by glowing sensibility or light-hearted hilarity. Among them the most celebrated is “La Nencia da Barbarino,” where he makes a swain praise his mistress in rustic phrase; this is a dangerous experiment, but Lorenzo perfectly succeeded. His poem is totally devoid of affectation, and is so charming for its earnestness and simplicity, that it was repeated and sung by every one in Florence. Many tried to imitate the style, but vainly; and they complained that, though many peasant girls were celebrated, La Nencia da Barbarino was the only rustic beauty who could gain the popular favour.b His Canzoni Carnaleschi are animated and original; he was the inventor of this style of song. He exerted himself, on all occasions, to vary and refine the public amusements of Florence, and during the carnival, the period of gaiety and pleasure in Catholic countries, introduced processions and dances of a novel and delightful description. It was the custom of the women to form themselves into bands of twelve, and, linked hand with hand, to sing as they danced in a circle. Lorenzo composed several canzoni a ballo, which became favourites for these occasions. One of these,– “Ben venga Maggio E ’l Gonfalon selvaggio,” &c. “Welcome, May, And the rustic banner,” &c.–

is the prettiest and most spirited song for May ever written. His processions and masquerades afforded also subjects for verse. Bands of people paraded the city in a Roscoe quotes Lorenzo’s comment in his Ricordi (Records) on his marriage to Clarice degli Orsini (1450–88). The regard for Lucrezia’s feelings is Mary Shelley’s addition. b The preceding paragraph summarises Roscoe, ch. ii, who names Luigi Pulci’s La Beca da Dicomano as one imitation of La Nencia da Barbarino (c. 1470). ‘Nencia’ is the name of the peasant girl.

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character, personating triumphs, or exhibitions of the arts; and Lorenzo wrote songs, which they chanted as they passed along.a It is singular, that, free and energetic as the Florentines were, yet the songs composed / for them never spoke of liberty, but turned upon love only: love was all their theme – love that was often licentiousness, and yet described with such truth and beauty, as must have tended greatly to enervate, and even to vitiate, the various persons that formed these gay companies. Lorenzo’s canzoni are tainted with this defect.b Lorenzo was a faithful and kind, though not a fond husband. His feelings were always held in discipline by him; and if he were too sensitive to the influence of beauty, yet his actions were all regulated by that excellent sense of justice and duty which is his admirable characteristic. There are some elegiac stanzas preserved of his, which prove that he suffered at one time the struggles and errors of passion, and was subdued by it to other thoughts than those which his reason approved. How different is this poem to those addressed to Lucretia Donati. There is no Platonic refinement, no subtlety, no conceit, no imitation of Petrarch; its diction is clear and sweet; truth and strength of feeling animate each expression; it bears the stamp of heartfelt sincerity, and is adorned by all the delicacy which real passion inspires. “Ah!” he exclaims, “had we been joined in marriage! Had you been earlier born, or had I come later into the world!” These stanzas are even left unfinished, and probably were concealed, as revealing a secret which it would have been fatal to have discovered to the world.c Besides the animated and gay songs, and choruses, in which Lorenzo is unrivalled, he wrote several descriptive poems: one long oned relates the history of how his favourite country house, named Ambra, was carried away by the overflowing of the Ombrone. He figures the villa to be a nymph, of whom the river god is enamoured, and, like one of Ovid’s heroines, she falls a victim to his pursuit. The descriptions in this poem are lively, true, and graceful. The “Caccia di Falcone” gives a spirited detail of the disasters that befall falconers: he brings in several of his friends by name. / “Where is Luigi Pulci,” he cries, “that we do not hear him? He is gone before in that grove, for some whim has seized him, and he has retreated to meditate a sonnet.”e a The preceding passage on Lorenzo’s Canzoni Carnaleschi (Carnival Songs) (c. 1470) and is taken from Roscoe ch. v; the canzone a ballo (song for dancing) quoted is printed in Roscoe’s appendix (xx, ll. 1–2). b Mary Shelley’s comment. In A Defence of Poetry, P. B. Shelley argues for the liberating role of the erotic poet under a despotism; in this case, however, the erotic poet is a despot too, since Lorenzo rigged the ballots to ensure his continual election. Florence became during his rule a republic only in name. c Included in Roscoe; Mary Shelley quotes, above, Roscoe’s translation of the Elegia, ll. 111– 13: ‘Teco l’avessi il ciel, donna, congiunto/ In matrimonio: ah, che pria non venisti/ Al mondo, o io non son piú tardo giunto?’ d Ambra, more commonly known as Descrizione del verno (Description of Winter) (c. 1474– 85). e From La Caccia col falcone, more commonly known as Uccellagione (The Partridge Hunt) (c. 1473–6), stanza 11; Roscoe’s translation.

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April 8. 1492.

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Lorenzo died at the early age of forty-four, of a painful and inexplicable disorder, which, attacking his stomach, gave rise to the idea that he was poisoned. He was considerate and affectionate to the last; endeavouring to impress his system of policy on his son’s mind, and exerting himself to lighten the grief of those around him. Potents and wonders followed his death, which even Machiavelli, then a very young man, deemed miraculous.a He was universally lamented; and the downfall of his family, which occurred soon after, through the misconduct of his eldest son, Piero, renewed the grief of the friends who survived him.

MARSIGLIO FICINO. THE literary tastes of Cosmo, the talents and admirable qualities of Lucretia, the mother of Lorenzo, and the example and protection of Lorenzo himself, rendered his a golden era for poets and philosophers. It has been already mentioned, that for the sake of spreading abroad a knowledge of the Platonic doctrines, Cosmo had caused the son of his favourite physician to be educated in the study and cultivation of them. Marsiglio Ficino was born at Florence, on the 18th of October, 1433. His first studies were directed by Luca Quarqualio, with whom he read Cicero, and other Latin authors; applying his attention principally to the mention made of Plato, and already admiring and loving his philosophy. His father, being poor, sent him to study at Bologna, to the discontent of Marsiglio; but fortunately, one day, during a casual visit to Florence, his father led him to Cosmo de’ Medici, who, struck with the intelligence exhibited in his countenance, chose him at once, young as he was, to be the future support of / his Platonic academy; and, turning to the father, said, “You were sent us by heaven to cure the body, but your son is certainly destined to cure the mind.”*b He adopted him in his house; and Marsiglio never ceased to testify his gratitude, and to declare that he had been to him a second father. He was given up henceforth to Platonism. At the age of twenty-three he wrote his “Platonic Institutions.”c Plato was his idol; he talked Plato, thought Plato, and became almost mad for Plato, and his deepest and most wonderful mysteries. The celebrated Pico della Mirandola shared his studies and enthusiasm. It was not, however, till after having written his “Institutions,” that, at the advice of Cosmo, he learnt Greek, the better to understand his favourite author. He translated, as the first fruits of this study, the “Hymns of Orpheus” into Latin; he translated, also, the “Treatise on the Origin of the World,” attributed * Tiraboschi. a Niccolò Machiavelli records in his Istorie fiorentine (Florentine History) (1532) how strange lights were seen illuminating the tombs of the Medici after Lorenzo’s death. b Quoting Tiraboschi, VI, pt 2, 340; otherwise, this paragraph follows Ginguené, III, ch. xx, pp. 364–6. c Composed c. 1456; not extant.

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to Hermes Trismegistus; and, presenting it to Cosimo, he was rewarded by him by the gift of a podere, or small farm, appertaining to his own villa of Caneggi near Florence, and a house in the city, besides some magnificent manuscripts of Plato and Plotinus.a After this Ficino occupied himself by translating the whole of Plato’s works into Latin, which he completed in five years. He afterwards assumed the clerical profession, and Lorenzo bestowed on him the cure of two churches, and made him canon of the cathedral of Florence, on which he gave up his patrimony to his brothers. He was a disinterested and blameless man: gentle and agreeable in his manners, no violent passions nor desires disturbed the calm of his mind. He loved solitude, and delighted to pass his time in the country, in the society of his philosophic friends. His health was feeble, and he was subject to severe indispositions, which could not induce him to diminish the ardour with which he pursued his studies. Sixtus IV., and Mathew Corvino, king of Hungary, tried to induce him, by magnificent offers, to take up / his abode at their several courts, but he would not quit Florence. Many foreigners, particularly from Germany, visited Italy for the express purpose of seeing him, and studying under him. He died on the first of October, 1499, at the age of sixty-six. In the year 1521, a marble statue was erected in Florence to his memory.

GIOVANNI PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA. b AS the name of Pico della Mirandola has been mentioned, it is impossible not to bestow some attention on a man who was the glory and admiration of Italy. Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, Conte della Concordia, was born in the year 1463; his father, Gian Francesco Pico, was lord of Mirandola and Concordia; his mother’s name was Julia Boiarda. From his earliest years he manifested an extraordinary understanding and memory: he was naturally disposed to literary and poetic pursuits; but at the age of fourteen, being destined, as a younger son, for the church, he was sent to Bologna to study canon law. After two years spent in this way, he resolved to give himself up to philosophy, and visited the most celebrated schools of France and Italy, in which, studying under and disputing with the professors of highest reputation, he acquired an erudition that made him the wonder and delight of his contemporaries. To Greek and Latin he added a knowledge of Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Arabic. He relates how he was enticed by an impostor to purchase, at a high price, seventy Hebrew manuscripts, which he was told were genuine, and composed by order of Esdras, and contained the most a Hymns of Orpheus, in Procli de Sacrificio et Magia (1462; published 1488); Hermes Trismegistus, On Divine Wisdom and the Creation of the World (1463); Theologia Platonica de animarum immortalitate (The Platonic Theology on the Immortality of Souls) (1482); Plotinus (204–70), neo-platonic philosopher whose work The Enneads Ficino translated from 1484–92. b Much of this brief life is taken from Ginguené, III, ch. xx, pp. 367–9, whose source was Roscoe, ch. vii.

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recondite mysteries of religion. These were the books of the Cabala, or of the Traditions, which the Jews believe to have been collected at the command of Esdras.a At the age of twenty-three Pico visited Rome, during the reign of Innocent VIII.; and here he published 900 propositions – dialectic, moral, physical, mathematical, theological, &c. &c. – / offering to dispute with any one concerning them. These propositions still exist among his works, a sorrowful monument of the pedantry of the age, which could turn aside so admirable an understanding, from loftier and more useful studies, to the subtilties and frivolities of scholastic arguments. But, in those days, they caused Pico to be considered something wonderful, and almost divine. Yet they led him into annoyance, as envy caused other learned men to denounce thirteen among the propositions to be heretical, and he wrote a long apology to clear himself. This rather increased his difficulties; twice he was cited before the papal tribunal, but was each time pronounced innocent.b This persecution caused him to reform his life. Handsome, young, rich, and of attractive manners, he had hitherto enjoyed the pleasures usual to his period of life; but henceforth he gave himself up to piety, burning his love verses, and devoting himself to theology and philosophy. He spent the last years of his life at Florence, in the society of Lorenzo and his friends. He was beside Lorenzo at his last moments; and, in a cheerful conversation with him, that amiable man spent his last hours, saying, that he should meet death with more satisfaction after this interview. Pico has been praised by every writer for his beneficence and generosity; he died in the year 1494, in his thirty-second year only.

ANGELO POLIZIANO. POLITIAN formed a third, and was the dearest of Lorenzo’s friends. He was born at Monte Pulciano, a small town not far from Florence; he was named Angelo, and his father was called Benedetto di Cini. The son adopted the place of his birth for a surname, changing Pulciano into the more euphonic appellation of Poliziano. He was born on the 24th of July, 1454: his father was poor, which occasioned him in his youth to call himself Angelo Basso.c Brought to Florence / a

Following Ginguené, III, ch. xx, p. 368; referring to texts purportedly by the followers of Esras or Ezra (fl. AD 70), to whom several books in the Old Testament Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha are attributed. Mirandola’s particular interest in the Hebrew Cabala is an indication of his early investment in Platonic and Pythagorean traditions. b Apologia Joannis Pici Mirandolani, Concordiae comitis (Apology of Giovanni Pico Mirandola) was published in 1487. Innocent VIII (1432–92) ordered the arrest of Mirandola in 1488 for his Conclusiones nongentae (Nine Hundred Theses) (1486). c ‘Lowly Angelo’, detail adapted from Roscoe, ch. viii. These details of Poliziano’s early life are available in both Roscoe, ch. iii and in Ginguené, III, ch. xx, p. 379. Roscoe translates extracts from Poliziano’s letters (ch. viii) of which he provides transcripts in the original Italian in his Appendix section. Mary Shelley retranslates afresh from the Appendix and does not quote from Roscoe’s translations. DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-7

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during his childhood, he studied under the most celebrated scholars of the day, Cristofero Landino, and Giovanni Agyropylo.a It is uncertain whether he derived this advantage from his father’s care, or from the kindness of Lorenzo de’ Medici, as it is not known at what age he first became known to that munificent patron. His own words are, “From boyhood almost I was brought up in that asylum of virtue, the palace of the great Lorenzo de’ Medici, prince of his flourishing republic of Florence.”*b These words coincide with the general idea, that at a very early age he attracted the notice of Lorenzo by his poem entitled, “Giostra di Giuliano de’ Medici,” written to celebrate the first tournament of Giuliano, as Luca Pulci had composed another in honour of that of Lorenzo. This poem consists of 1400 lines, and yet is left unfinished; breaking off at the moment that the tournament is about to begin.c It commences by an address to Lorenzo, and then goes on to describe the youthful occupations of Giuliano, his carelessness of female beauty, and the subduing of his heart by the lovely Simonetta. A description of Venus and the island of Cyprus is introduced: it concludes abruptly, as is often the case with youthful attempts. Yet the beauty and variety of the ideas, and smoothness and elegance of the versification, render it doubtful to critics whether it was written at so early an age as fourteen. At least it must cause regret that he afterwards applied himself to compositions in Latin: for though his poetry in that language has a life and vigour which distinguishes it from any other of his age, yet it must always fall short of the genuine flow of thought, in which a poet so easily indulges when he adopts his native tongue. From the period that he took up his abode in Lorenzo’s palace, he received the instructions of the most celebrated men of the age, and his progress showed his aptitude to learn. He enjoyed here also the society of Lorenzo’s / accomplished mother, Lucretia Tornabuoni, a lover of poetry, and herself a poetess. Lorenzo afterwards appointed him tutor to his children; but he did not agree so well with Mona Clarice. When Lorenzo was engaged in the hazardous war that disturbed the beginning of his political life, he sent his wife and children to Pistoia, with Politian as tutor, who wrote frequent letters to Lorenzo, with accounts of the wellbeing and occupations of his family.d “Piero,” he writes, “never leaves my side, nor I his. I should like to be useful to you in greater things; but since this is entrusted * Tiraboschi. a Giovanni Argyropoulos (c. 1415–87); detail from Roscoe, ch. iii, or Ginguené, III, ch. xx, p. 379. b Tiraboschi, VI, pt 3, p. 1000; translated from his Latin. c ‘Stanze cominciate per la giostra del Magnifico Giuliano de’ Medici’ (Stanzas Begun for the Tournament of the Magnificent Giuliano de’ Medici), begun in 1475 and left incomplete upon the death of Giuliano de’ Medici in 1478. The poem celebrates Giuliano’s victory in a jousting tournament and his love for Simonetta Vespucci; Roscoe includes extracts and a summary (Roscoe, ch. ii). d Sentence taken from Roscoe, ch. viii.

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to me, I willingly undertake it.”a – “All your family are well. Piero studies moderately; and we wander through the town to amuse ourselves. We visit the gardens, of which this city is full, and sometimes the library of Maestro Zambino, where I have found several good Greek and Latin books. Giovanni* rides on his pony all day long, followed by numbers of people. Mona Clarice is well in health; but takes pleasure in nothing but the good news she receives from you, and seldom quits the house.”b In another letter he asks, that more power may be given to him over the studies of the boys:– “As for Giovanni, his mother employs him in reading the Psalter, which I by no means commend. Whilst she declined interfering with him, it is wonderful how he got on.” Monna Clarice was not better pleased with the tutor than he with her. She writes to her husband – “I wish you would not make me the fable of Francho, as I was of Luigi Pulci;c and that Messer Angelo should not say that he remains in my house in spite of me. I told you, that if you wished it, I was satisfied that he should stay, though I have suffered a thousand impertinences from him. If it is your will, I am patient; but I cannot believe that it should be so.” Thus situated, Politian lamented the absence of Madonna Lucretia from Pistoia, and complained to her of the solitude he endured there. “I call it solitude,” he says, in a letter written at this / time to Lucretia, “for Monsignore shuts himself up in his room, with thought for his only companion; and I always find him so sorrowful and anxious, that it increases my melancholy to be with him: and when I remain alone, weary of study, I am agitated by the thoughts of pestilence and war, regret for the past and fear for the future; nor have I any one with whom to share my reveries. I do not find my dear Mona Lucretia in her room, to whom I could pour forth my complaints, and I die of ennui.”† At the age of twenty-nine, he was appointed to the professorship of Greek and Latin eloquence in the university of Florence. Happy in the friendship of his patron, his life was disturbed only by literary squabbles, in which he usually conducted himself with forbearance and dignity. He was held in high repute throughout Italy, and received preferment in the church, and on one occasion was sent ambassador to the papal court. * Afterwards Leo X. † Roscoe’s Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Appendix, p. 60. a Translated, like the five subsequent short quotations, from the texts in Roscoe’s appendices. In order, the relevant appendices are: xxii, lix, lx, lxi, lx, lxxvi. Roscoe’s own translations are in chs viii and x. b Letter of Aug. 1478. c Francho: Matteo Franco (1447–94), another intimate of Lorenzo; his literary feud with Pulci is described in Panizzi as ‘carried on in a thoroughly hostile spirit, probably to the great amusement of Lorenzo and his friends’ (I, pp. 192–3). Roscoe’s translation (ch. viii): ‘I shall be glad to escape being made the subject of a tale of Franco's, as Luigi Pulci was' ('Harei caro non essere in favola del Francho, come fu Luigi Pulci') is more intelligible than Mary Shelley’s, but her translating ‘favola’ as ‘fable’ exemplifies her deliberate policy of retaining the rhythm and flavour of the original language where possible. ‘Fable’ formerly had exactly the sense that the Italian ‘fabula’ has here: ‘the subject of common talk’ (OED, ‘fable’, sb. 4b).

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His life for many years was one of singular good fortune and happiness: adversity ensued on the death of Lorenzo. There is a long letter of his to Jacopo Antiquario*, which describes the last days of his beloved patron in affecting and lively terms. He speaks of the counsels he gave his son, and his interview with his confessor, during which he prepared himself for death with astonishing calmness and fortitude. On one occasion he made some enquiry of the servants, which Politian answered, – “Recognising my voice,” he writes, “and looking kindly on me, as he ever did, ‘O Angelo,’ said he, ‘are you there?’ and stretching out his languid arms, clasped tightly both my hands. I could not repress my sobs and tears, yet, trying to conceal them, I turned my face away; while he, without being at all agitated, still held my hands: but when he found that I could not speak for weeping, by degrees and naturally he set me free, and I hurried into the near cabinet, and gave vent to my grief and tears.”a / The disasters that befel the Medici family after the death of Lorenzo, are supposed to have broken Politian’s heart. The presumption and incapacity of Piero caused him and all who bore his name to be exiled. The French troops at that time invaded Italy under Charles VIII.:b they entered Florence, and, in conjunction with the ungrateful citizens, plundered and destroyed the palace of the Medici; and the famous Laurentian library was dispersed and carried off in the tumult. Politian had composed a pathetic Latin monody on Lorenzo.†c * Tiraboschi. † We subjoin the whole of the original. The above verses are from the translation of Mr. Roscoe:– “Quis dabit capiti meo Aquam? quis oculis meis Fontem lachrymarum dabit? Ut nocte fleam, Ut luce fleam. Sic turtur viduus solet, Sic cygnus moriens solet; Sic luscinia conqueri. Heu, miser, miser! O, dolor, dolor! “Laurus impetu fulminis Illa, illa jacet subito; Laurus omnium celebris, Musarum choris, Nympharum choris, Sub cujus patula coma, Et Phœbi lyra blandius a

Letter dated June 1482; see Roscoe, ch. x and appendix xxix. Charles VIII, King of France (1470–98), who invaded Italy in 1494, intending to assert a claim to the throne of Naples, thus beginning the Italian Wars (1494–1559); he captured Florence in Nov. 1494. c Monodia in Laurentium Medicem; quoting Roscoe’s translation (ch. x) of stza 1 (see p. 90). Roscoe’s translation appeared above Mary Shelley’s footnote on the original Lardner page. b

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“Who from perennial streams shall bring, Of gushing floods a ceaseless spring? That through the day in hopeless woe, That through the night my tears may flow. As the reft turtle mourns his mate, As sings the swan his coming fate, As the sad nightingale complains, I pour my anguish and my strains. Oh! wretched, wretched past relief; O grief! beyond all other grief!” /

While singing these verses, after Lorenzo’s death, afflicted at the sad loss they commemorated, and by the adverse events which followed, a spasm of grief seized him, his heart suddenly broke from excess of feeling, and he died on the spot. He died on the 24th of September, 1494, having just completed his 40th year, and having survived his illustrious friend little more than two years.

BERNARDO PULCI. MORE celebrated as an Italian poet than Politian, is Luigi Pulci, author of “Morgante Maggiore.” Very little is known of his private history. There were three brothers of this family, which is one of the most ancient in Florence, since it carried back its origin to one of the French families who settled in that city in the time of Charlemagne: their fortunes, however, were decayed. Bernardo, the elder, wrote an elegy on Cosimo de’ Medici; and another very sweet and graceful sonnet on the death of Simonetta, whom Giuliano de’ Medici loved. He translated the Eclogues of Virgil into Italian, and wrote other pastoral poetry.a

Et vox dulcius insonat. Nunc muta omnia! Nunc surda omnia! “Quis dabit capiti meo Aquam? quis oculis meis Fontem lachrymarum dabit? Ut nocte fleam, Ut luce fleam. Sic turtur viduus solet, Sic cygnus moriens solet, Sic luscinia conqueri. Heu, miser, miser! O, dolor, dolor!” a Elegia di Bernardo Pulci a Lorenzo de Medici per la morte di Cosimo (Elegy on Cosimo de’ Medici), an unidentified sonnet on Simonetta Vespucci, and the Eclogues (1482). Following,

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LUCA PULCI. LUCA PULCI wrote the “Giostra di Lorenzo,” before mentioned; various poetic epistles, and two longer poems; one called the “Driadeo d’ Amore,” a pastoral founded on mythological fables; and the other, the “Ciriffo Calvaneo,” a romantic narrative poem, deficient in that interest and poetic excellence necessary to attract readers in the present day.a

LUIGI PULCI. LUIGI PULCI is the most celebrated of the brothers. It was at the instigation of Lucrezia Tornabuoni, / mother of Lorenzo de’ Medici, who has been before mentioned for her talents and love of literature, that he wrote the “Morgante Maggiore;” and Bernardo Tasso, father of the great poet, relates that he read the cantos, as they were written, at the table of Lorenzo.*b Nothing is known of the latter part of Luigi Pulci’s life. Alessandro Zilioli, in his inedited “Memoirs of Italian Poets,” cited by Apostolo Zeno, narrates that Pulci died in a state of penury at Padua, and that, from the impiety of his writings, he was denied the rites of Christian burial; but he is the only writer who mentions this, and no great faith can be reposed in him.c The poem of “Morgante Maggiore” has excited much discussion, as to whether it is intended to be considered a burlesque or serious poem. There is little of what is absolutely tragic; but much that is romantic and interesting, mingled, as in the tragedies of Shakespeare, with comedy. It is true that Pulci, while he relates wonders, does so in a language so colloquial, as to detract from the dignity of his heroes and the majesty of the adventures recounted; but in this he rather imitates than travesties real life, and especially the life of the chivalrous ages, during which * Tiraboschi. [VI. pt 3, p. 803] often very closely, Ginguené, III, ch. xxii, pp. 530–6, whose sources were Roscoe (ch. v) and Tiraboschi (vol. VI). Mary Shelley appears to be in error about the ages of the brothers. Luca (1431–70) was the eldest, followed by Luigi (1432–84) and Bernardo (1438–88). ‘In the time of Charlemagne’: i.e. about 800 AD. Charlemagne (‘Charles the Great’) was King of the Franks (742–814) and crowned first Emperor of the West (a title later converted to Holy Roman Emperor) in 800. a According to Roscoe, Stanze per la giostra di Lorenzo (Stanzas on the Joust of Lorenzo) (1471); Driadeo d’Amore (Nymph of Love), written in ottava rima; Ciriffo Calvaneo, the first epic romance of Italy; and eighteen epistles composed in terza rima. Mary Shelley’s estimate of Ciriffo Calvaneo differs from that of her sources. b Also available in Ginguené, III, ch. xxii, p. 536. c Alessandro Zilioli (d. 1650), Vite di gentiluomini veneziani del secolo XVI, tratte dalle Vita dei poeti italiani, first published in 1848 but previously summarised in Tiraboschi, VI, pt 3.

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there was so strange a mixture of the grand and the ridiculous. While reading the poem, it seems difficult to understand the foundation of the dispute, of whether it be impious, and whether it be burlesque: it is at once evident that the serious parts are intended to be elevated and tragic. Dr. Panizzi’s essay is clear and decisive on this point; and with him we may quote Ugo Foscolo, who says, that “the comic humour of the Italian narrative poems arises from the contrast between the constant endeavours of the writers to adhere to the forms and subjects of the popular story-tellers, and the efforts made, at the same time, by the genius of those writers, to render these materials interesting and sublime.”a Yet, doubtless, Pulci, as well as other writers of romantic / narrative poems, introduces comedy, or, rather, farce, designedly. Tasso alone, in his “Gerusalemme,” adhered to classic forms, and preserved the elevation of epic majesty, unmingled with wit and ridicule. The origin of the romantic tales of Charlemagne and his Paladins, made so popular by Ariosto,b and celebrated by Pulci, Boiardo, and other poets, has been much treated of. Earlier than these were “The Adventures of the Knights of the Round Table of King Arthur.” French authors have asserted that these also are founded on stories of Charlemagne; but Dr. Panizzi asserts them to be of Welsh origin: he quotes Marie de France, who declares that she translated several fabliaux from British originals; and Chaucer, who, in the “Franklin’s Tale,” says– “These olde gentil Bretons in hir dayes Of diverse adventures maden layes, Rimeyed in hir firste Breton tongue; Which layes with hir instruments they songe, Or elles redden him for hir pleasure.”c

The long narrative romances of Amadis of Gaul and Palmerin of England (which the curate saved out of the general burning of Don Quixote’s library) are supposed to be founded on various old lays and tales put together in regular narration.d In the same way, the adventures of the French knights may be supa

Antonio (later Sir Anthony) Panizzi (1797–1879), Italian exile, professor of Italian at London University (1828–30), later known for his work at the British Library. His Extracts from Italian Prose Writers for the Use of Students in the London University (1828) was published by John Taylor, co-publisher of the Cabinet Cyclopædia. His authoritative 9-volume edition of Boiardo and Ariosto (1830–4) was prefaced by a long essay, ‘The Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians’ in vol. I. Here Mary Shelley cites Panizzi, I, p. 203, who follows Ugo Foscolo’s commentary in the Quarterly Review, XXIV (Jan. 1821). b Lodovico Ariosto (1474–1533) in Orlando furioso (1533). c Canterbury Tales, ‘Franklin’s Prologue’, ll. 1–5; Marie de France (fl. 1160–90) writer of Breton lays and fabliaux (short, often comic, tales of adultery and/or low life). Detail from Panizzi, I, pp. 34–7. d Alluding to Don Quixote (1615), ch. vi; Amadís de Gaula (Amadis of Gaul), a favourite story of Henry Clerval in Frankenstein (ch. i). Early 16th century but allegedly adapted from original 13th or 14th-century texts. Palmerin de Inglaterra (Palmerin of England), a Portugese romance, has been attributed to Francisco de Moraes (fl. 16th century).

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posed to be founded on songs and romances composed to celebrate favourite heroes. The authority perpetually quoted by them all is archbishop Turpin.a This romance is supposed to have been written during the time of the first crusade: pope Calistus II. quotes it in a bull dated 1122, and pronounces it to be genuine.b From this, as from one source, the Italians drew, or pretended to draw, the various adventures of their heroes. In all their poems these are the same, and their peculiar characters are preserved; yet many of these personages are not even mentioned by Turpin: the events of his book are the wars of Charlemagne in Spain against the Saracens, and the defeat of the Paladins at Roncesvalles, through the treachery of Gano.c / Milone, a distant relative of Charlemagne, and Bertha, the emperor’s sister, were the parents of Orlando. His childhood was spent in obscurity and hardships, owing to the banishment of Milone and his wife when their marriage was discovered. He was clothed by the charity of four young friends, who brought cloth to cover him: two bought white, and two red; whence Orlando adopted his coat of arms, del quartiere. Charlemagne saw him on his road to Rome, Orlando introducing himself to his imperial uncle’s notice by stealing a plate of meat for his mother. On this he was recognised; castles and lands were bestowed on him, he became the prop of the throne, and married Alda, or Aldabella, who was also connected with the royal family. The personage who ranks next to him in celebrity is his cousin Rinaldo of Montalbano. Montalbano, or Montauban, is a city on the banks of the Tarn, near its junction with the Garonne. It is said to have been built in 1144, after the date of archbishop Turpin’s book, who makes no mention of it or its lord. It is a stronghold; and, even now, an old fortress, in the most ancient part of it, is called le Château de Renaud. Aymon, duke of Dordona, had four sons; the eldest was Rinaldo, who, having, in a transport of rage, killed Charlemagne’s nephew Berthelot with a blow of a chess-board, was, with all his family, except his father, banished and outlawed. They betook themselves to the forests and the lives of banditti; and, proceeding to Gascony, Yon, king of Bordeaux, gave his sister Clarice in marriage to Rinaldo, and permitted him to build the castle of Montauban. After several disasters, he went to the Holy Land, and, on his return, made peace with the emperor. The machinery of these poems is chiefly conducted, in the first place, by the treachery of Gano of Mayence, who is perpetually trusted by Charlemagne, and perpetually betrays him, turning his malice principally against the celebrated warriors of his court, while they are protected by Rinaldo’s a

Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi (History of Charlemagne and Orlando), in manuscript; the work is now acknowledged as a late history, but it was long attributed to Archbishop Turpin of Rhiems (d. 800). b The First Crusade took place between 1095 and 1100; Guido of Burgundy, Pope Callistus II (d. 1124). c Charlemagne’s Frankish troops were ambushed by the Basques at Roncesvaux in the Pyrenees (778); the defeat was attributed to the treachery of Gano di Magonza.

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cousin Malagigi, or Maugis, son of Beuves, or Buovo, of Aygremont. / Malagigi was brought up by the fairy Orianda, and became a great enchanter. To vary the serious characters of the drama, Astolfo, the English cousin of Orlando, being equally descended with him from Charles Martel, is introduced. Astolfo is a boaster: he is perpetually undertaking great feats, which he is unable to perform; but he is generous, and brave to foolhardiness, courteous, gay, and singularly handsome. The family of the heroes of romance has been the more dilated upon, as it serves as an introduction to all the poems. But to return to Pulci, who is immediately before us. His poem wants the elevation, the elegance, and idealism of Boiardo and Ariosto; but it is not on that account merely burlesque: it has been supposed to be impious, on account of each chapter being addressed to the Divinity, or, more frequently, to the Virgin. But in those days men were on a much more familiar footing than now with the objects of their worship; and, even at present, in purely catholic countries, – in Italy, for example, – the most sacred names are alluded to in a way which sounds like blasphemy to our ears, but which makes an integral part of their religion. There is but one passage in the “Morgante,” hereafter to be noticed, which really savours of unbelief. Thus, as seriously, or, at least, with as little feeling of blasphemy, as an alderman says grace before a turtle feast, Pulci begins his poem*:– “In the beginning was the Word next God; God was the Word, the Word no less was he: This was in the beginning, to my mode Of thinking, and without him nought could be. Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, One only, to be my companion, who Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. / “And thou, O Virgin! daughter, mother, bride Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key Of heaven and hell, and every thing beside, * “In principio era il Verbo appresso a Dio; Ed era Iddio il Verbo, e ’l Verbo lui: Questo era nel principio, al parer mio; E nulla si può far sanza costui; Però, giusto Signor benigno e pio, Mandami solo un de gli angeli tui, Che m’ accompagni, e rechimi a memoria Una famosa antica e degna storia. / “E tu Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa Di quel Signor, che ti dette le chiave Del cielo e dell’ abisso e d’ogni cosa,

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The day thy Gabriel said, ‘All hail!’ to thee; Since to thy servants pity’s ne’er denied, With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free; Be to my verses then benignly kind, And to the end illuminate my mind.” LORD B YRON ’s Translation of Canto I. of Pulci.a

The scope of the poem is then, in true epic fashion, summed up in a few lines*:– “Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom The wisest and most famous was Orlando; Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann’d too, While the horn rang so loud, and knell’d the doom Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do; And Dante in his comedy has given To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven.” – Id. ibid.

The poet then introduces the immediate object of the poem.b On Christmas day Charlemagne held his court, and the emperor was over-glad to see all his noble Paladins around him. His favour shown towards Orlando excited the spleen of Gano, who openly attacked him as too presumptuous and powerful. Orlando overhearing his words, and perceiving Charlemagne’s ready credulity, drew his Quel dì che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave! Perchè tu se’ de’ tuo’ servi pietosa, Con dolce rime, e stil grato e soave, Ajuta i versi miei benignamente, E’nfino al fine allumina la mente.”

Morgante Mag. canto i.

* “Dodici paladini aveva in corte Carlo; e’l più savio e famoso era Orlando: Gan traditor lo condusse a la morte In Roncisvalle un trattato ordinando; Là dove il corno sonò tanto forte Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando Ne la sua commedia Dante qui dice, E mettelo con Carlo in ciel felice.”

Id. ibid.

a Morgante Maggiore, I. i–ii; quoted from The Liberal. Verse and Prose from the South, II, no 4 (London: John Hunt, 1823), pp. 195–6. Byron’s translation of Canto I, together with the Italian text, first published in The Liberal, pp. 195–249; The next quotation is I. viii (Liberal, II, p. 198; the Italian stanzas appear on pp. 224–5, 227). Mary Shelley’s essay ‘Giovanni Villani’ was also published in no 4. b The summary that follows is Mary Shelley’s own; it is written in a very different style from Panizzi’s. Panizzi quotes extracts from Pulci, but Mary Shelley evidently derived her summary from reading the whole poem for herself, perhaps from an edition such as Il Morgante maggiore di Luigi Pulci, 3 vols (A presso Marcello Prauli, 1768).

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sword in a rage, and would have killed the slanderer, had not Ulivieri interposed. On this Orlando quits Paris, full of grief and rage, and goes forth to wander over the world in search of adventures. His first enterprise is undertaken in behalf of a convent, besieged by three giants, who amused themselves by / throwing fragments of rock and trees torn up by the roots, into the courts and garden of the monastery, which kept the poor monks in perpetual alarm. Notwithstanding their dissuasions, Orlando conceives this to be an adventure worthy of him: he goes out against the pagan and monstrous assailants. He kills two in single combat, and then goes to seek the fiercest and mightiest of the three, Morgante. This ferocious giant has retired, meanwhile, to a cavern of his own fashioning, and was dreaming uneasily of a serpent who came to slay him, which was only defeated by his having recourse to the name of the Christian Saviour. This disposed him to submission and conversion, and Orlando, delighted with these good dispositions, embraces and baptizes him. The monks are very grateful for their deliverance, and desirous to keep their preserver; but Orlando, tired of idleness, takes a kind and affectionate leave of the abbot, whom he discovers to be a cousin of his own, and departs with his convert in search of adventures. Meanwhile, Rinaldo, enraged at his cousin’s departure, and the partiality displayed by the emperor for the traitor Gano, leaves the court with Ulivieri and Dudone in search of the wanderer. They meet with a variety of adventures, and join him at last in the court of king Caradoro, whom they aid in his war with king Manfredonio, who demanded, at the sword’s point, the beautiful Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro, as his wife. Manfredonio is defeated. The verses that describe his final departure, at the persuasion of Meridiana, and the force of love which caused him to submit to her decree of banishment, forms one of the prettiest episodes of the Morgante. Meridiana falls in love with Ulivieri, who had delivered her: he converts her to Christianity; but this does not prevent him from following the example of the pious Æneas, and deserting her a short time after.a Gano was not content with the dispersion and exile of the Paladins: he sent messengers to Caradoro and Manfredonio, telling who the wanderers were, and inciting / these monarchs to destroy them. Besides this, he invited Erminione, a Saracen king of Denmark, to attack France while unprotected by its bravest warriors. The king succeeds so well, that, besieging Paris, he took prisoner all the remaining Paladins; and poor Charlemagne, who cuts a sorry figure throughout the Morgante, sighs for the return of Orlando and Rinaldo. Gano triumphed, and offered one of the enemy’s generals to deliver up Montalbano to him by treachery; Lionfante nobly refuses, and feels inclined to put the traitor to death; he is saved by the intercession of the family of Chiaramonte, who feared that if things were pushed to an extremity with him, his followers would revolt, and endanger the empire. a As Aeneas deserts Dido in bk IV of the Aeneid; ‘pious’ ironically alludes to his title ‘pius Aeneas’ (Aeneas the True).

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Orlando and his friends hearing in the course of their wanderings of the danger of Charlemagne, returned with a large army to deliver him. Gano wants to persuade the emperor that these allies are enemies in disguise; but the strength and valour of the most renowned Paladins are not to be mistaken. The magic arts of Malagigi the enchanter persuade Lionfante of the truth of the Christian religion: he is converted, and the war comes to an end, to the great discontent of the indefatigable Gano, who instantly begins to stir up another, informing Caradoro of the seduction of Meridiana, who sends a giant ambassador to complain to Charlemagne. The ambassador behaves with extreme impertinence, and is killed by Morgante. Rinaldo, who is rather quarrelsome, has a dispute with Ulivieri, on which, at the instigation of Gano, he is banished; and he and Astolfo become bandits. Astolfo is taken by treachery, and sentenced to be hanged. Poor fellow! Astolfo, who is always good-humoured and courageous, is a kind of scape-goat, for ever in humiliating and dangerous situations. He is now worse off than ever; but while ascending the gallows, and while the halter is fitting, a tumult is made to save him, and Charlemagne, overpowered, to preserve his life and kingdom, pardons him and Rinaldo, and banishes Gano. / But this was only done to gain time. The emperor hates the race of Chiaramonte in his heart; and Ricciardetto, the youngest brother of the house, being taken prisoner while Rinaldo is absent, Charlemagne resolves to hang him. The Paladins were highly indignant, and Orlando left the court; but Ricciardetto was saved by his brother Rinaldo, who drove the emperor from his throne, and forcing him to take refuge in one of Gano’s castles, took possession of the sovereignty himself; till, hearing that Orlando was imprisoned and sentenced to die by a pagan king of Persia, he restores the emperor to his throne, causes Gano to be banished, and sets out to deliver his cousin, accompanied by Ulivieri and Ricciardetto. He succeeds in his attempt by means of Antea, the daughter of the king of Babylon, who falls in love with him. It is impossible to follow all the intricacies of the adventures and the wars that ensue, the interest of which is derived from the detail and expression, both lost in a brief abstract. Antea, while she continues to be devotedly attached to Rinaldo, is, on some treacherous suggestion of Gano, induced to enter France, and takes possession of the castle of Montalbano. Rinaldo is sent by her father against the old man of the mountain, whom he takes prisoner and converts to Christianity: and Orlando, who is engaged in fighting and conquering whole armies, hurries to deliver Ricciardetto and Ulivieri, who are going to be hanged by Antea’s father. Morgante had been left behind in France, but sets out to rejoin Orlando, and in his way to Babylon falls in with Margutte. Margutte is a singular invention, a caprice of the poet. Pulci resolved to paint a fellow without conscience, religion, humanity, or care for aught but the grossest indulgences of the senses. Lord Byron has imitated a part of his confession of faith in one of his poems:–

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“I know not,” quoth the fellow, “who or what He is, nor whence he came, – and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon’s fat, And that good wine ne’er wash’d down better fare.” Don Juan, canto iii. v.4a /

“My name is Margutte,” says this strange being; “I was desirous of becoming a giant, but half way I repented, so that I am only ten feet high. I neither believe in black nor blue, but in capon, whether it be boiled or roast, and I have faith sometimes in butter and other good things; but above all, I put my trust in good wine. I believe in tarts and tartlets – the one is the mother, the other is the son;” – and he continues in a style of blasphemy more shocking to our protestant ears than those of the most pious catholics, who, as has been mentioned, are apt to allude in very familiar terms to the mysterious and almighty Beings, whom they do not the less on this account adore, and propitiate with prayer.b Margutte’s adventures are conducted with a kind of straightforward wickedness which amuses from its very excess: at an inn, after eating up all that is to be got, – his appetite is enormous, – and robbing the host, he sets fire to the house, and departs with Morgante, rejoicing greatly in his success, and carrying off every thing he could lay his hands upon. They go travelling on, and meet with various adventures. Morgante is infinitely amused by his companion, but preserves a gentleness, a generosity, and kindness of heart, which contrasts agreeably with the other’s unmeasured sensuality. At last, one morning, Morgante, to play him a trick, draws off Margutte’s boots while he is asleep, and hides them; Margutte looks for them, and at length perceives an ape, who is putting them on and drawing them off; the sight of the animal thus engaged so tickles Margutte’s fancy, that he laughs till he bursts. Morgante weeps over him, and buries him in a grotto. The whole episode of Margutte is distinct from the rest of the work. Pulci allows that it is not to be found in any of the old songs. Dr. Panizzi supposes, that under the name of Margutte is concealed some individual well known to Pulci and his friends, but at variance with them; and therefore made an object of sarcasm and ridicule.c We must hurry on to the conclusion of this poem, / for the incidents are so multiplied and various, that it would occupy many pages to give an account of them. Poor Morgante dies – the gentle Christian giant, the defender of ladies, and fast friend of Orlando. He is on board a vessel which is wrecked, and he is saved on the back of a whale, but on landing is bitten by a crab on the heel: he ridicules the wound; but it proves fatal, and poor Morgante dies. Gano, a traitor to the end, a Don Juan (1819–24), III. xlv. 1–4 (the reference given incorrectly), imitating Morgante, XVIII. xiii. b Extracted from Morgante, XVIII. xiii–xvi and translated by Mary Shelley. c Panizzi, I, p. 206; Leigh Hunt, whose Stories from the Italian Poets (1846) makes an interesting contrast with Mary Shelley’s ‘Pulci’, adds that the individual might have been a Greek.

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is sent to Saragossa to treat with Marsiglio, who having been lately defeated, is to pay tribute to Charlemagne. He there schemes the destruction of Orlando, who, is to come slenderly accompanied to Roncesvalles to receive the tribute. The traitor arranges with the king that he shall advance accompanied by 600,000 men; who, divided into three armies, shall successively attack the Paladin and his few troops. One of the best passages of Pulci is the scene in which the treacherous attack of Roncesvalles is determined on between Marsiglio and Gano. After a solemn dinner they walked into the park, and sat down by a fountain in a solitary place. With the hesitation and confusion of traitors they are discussing the mode of destroying the famous Paladin, when heaven gives signs of anger by various and terrifying prodigies. Marsiglio’s seat is upset; a laurel near is struck by a thunderbolt; the sun is obscured; a violent storm and earthquake fill them with alarm; then a fire breaks out above their heads, and the waters of the fountain overflowing are turned to burning blood; while the animals of the park attack each other. Gano is struck by the fall of a large fruit from a carob tree, (the tree on which Judas Iscariot is said to have hanged himself); his hair stands on end, and terror possesses his heart; but revenge is too burning within him to be quenched by fear, and the plot is proceeded in notwithstanding these frightful events. Orlando comes to Roncesvalles with a small force, rather a retinue than an army, to receive the gifts and submission of Marsiglio. The king is not neglectful of his part; his innumerable armies, one after the other, attack Orlando. The Paladin and his / friends perform prodigies of valour; but, like waves of the sea, their enemies come on irresistible from their number. Orlando sees all die around him, and his soul is pierced with grief; yet not till he feels himself dying will he sound the mighty horn which is to give Charlemagne notice of his peril. The emperor hears the faint echo borne on the winds three distinct times, and he and all around him feel certain that treason is at work and Orlando in danger. They turn pale with terror, and hasten to the sad spot, where they find the noble warrior dead. Rinaldo is near him. Rinaldo, at the moment that the slaughter of Roncesvalles was preparing, was far away in Asia. Malagigi his cousin puts a devil named Astoroth into a horse, which is to bring him to his cousin’s aid in a few hours. This journey of Rinaldo and the evil spirit forms a curious episode. They converse together on their way concerning things divine and infernal. On coming to this passage, the reader is struck by the lofty tone the poet assumes: there is a mingled disdain, dignity, and regret in the fallen angel, that moves at once compassion and respect: he is thus described*:– “This was a demon fell, named Astorot; No airy sprite, nor wanton fairy he; * “Uno spirto chiamato è Astarotte, Molto savio, terribil, molto fero,

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His home was down in the infernal grot, And he was wise and fierce prodigiously.”a

It has been supposed that Pulci did not write this portion of the poem. Panizzi does not hesitate to give credit to the assertion of Tasso*, who declares that it was written by Ficino. But Tasso affirms this merely upon hearsay, which is slender authority. There is nothing to which contemporaries are more prone than to discover that an author does not write his own works. There is nothing in the style of these stanzas unlike Pulci’s best and more serious verses. Rinaldo’s journey, / thus accelerated, was however to no purpose in saving his cousin; he could only assist in his revenge – and the poem concludes with the hanging of Gano and Marsiglio, archbishop Turpin kindly undertaking to perform the last office for the king with his own hand, and ties him up to the famous carob tree. The great beauty of the Morgante, besides scenes and passages of pathos and beauty, is derived from the simple, magnanimous, and tender character of Orlando. Charlemagne is a doting old man, Gano a traitor, Rinaldo a violent and headstrong warrior or robber, Astolfo vainglorious, but all are selfish and erring, except the single-minded and generous conte di Brava. He is the model of a true knight, – compassionate, sincere, and valiant: his death is courageous and pious: he thinks of the grief of the emperor, and the mourning of his wife Aldabella, and after recommending them to God, he embraces his famous sword Durlindana, and pressing it to his heart, and comforted by an angel from God, he fixes his eyes on heaven and expires.

CIECO DA FERRARA. THE “Morgante Maggiore” is the first of a series of romantic narrative poems, which take Charlemagne and his Paladins for the heroes of their tales. The “Mambriano” of Cieco da Ferrara is one of these.b The real name of the author was Francesco Bello. It has been said that he was called Cecco or Cieco from his blindness – but Cecco and Cecchino is the common Tuscan diminutive for Francesco.c Little is known of this author, except the disaster that has already been mentioned, and that he was poor and lived at Ferrara, and recited the cantos of Questo si sta giù nel’ infernal grotte; Non è spirito foletto, egli è più nero.” * Panizzi, Romantic Poetry of the Italians, p. 216.

Morg. Mag. xxv. 119.

a The verse translation seems to be Mary Shelley’s own. It is found neither in Byron nor Panizzi, who quotes these lines in Italian (I, p. 222); she is fond of the word ‘airy’. b Il Mambriano (1496), of 45 cantos, ‘almost totally forgotten’ (Panizzi, I, p. 303). c A suggestion which appears unique to Mary Shelley; all her sources accept the story of Cieco’s blindness.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-9

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his poem, as they were written, at the table of the cardinal Ippolito da Este.a Tiraboschi quotes from the dedication of Conosciuti, who published the “Mambriano” after the author’s death;b who therein begs the cardinal to take the poem under his care, / and with his accustomed benevolence not to deny that favour to the memory of Francesco, which he so frequently and liberally bestowed during his life. Tiraboschi adds, that such expressions do not seem to him to accord with the idea that the poet lived and died poor.c The bounty of a patron is, however, various and capricious, and, unless it takes the form of an annuity, seldom relieves the wants of a dependant; and we may take Francesco’s word that he was poor when he says – “The howling of winds and roaring of waves which I hear now abroad upon our sea, has so shattered the planks of my skiff, that I lament that I undertook the voyage. On the other side, penury burthens me with such need, that it seems to me, that I can never acquire any praise if I do not overcome these winds and storms.”*d His poem is little read, and has never been translated. We have never met with it; but from the specimens given by Panizzi, it is evident that he possessed ease of versification, and a considerable spring of poetic imagery and invention.

* “Il fremito de’ venti e’l suon dell’ onde Ch’ io sento adesso in questo nostro mare, Han cosi indebolite ambo le sponde Del legno mio, ch’ io ploro il navigare; Dall’ altro canto povertà m’ infonde Tanta necessità, che’ l non mi pare Di poter mai acquistar laude alcuna, S’ io non supero i venti e la fortuna.” Mamb. xxviii. 1. as quoted by Dr. Panizzi. a

Ippolito I, Cardinal d’Este (1479–1520), to whom Ariosto dedicated the Orlando Furioso. Tiraboschi, VI, pt 3, 806, but also in Panizzi, I, pp. 303–4. c Tiraboschi, VI, pt 3, 806; discussed by Panizzi, I, p. 304, and Ginguené, III, p. 542. Mary Shelley is more emphatic than Panizzi in dissenting from Tiraboschi and sides with the more sympathetic Ginguené. Her ensuing remarks were to prove prophetic after Godwin’s death in 1836. His widow became subject to the caprices of the Royal Bounty Fund while Mary Shelley vainly petitioned for an annuity. d Mary Shelley’s translation of Panizzi’s quotation (Panizzi, I, p. 304). Panizzi offers generous extracts from Cieco, a plot outline of the Mambriano (I, pp. 306–60) and the warning that he can be coarse at times (I, p. 367). He quotes William Stewart Rose’s translation of a short passage and expresses a hope for more (I, p. 316). b

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BURCHIELLO. VERY little is also known of this poet, whose real name was Domenico. He is supposed to have been born in Florence: he became free of the company of barbers in that city in 1432, and exercised his trade in the Contrada di Calemala.a He died at Rome in 1448. His poems are a strange and capricious mixture of sayings, proverbs, and jokes, most of which are unintelligible to the Italians of the present day. From them and his name is derived the word burlesque, to signify a mock tragic style of expression.b /

a Domenico di Giovanni (1404–49), nicknamed ‘Il Burchiello’ after the sign of a barge over his shop in the Via Calimala, in the centre of Florence. b ‘Burlesque’ derives from ‘burla’ (‘joke’), not from the term ‘Burchiellesque’, which Ginguené defines not as mock-tragic but as extravagant and unintelligible. However, he mentions that Cieco da Ferrara wrote ‘some burlesque sonnets in the manner of Burchiello’ (III, p. 542), so the confusion is understandable.

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BOJARDO.

MATTEO MARIA BOJARDO was of an ancient and noble family. His ancestors had been counts of Rubiera, a castle between Reggio and Modena, till, in 1433, Feltrino Bojardo, then the head of the family, exchanged it for Scandiano, a small castle about seven miles from Reggio, at the foot of the Apennines, and celebrated for its excellent wine. The sovereign house of Este added to the possessions of the family, and Bojardo was count of Scandiano, and lord of Aceto, Casalgrande, Gesso, La Toricella, &c.a It appears that the poet was born in the castle of Scandiano, about the year 1434, or a little before. His father was Giovanni, son of Feltrino; and his mother, Lucia, was sprung of a branch of the famous Strozzi family, original in Florence. Two of his near relatives, on the mother’s side, were elegant Latin poets.b The general outline merely of Bojardo’s life is known there, and such delicate tints as we may catch from his lyrical poetry. He received a liberal education, and was conversant in the Greek and Latin languages. He was a vassal of the Este family, and lived at the court of Borso the first duke of Ferrara, and afterwards of his successor Ercole, to whom, indeed, he attached himself during the life of Borso, when it was very uncertain whether he would succeed to the duchy.c The services he performed for this family are nearly the sole events we collect of his life. When the emperor Frederic III.d visited Italy, Bojardo was one of the noblemen sent out to meet and welcome him on his way to Ferrara, where he was entertained with extraordinary magnificence. Borso at this time was only marquis of Ferrara (though duke of Modena and Reggio), but the pope, Paul II.,e soon after created him duke of that city, and Bojardo accompanied him to Rome, when he went thither to receive the investiture. /

1469. Ætat. 35. 1471. Ætat. 37.

a Preceding paragraph abridged almost verbatim from p. ix of ‘The Life of Bojardo’ in Panizzi which occupies pp. i–cliv of vol. II of his edition of the Orlando Inamorato. b These were Tito Vespasiano Strozzi, Lord of Ferrara (1424–1505), Boiardo’s maternal uncle and Pico della Mirandola. c Borso d’Este (1413–71) and Ercole I d’Este (1431–1505), illegitimate and legitimate sons, respectively, of Niccolò d’Este III, Duke of Ferrara (1384–1441). d Frederick III (1415–93, King of Germany); Holy Roman Emperor after 1452. e Pietro Barbo, Pope Paul II (1417–71).

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1472. Ætat. 38. 1473. Ætat. 39. 1478. Ætat. 44. 1481. Ætat. 47. 1486. Ætat. 52. 1487. Ætat. 53.

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Soon after, the poet married Taddea, daughter of the count of Novellara, of the noble house of Gonzaga. He continued to enjoy the kindness and friendship of duke Ercole, who selected him with other nobles to escort to Ferrara his bride Eleonora, daughter of the king of Naples. He was named by him also governor of Reggio; which place he enjoyed, except during the short interval when he was governor of Modena, till the period of his death, which occurred at Reggio on the 20th of December, 1494, at the age of sixty. He was buried in the church of Scandiano. Some traces remain to mark his character. He was so mild a governor as to excite the indignation of a learned civilian, Panciroli, who, speaking of him as a magistrate, reproves him as a man of too great benignity, – “better fitted to write verses than punish crimes.” A contemporary Latin poet says, “that he was not severe to the errors of love, but kindly gave to others what he desired himself. He sat, indeed, on the seat of justice, and gave forth laws with a grave brow; but his countenance was not always severe; day and night he sang the triumphs of love, and while others studied the laws, he applied himself to tender poetry.”a His lyrical poetry is extremely beautiful, tender, and spirited, being characterised by that easy flow of thought and style peculiar to him. Since the days of Petrarch, it is the fashion to affix one lady’s name as the object of a poet’s verses. But, unfortunately, men, whether poets or not, are apt to change. There are traces of Bojardo’s being attached to at least two ladies: and he married a third. The most passionate of his verses were written from Rome in 1471, and were addressed to Antonia Caprara, a beautiful girl of eighteen, who, whether married or not, shared his affection. Perhaps this lady died; but we do not appear to have any verses to his wife, whom he married in 1472.b He was a good classical scholar, and translated the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius, the history of Herodotus Halicarnasseus, and the “Golden Ass” of Lucian. He / translated, altered, and enlarged the Pomarium of Ricobaldi, to which, in its new form, he gave the name of the “Imperial History.” It is a sort of chronicle, full of romantic stories, founded on history and tradition, to which, perhaps, credence was lent at that time. He wrote also a drama called Timon, founded upon Lucian, which was among the first specimens of Italian dramas, but it does not appear to have great merit. He was the author also of Latin eclogues, the language of which is elegant and spirited.c a This paragraph contains Mary Shelley’s neat rendering of two Latin quotations, respectively from the Rerum memorabilium of Guido Panciroli and De Imperio Cupidinis by one Bartolomeo Paganelli Prignano (Panizzi, II, pp. iv–v). The Eleonora mentioned above was Eleonora of Aragon (1450–93), daughter of Ferdinand I, King of Naples. From this point onward Mary Shelley ceases to stick so closely to Panizzi. b Panizzi (II, pp. ix–xxviii) prints 25 examples of love poetry from Boiardo’s Sonnetti e Canzoni (1499), a selection of which had been republished in 1820 by Venturi. He argues that they could not have all be addressed to Antonia and notes (p. xxx) that Boiardo wrote no love poetry after he married. The remark about the inconstancy of men is Mary Shelley’s. c Details in the above paragraph are a digest of Panizzi, II, pp. xxxi–lvii, who gives specimens of most of these works, or descriptions of them. Mary Shelley cuts Panizzi’s lengthy discussion as to whether Boiardo’s Istorie Imperiale is a translation of the Chronicon Imperatorum of Rico-

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His great work, however, is the “Orlando Innamorato,” or “Loves of Orlando,” founded on the old romances.a His disposition naturally inclined him to revel in romance, so that it is said that he used, at Scandiano, to visit the old villagers, and draw from them their traditionary tales, rewarding them so well for the gratification he received, that it became a sort of proverb or exclamation of good-will at that place – “God send Bojardo to your house!”b His “Imperial History,” probably gave direction to his invention, which was prolific. He took Orlando as his hero; but deeming him uninteresting unless in love, he called into life the beautiful Angelica, whose coquetry, loveliness, and misfortunes, made sad havoc in Charlemagne’s court. Mr. George Rose’s prose translation of the “Orlando Innamorato” gives a spirited abstract of the story, which must here be more briefly detailed.c Charlemagne, in the midst of prosperity and glory, held a court at Paris, at which 22,030 guests were assembled. Before these the beautiful Angelica presents herself, with her brother Argalia, and four giants as attendants. Her brother defies the knights to combat. Argalia possessed an enchanted lance, which throws whoever it touches; and Angelica a ring, which, on certain occasions, renders the wearer invisible. Every one fell in love with Angelica, and in particular Orlando and Rinaldo. Angelica becomes frightened in the midst of the disturbances of the combats, and disappearing by means of the ring, flies from the scene of / the tournament. She takes refuge in the wood of Ardennes: arriving fatigued and heated, she drinks hastily of an enchanted fountain, which causes her to fall in love with the first man she may chance to see; and then reposing on the flower-enamelled turf, falls asleep. Orlando and Rinaldo pursue her, as does also her brother Argalia; and Ferrau goes after him, being at the moment of his flight engaged in combat with him. Orlando and Rinaldo arrive at Ardennes; but the latter, on entering the forest, and refreshing himself at a foundation, drinks of water enchanted by Merlin, which causes him to hate the first woman he shall behold: he then also lies down, and goes to sleep. Angelica wakes; she rises, wanders from her place of rest, and comes to the spot where Rinaldo is reposing. Her loveblinded eyes behold him, and, transported by sudden and subduing passion, she watches his waking with fondness. He opens his eyes, and holds in abhorrence the beauty who is gazing upon him, and flies from her in disdain. Argalia meanwhile arrives in the wood, pursued by Ferrau; he has lost his enchanted lance; the baldo of Ferrara (d. ?1300). She had known the Golden Ass of Apuleius and Lucian from 1816– 17 (see MWSJ, II, pp. 633, 660; also her translation from Apuleius (vol. 4)). a Orlando innamorato (1483–95); ‘loves’ is curious, since Angelica is Orlando’s only love. b Seemingly adapted from Panizzi, II, p. v: ‘Heaven send Bojardo to your house!’. c An error for William Stewart Rose (1775–1843), perhaps confusing the son with his statesman father, Sir George Rose; the reference is to his Matteo Maria Bojardo, The Orlando innamorato, translated into prose from the Italian of Francesco Berni, and interspersed with extracts in the same stanza as the original (1823); recommended by Panizzi, II, p. cii. Ginguené (IV, ch. vi) and Panizzi also include summaries. Mary Shelley’s comment is her own, though there are a few trivial coincidences with Panizzi’s.

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enemies meet, and continue the combat. Argalia is slain: while breathing his last, he implores his enemy to cast him and his armour into the river, that no trace may remain of his disgrace. Ferrau agrees, but solicits the loan of his helmet, he himself being without one, till he can get another: Argalia consents, and dies; while Ferrau, who is a Saracen, hearing of the misfortunes of his sovereign Marsiglio, who is attacked by Gradasso, king of Sericana, gives up the pursuit of Angelica, and sets out for Spain. Angelica returns to India, and Orlando departs in quest of her. Charlemagne goes to the assistance of Marsiglio against Gradasso, who himself is a wonder of martial prowess, and is attended by an innumerable army, and several vast and fierce giants. Rinaldo has returned to court, and accompanies his imperial master: during the battle that ensues, he encounters Gradasso; but their single combat is interrupted by the hurry of the / fight, and they agree to meet in duel the next day on foot, in a solitary place by the sea-side. Gradasso’s great object is to win Orlando’s sword Durindana, and Rinaldo’s horse Bajardo: the latter is to be his prize, if he overcomes Rinaldo on the following day. Angelica meanwhile, burning with love for Rinaldo, revolves many schemes for bringing him to her side. She has in her power his cousin Malagigi (Maugis), who is a great enchanter. She set him at liberty, on condition that he shall bring Rinaldo to her. Malagigi first tries to persuade his cousin; but the chilly waters have wrought too powerfully, and the very name of Angelica is odious to him. Malagigi has recourse to stratagem. When Rinaldo keeps his appointment the next morning with Gradasso, he finds the sea-shore solitary: a little boat, tenantless, is anchored near the beach. Malagigi sends a fiend, in the shape of Gradasso, who, after a mock combat, take refuge in the pinnace, followed by Rinaldo. The boat drifts out to sea, the fiend vanishes, and Rinaldo is hurried away across the ocean, till he arrives near a palace and garden, where the vessel lightly drifts on shore. Orlando wanders about to find Angelica, and hears that she is at Albracca, a castle of Catay. But he is unable to reach her, detained by a variety of adventures and enchantments, through which he is at last deprived of all memory or knowledge, and brought to a magnificent palace, where he is left. Charlemagne meanwhile is freed from Gradasso by means of Argalia’s enchanted lance, which, falling into Astolfo’s possession, he works miracles, unhorses the mighty king, and a peace being agreed upon, he sets out in search of Orlando and Rinaldo. Poor Rinaldo is tempted meanwhile to soften towards Angelica, but in vain. The luxuries of an enchanted palace are wasted on him, and he is exposed to the most frightful dangers, from which Angelica delivers him; but still he scorns and leaves her, while she returns disconsolate to Albracca. Her hand is sought by various princes and nobles; / and in particular by Agricane, king of Tartary: she refuses them all; and Agricane, resolved to win her, besieges her in Albracca. She is defended by various of the Paladins, and goes herself with her ring in quest of Orlando, whom she restores to his senses. He gladly 106

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hastens to her assistance; he kills Agricane in a single contest, and in reward, as she wishes to get rid of him, Angelica sends him on a distant and perilous expedition. The poem then enters on a new series of adventures, arising from the revenge which Agramante wishes to take on Orlando for having slain his father, king Trojano, sixteen years before. We are now introduced to several new heroes of romance, destined to play a distinguished part in the poem of Ariosto, as well as in the present one. There is Ruggeri, whose name is adopted from the Norman knight Ruggeri, who had been king of Sicily; and there is Rodomonte, the bravest, fiercest, and wildest of all warriors. Ruggeri’s presence is absolutely needed for the success of Agramante’s expedition; but he is imprisoned in a castle, whence he can only be delivered by Angelica’s magic ring. A thievish dwarf, named Brunello, contrives to steal it from her, and Ruggeri is liberated. The expedition embarks for France, where Rodomonte, impatient of delays, had already arrived, and devastates Provence; while Marsiglio is induced, by the old traitor Gano, to invade France from the Pyrenees. Orlando, returning from his adventure, finds Angelica besieged by Marfisa, and in great peril. He mentions, that Rinaldo is in France: the name has not lost its influence. She resolves to abandon Albracca; and, having lost her ring, is glad to be protected by Orlando, who conducts her in safety to France; and who, during the long journey, never mentions his passion, nor annoys her with any manifestation of it; though she, by her former coquetry, might well expect importunity: but his generous and fond heart renders him silent, that he may not disturb her lovely, serene countenance; “Per non turbare quel bel viso sereno.”a /

Poor Angelica feels not less for Rinaldo; but, arriving at Ardennes, she is delivered from her misery, by drinking of the fountain, that turns all her love to hate; while Rinaldo, also arriving, drinks of the love-inspiring waters, and with great joy seeing the lady, wonders at his past dislike, and congratulates himself now on her passion. He addresses her with tenderness; but is repulsed with scorn, while her champion Orlando is at hand to defend her. He challenges his cousin, and they fight; but Charlemagne, hearing of their arrival in his kingdom, seizes on the lady, and forces the knights to be reconciled, privately promising to both Angelica as a prize, if they will exert themselves during the impending battle with Agramante. The poem now relates the invasion of Agramante, of Mandricardo, son of the slain Agricane, of Gradasso, and Marsiglio. A great battle takes place, in which the Saracens are triumphant, Orlando being absent. Rinaldo goes in pursuit of his horse Bajardo; while his sister Bradamante, a brave heroine, falls in love with Ruggeri, and withdraws from the field. Charlemagne retires to Paris, and is a Not from Boiardo, but from Petrarch’s Rime Sparse, 236, l. 6, ‘In order not to disturb this beautiful, serene face’; also quoted in The Last Man (MWSN, vol. 4, p. 72).

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besieged by the whole body of Saracens. The poem ends with the commencement of a sort of episode, in which Fiordespina, mistaking the sex of Bradamante, falls in love with her. In the middle of this, the poet is interrupted. The sound of arms, which betokens the invasion of the French, and the terror and misery of Italy, call him from his task of fiction, to be the witness of real woes. He promises, if the stars will permit, to continue his narration another time. This time never came, for the French invaded Italy in 1494; and it was in about the same year that Bojardo died. This is but a brief abstract of a poem interspersed with numerous episodes, beautiful descriptions, and interesting reverses. The poet never flags. An untired spirit animates every stanza, every verse: the life, the energy, the variety, the fertility of invention, are truly surprising, and far transcend Ariosto. But minuter criticism is deferred, till an account is given of Berni and his rifacimento. /

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BERNI.

FRANCESCO BERNI was born at Lamporecchio, in the Val di Nievole,a towards the end of the fifteenth century. The first eighteen years of his life were spent at Florence; whence he transferred himself to Rome, and entered on the service of his relation, the cardinal Bibbiena.b On the death of the cardinal, he attached himself to the nephew, Angelo Divizio Bibbiena. He was at one time obliged to leave Rome, on account of some adventure of gallantry*;c and afterwards entered the service of Giberti, the papal Datario,d with whom he remained seven years, accompanying him whenever Giberti’s duties as a bishop took him to Verona. But Berni was a poet, and fond of pleasure, and fortune could not obtain from him the industry which / might have advanced him with his patrons. His vivacity and his poetry were agreeable in society; he became courted as a literary man; and he was a distinguished member of the academy of the Vignaiuoli, or vine-dressers, composed of the first men in Rome. This learned association was established by a Mantuan gentleman, Oberto Strozzi. The members assumed names adopted from the vineyard; and its feasts became famous all over Italy.e Berni was at Rome when it was plundered by the Colonna party in 1526, and was robbed of every thing: at the same time he was struck with horror at the cruelties committed by the invaders. He mentions them with horror in the “Orlando Innamorato.”f When describing the sacking of a town, he says, that his unhappy eyes saw similar * Panizzi. a

Val di Nievole historically separated the duchies of Pistoia and Lucca in Tuscany. Bernardo Dovizio, Cardinal of Bibbiena (1470–1520). Mary Shelley follows Panizzi’s ‘Divizio’. Berni worked for the Bibienna from 1520–4. c A brief life of Berni was included, together with a long commentary within the ‘Life of Boiardo’ (Panizzi, II, pp. cxi–cxlviii). Mary Shelley collates this with the ‘Francesco Berni’ of the Revd Henry Stebbing (1799–1883) (Lives of the Italian Poets (1832 edn), II, pp. 297–315); see DNB for his connections with both the Cyclopædia and the Athenæum. Panizzi, more euphemistically, puts down his expulsion from Rome to ‘some love affair’. d Giovanni Matteo Giberti, Bishop of Verona (1495–1543); he was Datary (dater of correspondence) to Leo X. e L’Accademia dei Vignaiuoli (Academy of the Winemakers), established at Rome in 1530 for the support of burlesque and comedic writing; details in Stebbing and Tiraboschi. f i.e. his own Rifacimento (Refashioning) (1542) of Boiardo’s Orlando innamorato (I. xlv. 27). Pompeo Colonna (d.1532), later Cardinal, cousin of Vittoria Colonna, betrayed papal interests in favour of the Habsburg emperor and helped to sack Rome on 20 Sept. 1526. b

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outrages perpetrated in Rome. He quitted the service of the Datario after this, and retired to Florence, where he lived tranquilly, being possessed of a canonicate, which had before been given him in the cathedral of that city, and enjoying the protection of cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici, and of the duke Alexander. There is a story / of his being solicited by each of these princes to poison the other, which is not supported by dates or facts. Alexander was afterwards murdered by Lorenzino de’ Medici. The cardinal Ippolito had died before: Alexander was accused of having poisoned him; but accusations of this sort were so frequent at that time, that, according to historians and the popular voice, no man of any eminence ever died a natural death. Berni is said to have died on the 26th of July, 1536.a Berni possessed, to an extraordinary degree, a liveliness of imagination, and a facetiousness, which caused him to invent a new style of poetry, light, witty, but highly fanciful, which became the delight of his contemporaries. Mr. Stebbing speaks with great disapprobation of him, saying, “that we shall not be guilty of much injustice, if we regard him as one of those ecclesiastical Epicureans of the sixteenth century, whose infidelity and licentiousness branded them with infamy.”b His minor poems are witty, but indecent: they appear to be written, says Tiraboschi, with ease and rapidity, yet the original manuscripts show that he blotted and corrected them with care. He wrote also Latin elegies; and came nearer to Catullus, the critics tell us, than any other poet of the age.c The work by which he is known to us, is the Rifacimento of Bojardo’s “Orlando Innamorato,” which was not published till after his death. He occupied himself with this poem at Verona, while in the service of the Datario. He addresses the Po in one of the cantos of the poem, begging of it to restrain its rapid course while he writes beside its banks; and yet at this very time his letters are full of complaints of the occupations that take up all his time.d It is a curious subject to enquire, what the fault was in Bojardo’s poem, that rendered it necessary that it should be rewritten. Berni was not the first to discover this, as Domenichi had already altered the style of every stanza; yet his rifacimento had not caused it to be popular.e Meanwhile Ariosto wrote a continua

Berni’s life dates are now thought to be 1497/8–1535. He was caught between Ippolito de’ Medici (1511–35), illegitimate grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and his rival, Alessandro de’ Medici (1510–37), illegitimate great-nephew (or possibly great-grandson) of the same. Mary Shelley follows Panizzi in discounting the story that the duke poisoned Berni, but modern biographers do not. Lorenzino de’ Medici (1514–48) was a member of the younger branch of the Medici family, which descended from Lorenzo (1395–1440), brother of Cosimo the Elder. b Stebbing also calls his poems ‘most grossly obscene’, mentions ‘vices of the worst kind’ of which Berni was accused and stresses his indolence (Stebbing, II, pp. 307, 310, 311). c One such critic is Tiraboschi, VII, pt 3, p. 1156; quoted in Panizzi’s footnote (II, cxxvii). d Rifacimento, II. i. 5, quoted in Stebbing, who also quotes from Berni’s complaints. e Ludovico Domenichi (1515–64), author of the Riforma (1553) of Orlando inamorato; from Tiraboschi, VI, pt 3, p. 804 and also Panizzi, II, cxxxvi–cxxxvii, who says that Domenichi’s Riforma did make the poem more popular. In discussing the reworkings of Boiardo, there is overlap, though very little agreement, between Mary Shelley and James Montgomery, making it unlikely that she saw his work before writing her own.

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ation to it, which he named the “Orlando Furioso,” and that became the delight and glory of Italy. The choice of subject in these poets is admirable. When Milton thought of making king Arthur and his knights the heroes of a poem, he selected a subject which was devoid of any quick interest to his countrymen: wars with France and civil struggles had caused the British name to beforgotten. But the Mahometans were still the terror of Italy. After the taking of Constantinople, they pressed near upon the peninsula; Venice was kept in check, and at one time Ancona was actually taken by them. Every Italian heart felt triumph in the overthrow of a Pagan and Saracen, and warmed with interest when it was related how they were driven from France. Bojardo made choice of the subject, and he added life to it, by the introduction of Angelica. His invention, his poetic fervour, his ceaseless flow of fancy, were admirable; yet he was forgotten. Many of Ariosto’s episodes are more tedious, and they are less artificially introduced; but Ariosto was a greater poet: his style is perfectly beautiful, and his higher flights entitle him to a very high rank among the writers of verse. Perhaps, in the whole range of narrative poetry, there is no passage to compete with the progress of Orlando’s madness.a Berni evidently appreciated Ariosto’s merits, and he saw in Bojardo’s a groundwork that emulated them. His faults are doubtless greater than we can judge, since style alone occasioned his want of popularity: he has many Lombardisms; and I heard a learned Tuscan say, that nothing to their refined ear was so intolerable as the pronunciation of the north.b Style, however, was his only fault; and Berni, in altering that, brought at once to light the beauty of the poem: he changed no incident, no sentiment, scarcely a thought; stanza by stanza he remodelled the expression, and this was all; yet it would almost seem that he thus communicated a Promethean spark.c Nothing can be more false than the accusation, that he added any thing licentious to the poem. Tiraboschi even gives credit to this idea;d / but, on the contrary, his expressions are always more reserved than those of the original. The comparison may easily be made, by collating, in the two authors, the passages which describe the meeting of Bradamante and Fiordelisa, the welcome given by Angelica to Orlando when he arrives at Albracca, and the journey of these two from Albracca to Provence; and the above assertion will at once be proved; nor is it true that Berni turned a serious poem into a burlesque. He added lightness and gaiety, but seldom any ridicule. It is now easy, since Dr. Panizzi’s edition of the original poem, to compare it with the rifacimento: an Italian alone can be a competent judge; but it is easy for any one to see the difference between the earnest language of Bojardo, and the graceful wit of his improver. We a

Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1535), Orlando furioso, XXIII. lxxviii–cviii. Panizzi also mentions Boiardo’s Lombardisms. The ‘learned Tuscan’ could be a Pisan academic such as Giovanni Rosini, a partisan pro-Tuscan; see introductory Notes on ‘Guicciardini’ and ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (vol. 4). c ‘Spark’ suggests that Mary Shelley has in mind here her own revision of the Prometheus myth in Frankenstein (1831) where Frankenstein ‘infuse[s] a spark of being’ (ch. 5) into the lifeless form of the Creature. d Tiraboschi, VII, pt 3, p. 1156. b

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will give, as a specimen of the usual style of his alterations, two stanzas, selected by chance in the poem: they describe the death of Agricane. Bojardo writes thus, speaking of Orlando, when his adversary, having received a mortal wound, asks him to baptize him*:– “He had his face covered with tears, and he dismounted on the ground: he took the wounded king in his arms, and placed him on the marble of the fountain: he was never weary of weeping with him, entreating for pardon with a gentle voice. Then he baptized him with water from the fountain, praying God for him with joined hands. He remained but a short time, / finding his face and whole person cold, whence he perceived that he was no more. He leaves him on the marble of the fountain, all armed as he was, with his sword in his hand, and his crown, and then he turned towards the horse, and thought that he recognised Bajardo.” Thus alters Berni†:– * “Egli avea pien di lagrime la faccia, E fu smontato in su la terra piana; Ricolse il Re ferito ne le braccia, E sopra ’l marmo il pose a la fontana, E di pianger con seco non si saccia, Chiedendogli perdon con voce umana. Poi battezzollo a l’ acqua de la fonte, Pregando Dio per lui con le man gionte. “Poco poi stette, che l’ ebbe trovato Freddo il viso e tutta la persona; Onde s’avvide ch’ egli era passato. Sopra al marmor al fonte l’ abbondona, Così com’ era tutto quanto armato, Co’l brando in mano, e con la sua corona; E poi verso il destrier fece riguardo, E pargli di veder che sia Bajardo.” Orlando Inn. da Bojardo, lib. i. can. xix. stan. 16, 17a † “Piena avendo di lagrime la faccia Scende di Brigliadoro in terra il Conte, Recasi il Re ferito nelle braccia E ponlo su la sponda della fonte; E pregando, lo bacia, e stretto abbraccia, Che l’ ingiurie passate siano sconte, Non potendo dir sì, china il Re il collo, E Orlando con l’acqua battezzollo. “E poichè finalmente gli ha trovato Il viso freddo, e tutta la persona, Onde il giudica tutto trapassato, Par sopra quella sponda l’ abbandona, Così com era tutto quanto armato, Col brando in mano, e con la sua corona: Pol verso il suo caval volto lo sguardo Gli par raffigurar, che sia Bajardo.” Orlando Inn. rifatto da Berni, can. xix. stan. 19, 20. a From Panizzi, III, p. 169, with ‘nel viso’ for ‘il viso’. The Berni text was available in, e.g., Parnaso italiano (Venice, 1785) and Biblioteca italiana portatile (Florence, 1827).

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“Having his face covered with tears, the count dismounts from Brigliadoro: he took the wounded king in his arms, and placed him on the brink of the fountain, entreating, while he kisses and embraces him, that all past injuries might be forgotten. Not able to say yes, the king inclines his head, and Orlando baptized him with water; and, at last, he found his face and whole person cold, whence he judged that he was no more; wherefore he left him on the verge of the fountain, all armed as he was, with sword in hand, and with his crown: then, turning his look upon his horse, it seemed to him that he recognised Bajardo.” This, of course, is a very clumsy mode of showing the difference; and yet it gives the mere English reader an idea of the extent of Berni’s alterations. But, although he did not materially change either event or thought, he added to the poem; and the real merits of Berni became very evident in the introductory stanzas which he appended to each canto. It seems to me that these have never been sufficiently appreciated: / they are not jocose nor burlesque; they are beautiful apostrophes, or observations upon the heart and fortunes of human beings, embodied in poetic language and imagery. Many of them are to be preferred to those of Ariosto, whom he imitated in these additions. We have noticed his address to the Po, which is singularly beautiful; another well-known interpolation is the introduction of a description of himself: this, it is true, is burlesque; but the style of irony is exquisite, and, surely, may be allowed, as it is directed against his own faults and person. Mr. Rose has translated this passage, and published it in his prose abstract of the “Innamorato.” Dr. Panizzi has quoted it also in his work.a He gives an account of his life; of his birth at Lamporecchio; of the “piteous plight” in which he sojourned at Florence till the age of nineteen; and his journey to Rome, when he attached himself to his kinsman, the cardinal Bibbiena, “who neither did him harm nor good;” and, on his death, how he passed to the nephew,– “Who the same measure as his uncle meted;”

and then “in search of better bread,” how he became secretary to the Datario. Yet, he could not please his new patron; although “The worse he did, the more he had to do.”

Then he describes his own disposition and person:– “His mood was choleric, and his tongue was vicious, But he was praised for singleness of heart, Nor taxed as avaricious or ambitious; Affectionate and frank, and void of art; A lover of his friends and unsuspicious; a

Panizzi reprints (II, pp. cxiv–cxviii) Rose’s translation of parts of Rifacimento (III, vii, 36–56), incorporating Rose’s post-1823 alterations. Mary Shelley quotes extracts from this, probably from Panizzi, as there is only one substantive disparity (‘endless way’ for Panizzi’s ‘endless Hay’, which could be a miscopying). Rose’s translation is on pp. xliii–lv of his 1823 edn.

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And where he hated knew no middle part: And men his malice and his love might rate; But then he was more prone to love than hate. “To paint his person, – this was thin and dry; Well sorting it, his legs were spare and lean; Broad was his visage, and his nose was high, While narrow was the space that was between His eyebrows; sharp and blue his hollow eye, Which, buried in his heard, had not been seen, But that the master kept this thicket cleared, At mortal war with moustache and with beard”a /

No one ever detested servitude as he did, though servitude was still his dole. He then whimsically describes himself as inhabiting the palace of a fairy; where, according to Bajardo, people are kept happily and merrily, amusing themselves, and passing their lives in indolence. Berni supposes himself to be one of the company, together with a French cook, Maître Pierre Buffet, who had been in the service of Giberti; and he describes his beau-ideal of the indolent life he loved. Tired with noise, lights, and music, he finds a lonely room, and causes the servants to bring a bed into it, – a large bed, – in which he might stretch himself at pleasure; and, finding his friend the cook, another bed is brought into the same room for him, and between the two a table was placed: this table was well supplied with the most savoury viands:– “But soup and syrup pleased the Florentine (Berni), Who loathed fatigue like death; and for his part, Brought neither teeth nor fingers into play, But made two varlets feed him as he lay. “Here couchant, nothing but his head was spied, Sheeted and quilted to the very chin; And needful food a serving man supplied Through pipe of silver placed the mouth within. Meanwhile the sluggard moved no part beside, Holding all motion else mere shame and sin: And (so his spirits and his health were broke), Not to fatigue this organ, seldom spoke.” “The cook was Master Peter hight, and he Had tales at will to wile away the day; To him the Florentine:– ‘Those fools, pardie, Have little wit, who dance that endless way.’ And Peter in return: ‘I think with thee.’ Then with some merry story back’d the say, Swallowed a mouthful, and turned round in bed, And so, by starts, talked, turned, and slept, and fed.” a

Extracted from Panizzi, II, p. cxv.

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*

“Above all other curses, pen and ink Were by the Tuscan held in hate and scorn, Who, worse than any loathsome sight or stink, Detested pen and paper, ink and horn. So deeply did a deadly venom sink, So fester’d in his flesh a rankling thorn, While, night and day, with heart and garments rent, Seven weary years the wretch in writing spent. “Of all their ways to baffle time and tide, This seems the strangest of their waking dreams: Couched on their backs, the two the rafters eyed, And taxed their drowsy wits to count the beams. ’Tis thus they mark at leisure which is wide, Which short, or which of due proportion seems, And which worm-eaten are, and which are sound, And if the total sum is odd or round.”a

This is a specimen of Berni’s humour, which gave the name of Bernesco to poetry of this nature. More serious and more elegant verses abound, as we have already remarked, and prove that Berni deserves a very high place among Italian poets. /

[‘Ariosto’ (pp. 196–256) has been omitted.]

a Bk III, canto vii, st. 51 (ll. 5–8) through st. 56, with the omission of st. 54; Panizzi, II, pp. cxvii–cxviii.

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MACHIAVELLI. 1469–1522. a THERE is no more delightful literary task than the justifying a hero or writer, who has been misrepresented and reviled; but such is human nature, or such is the small progress that we have made in the knowledge of it, that in most instances we excuse, rather than exculpate, and display doubts instead of bringing forward certainties. Machiavelli has been the object of much argument, founded on the motives that impelled him to write his celebrated treatise of the “Prince,” which he declares to be a manual for sovereigns, and Rousseau has named the manual of republicans.b The question of whether he sat down in cold blood, and as approving them, or whether he wrote in irony, the detestable maxims he boldly and explicitly urges, has been disputed by many. Voltaire has joined in the cry against him, begun by our countryman cardinal Pole.c It is a curious question, to be determined only by the author himself. We must seek in the actions of his life, and in his letters, for a solution of the mystery. Ample materials are afforded, and if we are unable to throw a clear light on the subject, at least we shall adduce all the evidence, and, after summing it up impartially, leave the jury of readers to decide. The family of Machiavelli carried back its origin to the ancient marquesses of Tuscany, and especially to a marquis Ugo, who flourished about the year 850, who was the root whence sprung various nobles, who possessed power over territories, which the growing state of Florence speedily encroached upon. The Machiavelli were lords of Montespertoli;d but preferring the rank of citizens of a prosperous city, to the unprofitable preservation of an illustrious ancestry, they submitted / to the laws of Florence, for the sake of enjoying the honours which the republic had to bestow. The Machiavelli belonged to that portion of the Guelph party a This is the first of Mary Shelley’s Lives to display the life-dates under the title, a convention which she observes hereafter. They are in Montgomery’s ‘Dante’ but not in his ‘Ariosto’, an inconsistency resulting from typesetting items singly over a long period of time. b The Prince (Il principe) (1532); characterised thus by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Le Contrat Social: principes du droit politique (The Social Contract) (1762), bk III, ch. 6. c Voltaire criticises Machiavelli in Les droits des hommes et usurpation des papes (The Rights of Men and the Usurpation of Popes) (1768); likewise Cardinal Reginald Pole (1500–58) in the Apologia ad Carolum Quintum (1539). d In the Val d’Elsa, some 20 miles west of Florence.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-13

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which abandoned their native town in 1260, after the defeat of Monteaperti.a Being afterwards re-established in their country, they enjoyed thirteen times the rank of gonfaloniere of justice, an office corresponding to the better known one of doge, except that it was an annual magistrature; and fifty-three different members of the family were elected priors, another of the highest offices of government. Niccolò Machiavelli was born in Florence on the 3d of May, 1469; his father was jurisconsult and treasurer of the march, and by aid of these offices, maintained in some degree the lustre of his family, which was obscured by the poverty into which it had fallen. His mother Bartolomea, daughter of Stefano Nelli, was equally well descended. Her family derived itself from the ancient counts of Borgonuovo of Fucecchio, who flourished in the tenth century, and her ancestors had been elected to the highest offices in the Florentine state. She had been previously married to Niccolò Benizzi, and was distinguished for her cultivated understanding and talent for poetry.b Nothing is known of the childhood and education of Machiavelli. Paul Jovius wishes to prove that he scarcely understood Latin, but this opinion finds no credit: Paul Jovius is a writer, whose celebrity is founded on his unblushing falsehoods and baseless calumnies*:c he was sold to the Medici, and attacked without scruple, and with a total disregard for truth, those persons who were inimical to them. At the age of five and twenty, Machiavelli was placed as secretary under Marcello di Virgilio de’ Adriani,d or, as he is commonly called, Marcellus Virgil, whose pupil he had formerly been. Marcellus Virgil had been at one time / professor of Latin and Greek, and was now one of the chief officers of the Florentine court of chancery. Paul Jovius gives Machiavelli the name of his clerk and copyist, and adds, that, from this master, he obtained those flowers of ancient learning which are interspersed in his works. Nothing is at once more base and futile than these attempts to degrade celebrated men, by impeaching their station in society, or adventitious acquirements. It only serves to display the detractor’s malice, and to render more conspicuous the merit which could triumph over every disadvantage. There is no trace of Machiavelli’s taking any part in the political disturbances of Florence at this time. The city was then agitated by the pretensions and * Baldelli. [Elogio di Machiavelli] a

The victorious Ghibellines (the pro-imperial party) proposed after Monteaperti that Florence should be razed so that the Guelphs (pro-pope) would be irrevocably weakened. b Bartolomea de’ Nelli (d. 1496), married Bernardo Machiavelli di Niccolò di Buoninsegna (1428–1500) in 1458. Borgonuove di Fucecchio is some 25 miles from Florence. c Paulo Giovio (1483–1552), author of Historiae sui temporis (1551–2). Baldelli references him in his Elogio, which prefaces various editions of Machiavelli’s Opere, but does not repeat his calumnies. d Marcello Virgilio Adriani (1464–1521).

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Mar. 8. 1497. Ætat. 28.

1498. Ætat. 29.

1492.

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turbulence of the prophet Salvanorola.a There is a letter extant of his, which gives some account of the preaching and denunciations of the ambitious friar, which shows that, if he did not belong to the party opposed to him, he was, at least, not duped by his impostures*:– “In my opinion,” he says, “he temporises and gives to his falsehoods the colour of the occasion.”b The disposition of Machiavelli was observing and industrious; his ambition was under the rule of judgment, and his hopes fixed on the favour he might secure from the heads of government. For five of the best years of his life he was content to exercise the unostentatious functions of secretary to an officer of chancery, nor were any of his writings composed at this period: they were the fruits of thought and experience, and there is nothing to tell us, that, as a young man, he was warmed by that self-confidence and restless aspiration, which he displayed in maturer life. It may be supposed, however, that his employer, Marcellus Virgil, distinguished his talents and recommended them to observation, as they were both promoted at the same time, Marcellus being elected high chancellor, and Machiavelli preferred over four other candidates, to the post of chancellor of the second / court. A month afterwards he was named secretary to the council of ten (the chief council of the state), which situation he retained till the revolution, which, fourteen years afterwards, overthrew the government he served. During this period, Machiavelli pursued an active career: he was continually employed on missions to various sovereigns and states. His letters to his government on these occasions are published, and he wrote besides brief surveys of the countries to which he was sent. His active and enquiring mind was continually on the alert, and he stored up with care the observations and opinions that resulted from the personages and scenes with which he was brought into contact. Italy was at this time in a state of convulsion, torn by foreign armies and domestic quarrels: the peace of the peninsula had died with Lorenzo de’ Medici. That sagacious statesman saw the safety of his country in the preservation of the balance of power among its several rulers. It was his endeavour to check the encroachments of the king of Naples and the pope, who ruled southern Italy, by the influence of the duke of Milan, and of the Venetian republic; while these again were prevented from attempting war with Florence, or trespassing on the smaller states of Romagna, by the jealousy of the sovereigns of the south. For many years no foreign army had crossed the Alps, and the battles of the condottieri became more and more innoxious.c * Let. Fam. ii. a See ‘Boccaccio’. Because Savonarola advocated the overthrow of the Medici and of Pope Alexander VI in favour of a republic, he was eventually excommunicated (1497) and executed (23 May 1498); he was nevertheless instrumental in turning public opinion against Piero de’ Medici ‘the Unfortunate’. b Letter of 9 March 1497. c Condottieri, mercenary soldiers, common in Italy from c. 1450–1600; innoxious: harmless.

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This fine system of policy fell to the ground on the death of Lorenzo. His son Piero, who succeeded him, was a rash, impolitic, and feeble statesman, defying dangers till they were close at hand, and then yielding weakly to them. He had not feared to make an enemy of Ludovico Sforza, who reigned over Milan in the name of his nephew Giovan Galeazzo, the rightful duke.a Ludovico wished to play the old part of his wicked uncle, and to supplant the youthful prince; but he feared to be prevented by the king of Naples. To occupy and / weaken him, he invited Charles VIII. of France into Italy, instigating him to assert his right to the Neapolitan crown, which he claimed through René,b who inherited it, together with the counties of Anjou and Provence. This was the origin of all the evils which overwhelmed Italy, crushed its spirit of liberty, destroyed its republics, and after making it a field of battle for many years, caused it in the end to become a mere appanage to the crowns of Germany, Spain, or France, according as these kingdoms enjoyed alternately the supreme power in Europe. The entrance of the French into Italy caused great commotion in the city of Florence. It was considered by Lorenzo to be the policy of the Florentines to keep allies of the king of France: but Piero acted a thoughtless and unstable part; he at first opposed the French, and then threw himself into their hands. The Florentines were enraged at the sacrifices he made to pacify an enemy which he had brought upon himself, and the result was his expulsion from the city, and the overthrow and exile of the Medicean family. Charles VIII. overran Italy, and possessed himself of the kingdom of Naples without drawing a sword, except to massacre the defenceless people. The Italians were accustomed to a mild system of warfare; they carried on their military enterprises by condottieri, or captains of independent bands of soldiers, who hired themselves to the best bidder. These condottieri consisted of foreign adventurers, who came into Italy on the speculation of turning their military talents to profit, or of the minor native princes, or lords of single towns, who augmented their consequence and revenue by raising troops, commanded by themselves, but paid by others. These mercenaries were inspired by no spirit of patriotism or party; they fought for pay and booty; they changed sides at the beck of their captain, who was influenced by the highest offer. They fought to-day side by side with men whom the next they might attack as enemies: they fought, therefore, in a placid spirit of / friendly enmity; often not a single soldier fell upon the field of battle. Add to this, they were very indifferently provided with fire-arms. The ferocity of the French, their artillery, discipline, and massacres, filled the unwarlike population with alarm and horror. They fled, or submitted without a blow. But Charles lost his a i.e. Piero de’ Medici, ‘the Unfortunate’; Giovan Galeazzo Sforza, Duke of Milan (1469–94), nephew of Ludovico Sforza (1451–1508) and son-in-law to the king of Naples. Giovan’s youth and complicated allegiances led to his murder by his ambitious uncle, who had assumed the Regency by force in 1480 and who claimed the title of Duke in 1494. b King René of Anjou (1409–80).

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1500. Ætat. 31.

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conquest almost as soon as he gained it; he returned to France, and the crown of Naples fell from his head at the same moment.a His death followed soon after; and his successor, Louis XII., on turning his eyes to Italy, rather fixed them on the duchy of Milan, to which he had pretensions by right of inheritance. His conquest of this dukedom was speedy and complete, and he then proceeded to possess himself of Naples. The king then reigning, Frederic of the house of Arragon, called in the Spaniards to his aid, and he was crushed in the collision of the two warlike nations. He was banished Naples and confined in France, while Louis and Ferdinand at first amicably divided, and then hostilely fought for, the possession of his kingdom.b Meanwhile the first entrance of Charles VIII. into Italy had left the seeds of discord and disaster in Tuscany. Pisa was at that time under the rule of Florence, but repining at its servitude. When Charles entered Pisa, its citizens implored him to restore to them their independence: he promised to comply; and though afterwards he made treaties to a contrary effect with Florence, the Pisans profited by his secret inclination in their favour, and the sympathy afforded them by the officers and men that composed his army, to shut their gates against their Florentine governors, and to assert their liberty. From this time it became the ardent desire of Florence to subdue the rebel city; they exhausted all their resources in prosecution of this favourite object. Each year they attacked the walls, and destroyed the crops, of the unfortunate but resolute Pisans; and, in each treaty they made with France, the chief article was a promise of aid in this desired conquest. / At one time they formed the siege of Pisa, and solicited Louis XII. to supply them with troops and artillery. That politic sovereign, who wished to strengthen himself in Italy, sent them double the force they required. These auxiliaries, composed of Swiss and Gascons,c pillaged both friends and foes, quarrelled with the Florentine commissaries, came to a secret understanding with Pisa, and, finally, on a pretence of a delay of pay, raised the siege. The king of France accused Florence of being the cause of this affront sustained by his arms; and, to appease him, and to obtain, if possible, further assistance, the republic deputed Francesco della Caza, and Machiavelli, as envoys to the French court.

a The vastly unpopular King of Naples, Alfonso II (rgn 1494–5) abdicated, and his successor and son Ferrantino (Ferdinand II, d. 1496) fled, upon the approach of French troops in early 1495. However, Spain, Milan, Venice, the pope and the emperor formed an alliance against Charles VIII in March 1495, and he gave up Naples. b Louis d’Orleans (Louis XII, 1462–1515), successor to Charles VIII in 1498. Frederick III/ IV (d. 1504) became king of Naples (1496) after the death of his nephew Ferrantino. He called upon the aid of his kinsman, Ferdinand the Catholic, King of Aragon and of Spain (1452–1516). Ferdinand betrayed him in the secret Treaty of Grenada (1500) with Louis. For a time held jointly by Spain and France, Naples ultimately passed into exclusive Bourbon control. c Gascons (see vol. 2, p. 302), whose role as mercenaries at the siege of Pisa is described by Machiavelli, Legation, Jul.–Nov. 1500.

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A year before Machiavelli had been employed on a mission to Caterina Sforza, countess of Forli,a with regard to the terms of engagement offered to her son, for serving Florence as condottiere; but the legation to France was of greater importance. The commissions, or instructions of the government to Machiavelli, and his letters to the state during this and all his other missions, are published.b They are long and minute, but far less tedious than such correspondences usually are; and the reading them is indispensable to the forming a just notion of his character, and a view of the actions of his life. There is something curiously interesting in the style of his instructions on the present occasion; they display a civic simplicity of manners and language, and a sagacity in viewing the personages and events in question, combined with true Italian astute policy. Guicciardini observes, that when the French first entered Italy, they were astonished and disgusted by the want of faith and falsehood which prevailed in their negotiations with the native princes and states. In this commission the Florentine government gave instructions to their envoys savouring of the prevalent vice of their country.c The commander of the French forces before Pisa, Beaumont, had been appointed at their own request: he failed without any fault of his / own, through the insubordination of the troops under him. The state of Florence instructed its envoys:– “According to circumstances you may accuse him violently, and cast on him the imputation of cowardice and corruption; or free him from all blame, and, speaking honourably of him, throw all the fault upon others. And take care how you criminate him, as we do not wish to lose his favour, without gaining any thing elsewhere by such a proceeding.”d Machiavelli and his fellow envoy remained in France three months, following the king and his court to Montargis, Melun, Plessis, and Tours.e They were faithful and industrious in fulfilling their duties, especially Machiavelli; Francesco della Caza being taken ill, and spending the greater part of this time at Paris. They failed in their object: the king wishing Florence to engage troops from him on the same terms, of paying all the expenses, and the Florentines wishing to induce him to form the siege at his own risk, reimbursing him only in case of success. Machiavelli meanwhile was very desirous to return home; “because,” he writes, “my father died only a month before my departure, and since then I have lost a sister, and all my affairs are in disorder, so that I am injured in many ways.”f Towards the a Caterina Sforza, Countess of Forlì (1463–1509), natural daughter of Emperor Maximilian I and wife of Gerolamo Riario, Lord of Imola and Forlì (d. 1488); she ruled as a widow from 1488–99. b For instance in Opere di Niccolò Machiavelli, ed. G. D. Poggiali (Milan, 1804–5). c A point made throughout bk I of Francesco Guicciardini (1482–1540), Storia d’Italia (1561), especially with reference to Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan (e.g. I. i, pp. 52, 131, 134–5). d ‘Commissione di Francesco della Casa e Nicolò Machiavelli all corte di Francia’, 14 Jan. 1500. e Château villages of the Loire Valley, France. f ‘Legazione prima all corte di Francia’, letter xxiv, 25 Oct. 1500.

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end of October, Florence sent an ambassador with greater powers to the French court, and the envoys returned to Italy. His next legation was to Cæsar Borgia.a It is necessary to enlarge upon this mission. The great doubt that clouds Machiavelli’s character regards the spirit in which he wrote the “Prince,” – whether he sincerely recommended the detestable principles of government which he appears to advocate, or used the weapons of irony and sarcasm to denounce a system of tyranny which then oppressed his native country. The example he brings forward most frequently in his treatise, is that of Cæsar Borgia: his mode of governing his states, and the artifice and resolution with which he destroyed his enemies, are adduced as worthy of applause / and imitation. We must, therefore, not only enquire what the deeds of this man were, but endeavour to discover the real sentiments of Machiavelli, the opinion that he formed upon his conduct, and the conclusions which he drew from his success. We may also mention that the secretary has been accused of being Borgia’s confidant in his plots. Mr. Roscoe has lightly adopted this idea;b but the course of the present narration will easily disprove it. Soon after the death of Lorenzo de’ Medici, died Innocent VIII.; and Roderigo Borgia, a native of Valentia in Spain, and one of the most ancient of the cardinals, was chosen pope in his room. His election was carried by force of bribery and intrigue, to the horror and amazement of the whole Christian world; since not only the methods by which he rose were known, but also the character and actions of the man thus exalted.* The new pontiff assumed the name of Alexander VI. “He was a man,” to use the words of Guicciardini, “of singular prudence and sagacity; enduded with great penetration, and marvellous powers of persuasion, and always acting with extreme forethought and policy. But these good qualities were darkly clouded by the worst vices. His depraved life, his total want of shame, his contempt for good faith, religion, and truth, his matchless deceit, insatiable avarice, barbarous cruelty, and unbounded desire to exalt his numerous offspring, who were not less dissolute and unprincipled than himself, stained his character, and marked his reign with inexpressible infamy.”c Cæsar Borgia, his younger son, had been educated for the church; and, despite his illegitimate birth, was raised to the rank of cardinal. But Cæsar disliked the sacerdotal profession, and was jealous of his elder brother, the duke of Candia, * Guicciardini. a Cesare Borgia (1476–1507), the natural son of Pope Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia (1431– 1503)), became Cardinal of Valencia (1493) and Duke of Gandia (1498); also called ‘Il Valentino’. b Machiavelli ‘affects not to conceal the features of guilt under the slightest cover of decency’ (Roscoe, Leo the Tenth, I, p. 323). Mary Shelley makes an occasional use of Leo the Tenth throughout ‘Machiavelli’, ‘Guicciardini’ and ‘Vittoria Colonna’. c Translated from Storia d’Italia (I, i, p. 14); page references are to the 10-volume translation History of Italy from the Year 1490 to 1532 (1753–6).

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whom his father was desirous of raising to the highest temporal rank, both because of his success in arms, and also on account of the preference shown him by their sister Lucretia. Incited / by these criminal passions, he one night caused the duke to be waylaid, murdered, and thrown into the Tiber.a The pope was at first overwhelmed with grief on his son’s death, and made great show of repentance and reformation; but soon after he cast aside all thoughts of this kind, and returned with renewed eagerness to his former pursuits and projects. Cæsar gained the point at which he aimed. He was permitted to abdicate the cardinal’s hat; and, in reward for the dispensation which the pope granted Louis XII. to divorce his first wife, and to marry Anne of Britany, he obtained the duchy of Valence in France, and henceforth was commonly called by the name of the duca Valentino, or Valentian duke.b It was the chief ambition of this new temporal noble to form a principality in Italy. The territories of the marquisate of Savoy, of the duchy of Milan, and of the Venetian republic, embraced the greater portion of the peninsula north of the Apennines. To the south, the kingdom of Naples, Rome, and the republic of Florence, were the principal states; but other territories remained, a sovereignty over which was claimed by the popes, but which obeyed a variety of petty lords, whose families had for centuries enjoyed the rule. The various cities of Romagna to the east, Bologna to the north, Piombino to the west, and Perugia to the south, formed the chief: of these Cæsar Borgia resolved to possess himself, extending a prophetic eye to the future conquest of Tuscany. Already he had acquired dominion over Romagna: he dispossessed the duke of Urbino and the prince of Piombino of their states,c and now he turned his eyes towards Bologna. Giovanni Bentivoglio had long been lord of this wealthy city; good fortune, rather than talents or a spirit of enterprise, had raised him, and he spared no blood in confirming his power. Cæsar Borgia was supported in his encroachments by an alliance with Louis XII. In vain was it represented to this monarch*, “that it ill became the splendour of the French / crown, and the title of most Christian king, to show favour to an infamous tyrant, the destroyer of many states; a man who thirsted for human blood, and was an example to the whole world of perfidy and inhumanity; who, like a public robber, had broken faith with and murdered so many princes and nobles; one stained with the blood of his nearest kindred, and whose crimes * Guicciardini. a Giovanni Borgia (1476–97), 2nd Duke of Gandia. Lucrezia Borgia (1478–1519) was also Alexander VI’s natural child. b Alexander VI had assisted in annulling the first marriage of Louis XII. Upon marrying Anne of Brittany (1477–1514), Louis gained her extensive territories (she figures as a similar dynastic pawn in Perkin Warbeck). c Guidobaldo I da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino (d. 1508), expelled by Cesare Borgia 1497; regained his dukedom upon the death of Borgia and bequeathed Urbino, in the Marches, to the Della Rovere family. Piombino: maritime province SE of Pisa.

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of poisoning and stabbing were unequalled in a Christian country.”a Louis favoured him, not so much from his own inclination, as at the instigation of the cardinal d’Amboise,b who was desirous of currying favour with the pope; and who, by protecting his son, obtained the high office of legate to France. At the moment of the commencement of his attack on Bologna, while running a full career of success, Cæsar Borgia received a check from the revolt of his chief condottieri. Like all the other princes of Italy, the army of the duke of Valence consisted of various bands, independent of each other, and obeying several distinct captains. The chief among these were Vitellozzo Vitelli, lord of Città Castello, Oliverotto da Fermo, in the March, and Paolo Orsino, who was master of a large portion of the patrimony of St. Peter, and the duke of Gravina, also of the Orsini family. These men assembled at Magione, near Perugia; they were joined in their consultations by cardinal Orsini, chief of the family, and then at enmity with the pope; Giovanpaolo Baglioni, lord of Perugia, Hermes Bentivoglio, who represented his father, lord of Bologna, and Antonio da Venafro, minister of Pandolfo Petrucci, lord of Siena. These last-named nobles feared the encroachments of Borgia, and gladly availed themselves of an opportunity to seduce away his captains, and to check his enterprises. It is to be remembered that the individuals thus conspiring were men stained with the crimes of treachery and assassination, then so rife in Italy – men whose aim was power, and who thought every method that led to it justifiable. For Cæsar ran no new career of crime: he travelled in the same path with many of his contemporaries, / while he excelled them all in resolution, intrepidity, and remorseless cruelty: his abilities were greater, his conscience more seared. Inhuman, stern, and treacherous, he was yet sagacious, eloquent, courteous, and plausible. It was a common saying at Rome, that the pope never did what he said, and that his son never said what he did.* Prudence and success meanwhile gained for him the respect even of those by whom he was abhorred. The conspirators at Magione were at once aware of the character of the man with whom they had to deal, and the small faith they could repose in each other; but they saw their destruction in the fulfilment of Borgia’s ambitious schemes; and this served as a common bond between them. They took care to gather together their troops, and, occupying the country between Romagna and Rome, they hoped to prevent Cæsar from receiving aid from his father. The duke of Urbino, whose duchy Borgia had lately seized, joined the league, and suddenly appearing at the head of some forces, repossessed himself of his territories, in which he was greatly beloved. Borgia was at Imola with but few troops when he heard of the loss of Urbino, and the revolt of his captains. These men invited the Florentines to join them. The republic feared Borgia, but they hated yet more the * Guicciardini. a b

Storia d’Italia (III, v, p. 119). Georges d’Amboise (1460–1510), French statesman and Cardinal.

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conspirators, as there existed between them various and urgent motives of enmity: they feared also to displease the king of France by taking part against his ally. They discountenanced, therefore, the advances of the captains, and sent Machiavelli to the duke at Imola,a to inform him of this circumstance, and to assure him in general terms of their continued amity; and, moreover, to watch the progress of the conspiracy, and to learn what hope Borgia entertained of repelling the menaced injury. Machiavelli approached without any feeling of abhorrence, a man honoured and protected by the king of France. He had no sympathy with the conspirators, / but rather hated them, as the enemies of his country, and as traitors. Borgia commanded more respect. He was a man of greater powers of mind; a high and commanding spirit, running a prosperous career, who had hitherto overcome every obstacle to his advancement.* It was a curious study to observe the methods he would use to crush the nest of traitors in league against him. Machiavelli arrived at Imola on the 7th of October, and was instantly admitted to an audience with the duke. Borgia received him with every show of courtesy and kindness. He was in high spirits, declaring that the stars that year were inimical to rebels, and that the revolt was a piece of good fortune, since it enabled him to distinguish his friends from his foes, at a critical moment. He declared that his clemency had been the cause of this disaster, and frankly entered into details concerning the progress made by the confederates. From day to day Machiavelli continued to see and converse with Borgia, who exerted the grace of manner for which he was renowned, and a show of cordiality, to win the suffrage of the yet inexperienced secretary. “I cannot express to you,” Machiavelli writes to his government, “the earnest demonstrations he makes of affection towards the republic, and how eagerly he justifies himself with regard to his threatened attack last year, throwing the blame upon Vitellozzo Vitelli.”b Borgia’s chief endeavour at this moment was to influence the secretary to persuade his government to give some public testimonial of its attachment to him. He spoke with the utmost confidence of his ultimate success; assuring Machiavelli, that among the many fortunate events that had befallen him, this conspiracy was most lucky of all, as it had caused his more powerful friends to declare for him. Meanwhile, though he thus “vaunted aloud,”c he was acting with consummate prudence and caution. His object was to gain time. He wished to remain inactive till he had gathered together a sufficient number of troops / to insure success. He was at one time thwarted in this purpose by two Spanish captains in his pay, whom he had summoned to Imola; who, fancying that a good opportunity * Lettere di Machiavelli, Legazione al Duca Valentino. a b c

Imola, some 20 miles SE of Bologna. Translated from ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter i, 7 Oct. 1502. ‘Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair’, Paradise Lost, I. 126.

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presented itself of attacking the enemy, had themselves been vanquished and put to flight. Borgia kept this disaster as secret as possible; he expected troops from France and Switzerland, and gathered together all the broken-off lances in the country. A lance was a term used to signify a mounted cavalier with five or six followers; and the condottiere formed a greater or less number of lances into a troop. But often single cavaliers with their followers broke off from the band to which they belonged, and were thence called Lancie Spezzate. Besides these more evident methods of defending himself, Borgia hoped that dissention might be introduced among the confederates; that he should be able to entice away a portion, and then, by policy and artifice, bring them to terms. His hopes were not deceived. About the middle of October, Paolo Orsino sent to say, that if the duke would send a hostage in pledge for his safety, he would repair to Imola. Cæsar eagerly seized on this opening for negotiation; cardinal Borgia was put into the hands of the confederates, and Paolo Orsino arrived at Imola on the 25th of October. Machiavelli watched with intense interest the progress of this visit, and the subsequent proceedings. “No military movement is made on either side,” he writes to the signoria of Florence, “and these treaties for reconciliation benefit the duke, who readily entertains them; but I cannot judge with what intentions.” He goes on to state the difficulties that must stand in the way of the renewing of amity; “so that,” he continues, “I do not find any one who can guess how the reconciliation can be effected. Some people think that the duke will entice away a part of the confederates; and when they no longer hold together, he will cease to fear them. I incline to this opinion, having heard him let fall words that have this tendency to his ministers. Yet it is / difficult to believe that so recent a confederacy can be broken up.” Borgia took great pains to preserve Machiavelli’s prepossession in favour of his good fortune and success. He pressed him to bring his government to decisive measures in his favour. He caused his ministers to urge those topics which would come more gracefully through a third person. These men besieged the secretary’s ear with confidential advice. They assured him that Florence was losing an admirable opportunity for securing the duke’s friendship; they represented what a fortunate, high-spirited man he was, accustomed to success, and despising his present dangers. Machiavelli sent minute details of these conversations to his government, adding, “Your lordships hear the words which the duke uses, and, knowing who it is that speaks, you will draw conclusions with your accustomed prudence.” On another occasion he recounts a long conversation he held with Borgia, who showed him letters received from France, which assured him of the friendship of its powerful monarch. “I have often told you,” Cæsar continued, “and again I say, that I shall not be without assistance. The French cavalry and the Swiss infantry will soon arrive, and the pope will supply me with money. I do not wish to boast, nor to say more than that it is probable that my enemies will repent their perfidy. As to your masters, I cannot be more satisfied with them than I am; so that you may offer them on my part all that it is in my power to do. When 126

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you first came, I spoke in general terms, because my affairs were in so bad a condition that I did not know on what ground I stood, and I did not wish your government to think that danger made me a large promiser. But now that I fear less, I promise more; and when my fears are quite at an end, deeds shall be added to my words, when there is call for them.” “Your lordships,” continues Machiavelli, “hear the duke’s words, of which I do not put down one half; and, knowing the manner of man, can judge accordingly. / Since I have been here, nothing but good has happened to him; which has been caused by the certainty that every one feels that the king of France will help him with troops, and the pope with money.” Machiavelli was evidently filled with high admiration of Borgia’s talents, and won by his persuasive manners. There is abundant proof, however, that he did not possess his confidence. He was perpetually soliciting to be recalled:– “For the time is past,” he writes, “for temporising, and a man of more authority than I is needed to conclude this treaty. My own affairs are also in the greatest disorder, nor can I remain here without money.” The Florentine government thought otherwise; they determined to await the developement of events before they concluded any treaty.a These were hastening onwards to a catastrophe. Borgia by this time had collected a considerable force together of French, Swiss, and Italians; but he was willing to overcome his adversaries by other arts than those of war. The confederates, from weakness or fear, or by force of Borgia’s persuasive eloquence, were won to agree to a treaty of reconciliation. After some parley, it was signed early in the month of November: the terms consisted principally of renewed professions of perpetual peace, concord, and union; with a remission and forgetfulness of injuries; the duke promising a sincere renewal of friendship, and the confederates pledging themselves to defend the duke. He was to continue to them their engagements as condottieri, and they were to assist him to recover the duchy of Urbino. It was agreed that one only of the confederates at a time should be called on to remain in the duke’s camp, and in his power; but they promised to deliver to him their children and near relatives as hostages, whenever they should be demanded. Such is a sketch of a treaty which dissolved a confederacy so formidable to Borgia, and placed him, without drawing a sword, in a position as favourable as when his enemies first assembled at Magione. / Machiavelli could not be deceived by this apparent reconciliation; and he was eager to discover Borgia’s secret views. Far from being consulted concerning his plans, he now found it very difficult to obtain an audience:– “For,” he writes, “they live here only for their own good, and for that which appears to them to contribute to it. Paolo Orsini arrived yesterday, bringing the articles ratified and a

This and the five preceding quoted passages are extracted from ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xiii, 23 Oct. 1502 and letter xiv, 27 Oct. 1502.

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subscribed by Vitellozzo and all the other confederates; and he endeavours, as well as he can, to persuade the duke, that they all mean to be faithful, and to undertake any enterprise for him. The duke appears satisfied. Vitellozzo also writes grateful and submissive letters, excusing himself and making offers; and saying, that if he had an opportunity to speak to him, he could fully justify himself, and show that what he had done was without any intention of injuring him. The duke listens to all; and what he means to do no one knows, for it is very difficult to penetrate him. Judging by his words and those of his chief ministers, it is impossible not to expect evil for others, for the injury done him has been great; and his conversation, and that of those around him, is full of indignation against Vitellozzo.* One spoke to me yesterday, who is the man nearest the duke, saying, ‘This traitor has stabbed us, and now thinks to heal the wound with words, but children might laugh at the articles of this treaty.’’’b The treaty being ratified, it was debated what action the duke should put the captains upon. After a good deal of discussion, it was agreed that they should go against Sinigaglia,c a town belonging to the duke of / Urbino. While this enterprise was under consideration, Borgia left Imola. Machiavelli writes, on the 10th of December, “The duke left this place this morning, and is gone to Forli with his whole army. To-morrow evening he will be at Cesena; but it is not known what he will do after that; nor is there any one here who fancies that he can guess. I shall set out to-morrow, and follow the court – unwillingly, because I am not well; and, in addition to my indisposition, I have received from your lordships fifty ducats, and I have spent seventy-two, having only seven left in my purse. But I must obey necessity.”d On the 14th of December, Machiavelli writes, from Cesena, “As I before wrote, every one is in suspense with regard to the duke’s intentions, who is here with all his forces. After many conjectures, they conclude that he means to get possession of the persons of those who have so deeply injured, and nearly deprived him of his dominions: and although the treaty he has made contradicts this

* It must be mentioned, that a great enmity subsisted between the Florentines and Vitellozzo Vitelli. His brother, Paolo Vitelli, had commanded the troops of the republic at one time before Pisa, and was suspected by them of treachery. They sent for him one night to come to Florence, and he obeyed without hesitation. On his arrival he was seized, cast into prison, tortured, and, though no confession could be extorted from him he was put to death the same night. It was the intention of the Florentine government to seize on Vitellozzo also, but he escaped and took refuge in Pisa. Borgia had at one time taken up the cause of the Medici, and threatened Florence: he now threw the blame of this action upon the counsels of Vitellozzo.a a

On Paolo Vitelli, see The Prince, ch. 8. ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xxix, 28 Nov. 1502. c Sinigaglia or Senigallia, some 20 miles outside Ancona. d ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xxxvi. Cesana is in NW Italy, along the Italian– French border. b

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notion, yet his past actions render it probable; and I am of this opinion from what I have heard and reported in my letters. We shall see what will happen; and I will do my duty in acquainting you with all that passes while I remain here: which cannot be long; for, in the first place, I have only four ducats left in my purse; and in the second, my further stay is of no utility. To speak to your lordships with the truth which I have always practised, it would be better if you sent a person of more reputation to treat of your affairs: I am not fit, as they need a more eloquent man – one more known, and who knows the world better than I.”a It would seem as if Machiavelli tremblingly foresaw the tragedy at hand, and wished to withdraw; in fear, perhaps, of being used as an instrument by Borgia, or suspected of any participation in his crimes. On the 23d of December, he reports that the duke had suddenly dismissed all his French troops. He had requested an audience, to discover the cause of this / movement; but received only an evasive answer, – that the duke would send for him when he wanted him.b It soon became evident that the ease with which the confederates fell into Borgia’s snares, rendered useless the armed force he had gathered together for their destruction; and he dismissed an army, the maintaining of which might excite suspicion. Again Machiavelli writes, from Cesena, on the 26th of December, “I have not been able to obtain an audience of the duke, his excellency being engaged in reviewing his infantry, and in his pleasures, preparatory to Christmas. As I have before repeated, this prince is most secret; nor do I believe that any one except himself is aware of what he is going to do. His principal secretaries have assured me that he never communicates any thing till the moment of execution; and he executes on the instant: so I hope you will not accuse me of negligence, in not being able to tell any thing; as I know nothing myself.”c The catastrophe was now at hand. The captains sent Borgia word that they had taken Sinigaglia, but that the fortress still held out; nor would the castellan deliver the keys to any but the duke in person; and they advised him, therefore, to come to receive them. Thus invited by the captains themselves, Borgia thought it an excellent opportunity to approach them without exciting suspicion. With great art he persuaded Vitelli and Paolo Orsino to wait for him at Sinigaglia, saying that their suspicion and timidity would render their reconciliation unstable and short-lived. Vitellozzo felt how unsafe it was, first to injure a prince, and then to put trust in him: but he was over-persuaded to remain by Orsino, whom the duke had corrupted by promises and gifts. Borgia left Fano on the 30th of December, and on the following day repaired to Sinigaglia; and on the evening of the last day of that month, Machiavelli wrote a short note to his government from that town, containing these words only:– “I wrote, the day before yesterday, from a b c

‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xxxvii. ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xli. ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xlii.

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Pesaro, all I had heard concerning / Sinigaglia.* I removed yesterday to Fano. Early this morning, the duke departed with all his troops, and came here to Sinigaglia, where were assembled all the Orsini and Vitellozzo, who had taken the town for him. He invited them to come around him; and, the moment he entered the town, he turned to his guard, and caused them to be taken prisoners. Thus he has secured them all, and the town is being pillaged. It is now twenty-three o’clock.† I am in the greatest anxiety, not knowing how to forward this letter, as there is no one to take it. I will write at length in another. In my opinion, they will not be alive to-morrow. All their people are also taken; and the official notice distributed about, says that the traitors are arrested.”a In another place, Machiavelli gives the details of the mode in which these men were deluded into trusting themselves in the hands of one so notorious for perfidy and sanguinary revenge.‡ “On the 30th of December,” he says, “on setting out from Fano, the duke communicated his design to eight of his most faithful followers. He committed to their care, that, when Vitellozzo, Paolo Orsino, the duke of Gravina, and Oliverotto da Fermo should advance to meet him, two of his friends should take one of them between them; and that they should thus continue to guard them till they reached the house where the duke was to lodge. He then stationed his troops so as to be near enough to support him, without exciting suspicion. The confederates, meanwhile, to afford room for the soldiery which Borgia brought with him, had caused their own to retire to various castles six miles distant, Oliverotto / alone retaining his band of 1000 foot and 150 horse. Every thing being thus arranged, Borgia proceeded to Sinigaglia. Vitellozzo, Paolo Orsino, and the duke of Gravina came out to meet him, mounted on mules, and accompanied by a few followers on horseback. Vitellozzo was unarmed; and his desponding countenance seemed prophetic of his approaching death. It was said that he took, as it were, a last leave of his friends when he left the town; recommending the fortunes of his family to the chief among them, and bidding his nephews bear in mind the virtues of their race. These three were received cordially by the duke, and immediately taken in charge, as had been arranged. Perceiving that Oliverotto da Fermo was not among them – he having remained with his troop to receive Borgia in the market-place – he signed to one of his followers to devise some means to prevent his escape. This man went instantly to Oliverotto, and advised him to order his men to repair to quarters immediately, * This letter is lost; and we are thus deprived of a most interesting link in the correspondence, and an insight into Machiavelli’s feelings. In it he detailed the half confidence that Borgia at last reposed in him – when, at the moment of execution, there was no longer any necessity for concealing his intentions. † Half an hour before sunset: in December, about half after three o’clock. ‡ “Account of the Mode in which the Valentian Duke destroyed Vitellozzo Vitelli, Paolo Orsino, & c. & c.” a

Descrizione del modo tenuto dal duca Valentino nello ammazzare Vitellozzo Vitelli (c. 1522).

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otherwise their lodgings would be occupied by the band accompanying the duke. Oliverotto listened to the sinister counsel, and, unaccompanied, joined Borgia and the rest on their entrance into the town. As soon as they arrived at the duke’s palace, the signal was given, and they were made prisoners.”a Machiavelli’s anticipations were fulfilled nearly to the letter. Vitellozzo and Oliverotto were strangled in prison the same night. Paolo Orsino and the duke of Gravina were kept alive till Borgia heard that the pope had seized on the persons of the other chiefs of the Orsini family; when, on the 18th of the January following, they were also strangled in prison. On the very day of the execution of this treacherous and cruel act of revenge, Machiavelli had an audience with its perpetrator. He writes, “The duke sent for me at the second hour of night*, and with a most / cheerful countenance congratulated himself and me on his success, saying that he had alluded to it to me the day before, but not fully explained himself: which is true. He added many prudent and very affectionate expressions concerning our city; alleging all those reasons which made him desire your friendship, if you entertain the same feelings towards him; all of which filled me with exceeding surprise. He concluded by bidding me write three things to you. First, that I should congratulate you on his having put to death the enemies alike of the king of France, you, and himself, and destroyed every seed of dissention which had threatened to ruin Italy; for which you ought to be obliged to him. Secondly, he begged me to entreat you to make manifest to the world that you were his friends, and to send forward some troops to assist his attack on Castello or Perugia.” On the 8th of January, Machiavelli uses expressions in his letter most characteristic of Italian policy and morals at that period. “It excites surprise here,” he writes, “that you should not have written nor sent to congratulate the duke on the deed which he has lately executed, which redounds to your advantage, and on account of which our city ought to feel grateful; they say that it would have cost the republic 200,000 ducats to get rid of Vitellozzo and the Orsini, and even then it would not have been so completely done as by the duke. It is doubtful what his success will be at Perugia: as, on one side, we find a prince gifted with * Two hours and a half after sunset. The Italian day of twenty-four hours ends at dark, i.e. half an hour after sunset; and then they begin one, two; but as they often say, one o’clock after noon, two o’clock after noon, so they designate these evening hours as hours of night. This method of counting time is still practised by the common people in Italy, south of the Apennines; and, indeed, by every one of all ranks at Naples and Rome. Our mode of counting time is called by the Italians, French time, as it was first introduced after the conquests of Napoleon. It is often puzzling to hear of fourteen or fifteen o’clock, – it is necessary to remember the season of the year, and the hour of sunset, and how far that is off. On this occasion, the 31st of December, the second hour of night was about half after six o’clock P . M .; the sun setting at about four in December, in Italy.b a b

This passage and the following from Descrizione del modo tenuto. The explanation in Mary Shelley’s note obviously draws on her own experience.

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unparalleled good fortune, and a sanguine spirit, more than human, to accomplish all his desires; and, on the other hand, a man of extreme prudence, governing a state / with great reputation.” The secretary adds, with praiseworthy diffidence, and considerable self-knowledge, “If I form a false judgment, it arises not only from my inexperience, but also from my views being confined to what is going on here, on which I am led to form the opinions I have expressed above.”a The republic now thought it time to replace Machiavelli by an ambassador of more authority; and the secretary returned to Florence at the end of the month of January. It is evident from this detail, taken from Machiavelli’s own letters, that he was not intrusted with the secret of a prince, who, he says, never revealed his purposes to any one before the moment of execution. Yet it is also plain that, at last, he began to suspect the tragedy in preparation; and that neither the anticipation nor the fulfilment inspired him with abhorrence for the murderer; while his contempt of the confederates, and admiration of the talents and success of their destroyer, is every where apparent: nor was this a short-lived feeling. Without mentioning the “Prince,” in which this act of Borgia is alluded to with praise, he is mentioned with approbation in several of his private letters. He wrote “A Description of the Method used by the Valencian Duke in putting to death Vitellozzo Vitelli, &c.” This is purely narrative, and contains no word of comment or censure. There is besides a poem of his, entitled “The Decenal,” in which he proposes to relate the sufferings of Italy during ten years:b in this he mentions the crime of Borgia. “After the duke of Valence,” he says, “had exculpated himself to the king of France, he returned to Romagna, with the intention of going against Bologna. It appears that Vitellozzo Vitelli and Paolo Orsino resolved not to assist him; and these serpents, full of venom, began to conspire together, and to tear him with their talons and teeth. Borgia, ill able to defend himself, was obliged to take refuge behind the shield of France; and to take his enemies by a snare, the basilisk whistled softly, to allure them to his den. In a short time, the traitor / of Fermo, and Vitellozzo, and that Orsino who had been so much his friend, fell readily into his toils; in which the Orsino (bear) lost more than a paw; and Vitelli was shorn of the other horn (alluding to his brother’s death at Florence as one horn). Perugia and Siena heard the boast of the hydra, and each tyrant fled before his fury: nor could the cardinal Orsino escape the ruin of his unhappy house, but died the victim of a thousand arts.”c It must be mentioned that, notwithstanding individual acts of ferocity of which Cæsar Borgia was guilty, he was an equitable sovereign – favouring the common people, and restraining the nobles in their sanguinary quarrels and extortionate oppression. His subjects were, therefore, much attached to him. There is an aneca

‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xlix. Il Decennale primo (The First Ten Years) (1506), written in terza rima. c Decennale, ll. 382–408. The hydra was the many-headed snake of Greek myth; as one head was cut off, it grew two. b

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dote relating to his system of government, narrated in the “Prince,” which may be quoted as exceedingly characteristic. It is one of the examples brought forward by Machiavelli in his treatise, to show how a prince can prudently consolidate his power in a newly acquired state. “When the duke had taken Romagna, he found it governed by feeble lords, who had rather robbed than corrupted their subjects, and sown discord rather than preserved peace – so that this province was the prey of extortion, lawlessness, and all other kind of oppression. He judged it necessary to govern it strictly, and to reduce it to obedience and tranquillity. For this purpose he set over it Ramiro d’Orco, a cruel and resolute man, to whom he confided absolute power. He soon established order in the province. The duke then judged that so despotic an authority might become odious; and he set up a civil court in the middle of the province, with an excellent president, at which each city had its advocate. And because he knew that the former rigor had generated hatred, to conciliate and win this people, he wished to prove that the cruelties that had been practised did not emanate from him, but from the severity of his minister; and seizing Ramiro, he caused him one morning to be placed on a scaffold in the / market-place of Cesena, divided in two, with a wooden block and bloody knife at his side. The horror of which spectacle caused the people to remain for some time satisfied and stupid.”a This act took place under the very eyes of Machiavelli, when he was at Cesena with Borgia. He thus mentions it in his public correspondence:– “Messer Ramiro was found this morning divided in two in the market-place, where he yet is, and all the people can behold him. The cause of his death is not well known, except that it seemed good to the prince, who shows that he knows how to make and unmake men at will, according to their merits.”b To us, who cannot sympathise with the high spirit and good fortune of Borgia, it is consolatory to know that his triumph was short-lived, and his ruin complete. It fell to Machiavelli to witness the last scene of his expiring power, being sent on a legation to Rome at the time of his downfall. The duke of Valence was still enjoying the complete success of his enterprises: courage and duplicity, united, rendered him victorious over all his enemies. He was at Rome, carrying on a negotiation with the king of France, which was to extend and secure his power, when suddenly, one afternoon, the pope was brought back dead from a vineyard, whither he had gone to recreate himself after the heats of the day; and Cæsar was also brought back soon after, to all appearance dying. The story went that they were both poisoned, having drunk by mistake some wine prepared by themselves for the destruction of one of their guests.* The pope’s body was exposed in St. Peter’s on the following day, * Guicciardini.c a The Prince, ch. 7; Don Ramiro de Lorqua, Spanish captain, was put to death on 25 Dec. 1502. Stupid: i.e. stupefied. b ‘Legazione al Duca Valentino’, letter xlii, 26 Dec. 1502. c The source for this episode is Machiavelli’s Istorie fiorentine, ch. 24.

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according to custom; it was swollen, discoloured, and frightfully disfigured. Cæsar’s youth, and the speedy use he had made of an antidote, saved his life; but he remained for a long time in a state of great suffering and illness. He told Machiavelli, about this time, that he had foreseen and provided against every reverse of fortune that could possibly befall him, except his father dying at a time when / he should himself be disabled by disease. He could now enter but ineffectually into the intrigues necessary to ensure the election of a pope favourable to himself. Indeed, the death of Alexander was so sudden, that none of the persons interested found time to exert their resources; and a cardinal was raised to the pontifical throne, whose sole merit consisted in his great age and decrepitude. Francesco Picolomini, nephew of Pius II., was proclaimed pope on the 22d of September, under the name of Pius III. He did not deceive the hopes of the cardinals;– he reigned twenty-eight days only; and his death, which occurred on the 18th of October, left the throne again vacant. The cardinals, during this interval, had prepared their measures, and looked forward to a greater struggle and more important choice. The government of Florence thought it right to send an envoy, on this occasion, to watch over its interests, and to influence consultations which would be held concerning the future destination of Borgia. He had already lost the greater part of his conquests: Piombino and Urbino revolted to their former lords; and nothing remained to him but Romagna, whose inhabitants he had attached by the firm system of government before mentioned. The nobles, however, who had formerly governed its various towns, were trying to regain possession of them; and Venice eyed it as an easy prey. The popes believed, that by right, it belonged to them; and Borgia had reigned over it as vassal to the church: this clash of interests led him to believe that he could induce any future pope to side with him. The neighbourhood of the cities in question to Tuscany, rendered it imperative to Florence to watch over their fate. Machiavelli was sent by them just before the cardinals entered into conclave – where, without hesitation or a dissentient voice, they elected Julian da Rovera,a cardinal of San Pietro in Vincola, who assumed the name of Julius II. This prelate had been all his life at open enmity with Alexander VI.: his disposition was ambitious, / restless, fiery, and obstinate; and during the struggles against the papal power in which he had been engaged all his life, he had offended many, and excited the hatred of a number of powerful persons. Above all, it was to be supposed that Cæsar Borgia would oppose him; and he exercised great influence over the Spanish cardinals. But the duke had to contend with much adversity, so that he had but a choice of evils before him. During this interval, even Romagna had fallen from him, with the exception of its fortresses, of which he possessed the keys. Julian da Rovera made him large promises; and in an age when duplicity a Giuliano della Rovere, Pope Julius II (1443–1513). ‘Rovera’ may be an error or an alternative spelling.

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flourished far and wide, he had been celebrated for his veracity and good faith; even his old enemy, Alexander VI., declared that the cardinal di San Pietro in Vincola was sincere and trusty. As soon as the new pope was elected, it was projected to send Borgia with an army to Romagna, to conquer it in the name of the holy see. Machiavelli had frequent interviews with the fallen prince at this time, and appears to have thrown off that admiration which his success and spirit had formerly inspired; and he testifies no sympathy or regret in his misfortunes. Borgia complained of the little friendship shown him by Florence; and declared that he would relinquish every other hope, for the sake of attacking and ruining the republic. The secretary reports his angry expressions to his government, and adds the words of cardinal d’Amboise, who exclaimed that “God, who never left any crime unpunished, would not let this man escape with impunity!”a The career of this bad hero was now drawing to a close. In the month of November, he set out in the middle of the night for Ostia, to the great satisfaction of all Rome, for the purpose of embarking for Spezia, with a troop of five hundred men, and then of proceeding to Romagna. But the pope, who had hitherto given no mark of an intention to break his promises, suddenly determined to violate that good faith which had / formerly adorned his character, and sent the Tuscan cardinal of Volterra (who was of course Borgia’s bitter enemy)b after him, to demand an order to the officers who held the castles in Romagna, that they should be given into the pope’s hands. Borgia refused to comply with a requisition which deprived him of the last remnant of his power; on which he was arrested and placed on board a French galley. “It is not yet known,” Machiavelli writes to his government on the 26th of November, “whether the duke is still on board the vessel, or brought here. Various things are reported. One person told me that, being yesterday evening in the pope’s chamber, two men arrived from Ostia, when he was immediately dismissed; but, while in the next room, he overheard these men say that the duke had been thrown into the Tiber, as the pope had commanded.* I do not quite believe in this story, but I do not deny it; and, I dare say, if it has not already happened, it will happen. The pope, it is evident, is beginning to pay his debts honourably, and cancels them with a stroke of his pen. Every one, however, blesses this deed; and the more he does of the like, the more popular will he be. Since the duke is taken, whether he be alive or dead, no account need be * There is something in the entrance of these “two murderers,” and their secret conference with the pope, that reminds one of scenes in Shakspeare, which appear improbable in our days of ceremony and exclusion.c a

‘Legazione prima alla corte di Roma’, letter ix, 6 Nov. 1503. Francesco Soderini, Cardinal of Volterra (d. 1524). c ‘Enter two murderers’ is a stage direction in Richard III and Macbeth; Mary Shelley means that it would be unlikely that common murderers nowadays could gain access to a ruler for a secret interview, given the numbers of officials and ushers in attendance at court. b

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made of him. Nevertheless, when I hear any thing certain, you shall have intelligence.”a The pope, however, had not yet learnt wholly to despise the force of promises and oaths. Borgia was brought back to the Vatican, and treated honourably. It was supposed at one time that he would be proceeded against legally: and Machiavelli several times pressed his government to send him the papers necessary to institute any accusation on their part. At length, the duke gave the order to his castellans to surrender the fortresses in question to the pope, and was set at liberty. He instantly repaired to Naples, possessed of nothing more than a sum of money which he had deposited / with the Genoese bankers, but happy in having recovered his personal freedom. His ambitious mind quickly conceived new schemes; and he tried to persuade the Spanish general at Naples, Consalvo,b to assist him in his project of throwing himself into Pisa, and of defending it against Florence. Consalvo listened and temporised, till he received the directions of his sovereign, which he immediately obeyed. In conformity with these, Borgia was arrested and sent on board a galley, which conveyed him to Spain. On his arrival, he was confined in the fortress of Medina del Campo, there to remain during his life. He continued a prisoner, however, for two years only. In 1506, with great audacity and labour, he let himself down from the castle by a rope, and fled to the court of John king of Navarre, who was his wife’s brother;c where he lived for some years in a humble state, the king of France having confiscated his duchy of Valence, and forbidding him to enter France. Finally, having gone out with the forces of the king of Navarre to attack Viana, an insignificant castle of that kingdom, he was surprised by an ambush, and killed. We have anticipated a little, to conclude the history of this man, who figures so prominently in Machiavelli’s writings, and now return to the secretary himself. We have not space to dilate with the same minuteness on his succeeding embassies; and there is nothing in them of peculiar interest. His letters are always full of keen observation; and show him to have been sagacious, faithful, and diligent. The republic kept him actively employed; and the end of one legation was the beginning of another. He left Rome, after Borgia’s arrest, in December; and, in the January following, went to France, to ask the protection of Louis against the dangers which Florence imagined to threaten them from the Spanish army at Naples. A peace, concluded between France and Spain, dissipated these fears; and the secretary, after a month’s residence at Lyons, returned to his own country. After this, he was sent on four insignificant / missions to Piombino, Perugia, Mantua, and Siena. His next employment was to raise troops in the Florentine territories. a

‘Legazione prima alla corte di Roma’, letter xxix. Fernández de Córdoba Gonsulvo (1453–1515). c Jean d’Albret, King of Navarre (d. 1516), whose sister Charlotte d’Albret (1480–1514) married Cesare Borgia in 1507. Navarre corresponds to the Pyrenees region of present-day SW France and NE Spain. b

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Machiavelli was too clear-sighted and well-judging, not to perceive the various and great evils that resulted from the republic engaging condottieri to fight its battles. He endeavoured to impress upon the signoria the advantages that would arise from the formation of a native militia; and, at length, succeeded. A law was passed for the enrolling the peasantry, and he was charged with the execution. His proceedings were conducted with patience and industry: his letters contain accounts of the obstacles he met from the prejudices of the people with whom he had to deal, the pains he took to obviate them, and the care he was at to select recruits who might be depended on. Pope Julius, at this time, had conceived the project of reducing to obedience to the holy see all those towns which he considered as rightfully belonging to it. He obtained promises of aid from France; demanded it from Florence; and then set out on an expedition against Giovanni Bentivoglio, lord of Bologna. The Florentines were anxious, from economical motives, to defer sending their quota as long as they could; and they delegated their secretary to the court militant of Rome, to make excuses, and to watch over the progress of its arms. Machiavelli joined the court at Cività Castellana, and proceeded with it to Viterbo, Perugia, Urbino, and Imola. His letters during this legation are highly interesting; presenting a lively picture of the violence and impetuosity of Julius II., whose resolute and intelligent countenance Raphael has depicted on canvas in so masterly a manner.a When Bentivoglio sent ambassadors to him, he actually scolded them – addressing them in public, and using, as the secretary says, the most angry and venomous expressions. Machiavelli adds: “Every one believes that, if he succeeds with regard to Bologna, he will lose no time in attempting greater things; and it is hoped that Italy will be preserved from him / who attempted to devour it (meaning the king of France). – Now, or never.”b Bentivoglio made some preparations to fortify Bologna; but, on the arrival of troops from France in aid of his enemy, his heart failed him, and he entered into a treaty, by which he preserved his private property; and then, with his wife and children, he abandoned the city he had so long reigned over, and took refuge in the duchy of Milan. It was apprehended, at this time, that the emperor Maximilian would enter Italy with an army;c and its various states sent ambassadors to him, to make favourable terms. The emperor had applied to Florence for money; and the republic sent Francesco Vettori to treat concerning the sum. They afterwards sent Machiavelli with their ultimatum. Both ambassador and secretary remained some time at Trent, waiting on the imperial court. Machiavelli employed himself in making observations on the state of the country, which he reduced to writing, in a brief “Account of Germany,” on his return. He had before drawn up a similar account of the state of France.d a The portrait of Pope Julius II (painted 1511–12) by Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio (1483– 1520)) now hanging in the National Gallery of London. b ‘Legazione seconda alla corte di Roma’, letter xxxvi, 19 Oct. 1506. c Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor (1459–1519). d Ritratti delle cose dell’Alemagna (1508–12) and Ritratti delle cose di Francia (1510).

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The favourite object of Florence continued to be the reduction of Pisa. They purchased permission to attack it, from the kings of France and Spain, for a large sum of money. They besieged the town, dividing their army into three divisions, which blockaded it on three sides. The camps were each commanded by commissaries; and Machiavelli was sent thither to advise with and assist them. He passed from one camp to the other, to watch over the execution of the measures concerted for the siege; and, at one time, went to Piombino, to meet some deputies from Pisa, to arrange a treaty; but it came to nothing, and he returned to the army. He was much trusted by his government; and one of the commissaries, in writing to the signoria, observes, “Niccolò Machiavelli left us to-day, to review the troops of the other camp. I have directed him to return here, as you order; and I wish for nothing so much as to have him with me.”a / After a blockade of three months, Pisa surrendered. The Florentine republic behaved with the greatest generosity and humanity, and kept terms faithfully with a people who had injured them deeply, and were now wholly at their mercy. Late in the same year, Machiavelli was employed to convey to Mantua the money composing a part of the subsidy of Florence to the emperor. After having discharged this office, he was ordered to repair to Verona, “or,” as his instructions say, “wherever it seems best, to learn and communicate intelligence of the actual state of affairs. You will diligently write us word of every thing that happens worthy of notice, changing the place of your abode each day.”b That part of Italy was, at that time, the seat of a cruel and destructive war carried on between the emperor and the republic of Venice. There existed a great spirit of enmity between Louis XII. and the pope. Julius II. was a violent and implacable man: his former suspicions against the French monarch were changed into excessive hatred. He was animated, also, by the desire of acquiring the glory of liberating Italy from the barbarians.* He sent troops against Genoa, which belonged to the king; Florence had been unable to refuse a safe passage for them through their territory: at the same time, fearing that this concession had offended Louis, they despatched Machiavelli to make their excuses. His letters, during this mission, disclose a curious system of bribery with regard to the ministers of the king. Cardinal d’Amboise had always shown himself friendly towards the republic; but this friendship had been purchased by gold. He died a month before the arrival of the secretary, who writes thus to the signoria:– “I had a long conversation with Alessandro Nasi concerning the donations, that I might understand how I ought to regulate myself with regard to them. * Guicciardini.c a

‘Commissione al campo contro Pisa’, letter vi, 14 Apr. 1509, recorded by Antonio de Filicaia. b ‘Legazione seconda a Mantova’, from the ‘Commissione data a Nicolò Machiavelli per a Mantova e in quelle circostanze deliberata a’ dì 10 Novembre 1509’. c Storia d’Italia, IV, viii, pp. 351–4.

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He promised the chancellor Robertet and the marshal Chaumont d’Amboise to pay what is due to them, during the ensuing month of August.a He told me, that he did not think that the / 10,000 ducats, which were sent here for the cardinal d’Amboise, and which were not paid, on account of his death, could be saved for the city, except in one way; which was, by distributing them between the chancellor and marshal, as a portion of what is due to them.”b He had an audience with the king at Blois. There was no Florentine ambassador at this time at the French court; Machiavelli was merely an envoy, with his title of secretary: the king, therefore, treated him with little ceremony; but he received him kindly, declaring his belief in the friendship of Florence, but desiring some further proof of it. “Secretary,” he said, “I am not at enmity with the pope, nor any one else; but as new friendships and enmities arise each day, I wish your government to declare at once what they will do in my favour: and do you write word to them, that I offer all the forces of this kingdom, and to come in person, to save their state, if necessary.”*c It was a difficult part for Florence, between France their ancient ally, and the stern vindictive pope. Some time before, during their difficulties, the republic had in some degree changed their form of government, and elected a gonfaloniere or doge for life, instead of changing every year; their choice had fallen on Pietro Soderini, a man of integrity, but feeble and timid.d The king of France, pushed to the utmost by the pope, determined to call together a council, to dethrone him. Florence offered him the city of Pisa, for it to be held; and then, terrified by the menaces of Julius II., sent Machiavelli to Louis, to endeavour to recall this offer, but in vain. The council met, and the secretary was sent to attend upon it; it came to nothing, however. Only four cardinals met, they were ill treated by the people, discountenanced by the Italian clergy, and dissatisfied with themselves: after holding two sessions at Pisa, they transferred themselves to Milan. / The result of this open attack of Louis upon the power of the pope animated the latter to renewed endeavours to expel the king from Italy: he formed a league with Spain and Venice against the French power, and a disastrous war was the consequence. At one time the French obtained a victory at Ravenna, which was detrimental to them, since Gaston de Foix and 10,000 of their bravest soldiers * One of Louis’s expressions is curious:– “If the pope will make any demonstration of friendship to me, though no bigger than the black of my nail, I will respond by a yard.” The black of the nail of the king of France!e a Florimond Robertet, secretary of state to Louis XII, and Charles II d’Amboise, Lord of Chaumont (1473–1511), later Maréchal de France and Governor of Paris, Milan, Genoa and Normandy. b ‘Legazione terza alla corte di Francia’, letter i, 7 July 1510. c ‘Legazione terza alla corte di Francia’, letter ii, 18 July 1510. d Pietro Soderini (1462–1522), brother of Cardinal Soderini of Volterra; elected gonfalonier of the Florentine republic in 1502, he is characterised as ‘timid’ in ‘Guicciardini’. e ‘Legazione terza alla corte di Francia’, letter ii, 18 July 1510.

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were left on the field of battle.a Florence remained neuter during this struggle, but the republic was accused of a secret partiality for France, and its punishment was resolved upon at the diet of Mantua. The Medici family still hovered round Florence, desirous of reinstating themselves in their ancient seats, and of reassuming the power enjoyed by their forefathers. Piero de’ Medici had fallen in the battle of the Gariglano some years before; he left a son named Lorenzo, and a daughter, Clarice.b His brother the cardinal Giovanni had, while he perceived his cause hopeless, quitted Italy, and visited many parts of France and Germany, nor returned to Rome till the elevation of Julius II.: from that time he took an important part in the public affairs of Italy, and was appointed legate during the war. His influence was exerted during the diet of Mantua,c and the punishment of Florence was decreed to consist in the overthrow of the existing government, and the restoration of the Medici. The details of the expedition of the allies against the republic are related by Machiavelli in a private letter, which, though highly interesting, is too long to extract.*d The gonfaloniere Soderini exerted some energy at the commencement of the struggle, but was unable to hold out long. The army, under the command of the viceroy of Naples, entered Tuscany, and taking Prato by assault, massacred its inhabitants without respect for age or sex. The Florentines were alarmed by this cruelty, and resolved to submit. Soderini and his partisans quitted the city and repaired to Siena, and the Medici entered Florence. The cardinal was at their head, accompanied by his / younger brother Giuliano, his nephew Lorenzo, son of Piero, and his cousin Julius de’ Medici, descended from the brother of Cosmo.e

* Lettere Familiari, VIII. a Gaston de Foix, Duke of Nemours (1489–1512), French general and nephew of Louis XII; he was killed in the battle of Ravenna on 11 Apr. 1512, an engagement described by Sismondi as unequalled for bloodiness by any previous battle in Italian history (Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, ch. cix). Mary Shelley appears to be drawing on Sismondi and Roscoe, Leo the Tenth (II, pp. 101–11), as well as Guicciardini here. b Piero de’ Medici was drowned at Garigliano in Dec. 1503, while serving in the French army. His son Lorenzo II became ruler of Florence in 1512; his daughter Clarice (d. 1528) married Filippo Strozzi II (1489–1538). c At the Congress of Mantua (1512) the Holy League determined to restore the Medici to power in Florence. Giovanni de’ Medici, brother of Piero, was restored in 1512 and elected Pope Leo X in 1513. The Holy League was the pact (see p. 139) made in 1511 between Julius II, Venice and Spain to defend the church against Louis XII of France, with whom Soderini was seen to be complicit. d Probably a letter of Sept. 1512 addressed to an unidentified lady, perhaps Alfonsina Orsini de’ Medici. e Giuliano (1479–1516), called Duke of Nemours, also father of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici (see ‘Berni’). ‘Julius de’ Medici’ may be Giulio, knight of Rhodes, who was a Medici cousin; Giulio, the future Clement VII, was the cardinal’s cousin, but not a member of the younger branch.

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Thus fell a government which Machiavelli had served faithfully for fourteen years. His labours had been great during this period, the honours he enjoyed of no conspicuous nature, and his emoluments were very slender. When on his various missions, he was allowed only a trifling addition to his salary as secretary, which frequently was not commensurate to his increased expenditure, and afforded no room for luxury or display. “It is true,” he writes to the signoria from Verona, “that I spend more than the ducat a day that you allow me for my expenses; nevertheless, now, as heretofore, I shall be satisfied with whatever you please to give.”a There was nothing mercenary in Machiavelli’s disposition, and he seems perfectly content with continuing in the office he enjoyed, without rising higher. He went on his legations always in the character of envoy, at such times when the republic thought it best to treat by means of a delegate less costly and of less authority than an ambassador. Thus his letters often ask to be replaced by a minister entrusted with more extensive powers. Evidently, throughout his active career, he had the good of his country only at heart. He was steady, faithful, and industrious: he recommended himself to the powers to whom he was sent by his intelligence and his want of pretension. Up to the moment of Soderini’s exile, he acted for the Gonfaloniere and his council. His last office was to gather the militia together, for the purpose of checking the advance of the viceroy through the passages of the Apennines. He was too late, and his forces were too scanty; for Pietro Soderini, timid and temporising, did not give credit to the extent of danger that menaced him till the last moment. His fear of appearing ambitious, and making himself obnoxious to his fellow citizens, prevented him from taking those resolute measures necessary for his safety: but Machiavelli continued faithful to him, till / the moment he quitted the city. Then he turned his eyes to the new government and the Medici, who, though introduced under bad auspices, showed no disposition to tyrannise over their fellow-citizens. He was poor, and had a large family; and, though a lover of liberty, was not personally attached to the fallen Gonfaloniere. The forms of government continued the same, and he was still secretary to the Council of Ten.b He desired and expected to continue in office, and to exercise functions, which could not be otherwise than beneficial to his country. His hopes were deceived: he was considered by the Medici as too firm an adherent of the adverse party. He was deprived of his place, and sentenced not to quit for one year the territory of the republic, nor to enter the palace of government. But this was not the end, it was only the beginning, of his disasters. Shortly after, the enemies of the Medici conspired against them: the conspiracy was discovered, and two of the chief among them were beheaded. Machiavelli was supposed to be implicated in the plot: he was thrown into prison, and put to the torture. No confession could be extorted from him, and it is possible that he was entirely innocent of the alleged crime. He was soon after comprised in the act of a

‘Legazione seconda a Mantova’, letter iv, 22 Nov. 1509. i.e. of Florence; not to be confused with the more famous Council of Ten of Venice (created 1310, the tribunal responsible for state security). (See p. 118, above.) b

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amnesty published by the new pope. On the death of Julius II., cardinal de’ Medici was elevated to the pontifical throne; he assumed the name of Leo X., and signalised his exaltation by this act of clemency. On his liberation Machiavelli wrote to his friend Francesco Vettori, the Florentine ambassador at the papal court, who had exerted himself in his favour, in these terms:– “You have heard from Paolo Vettori that I am come out of prison, to the universal joy of this city. I will not relate the long story of my misfortunes; and will only say, that fate has done her utmost to bring them about; but, thank God, they are at an end. I hope to be safe for the future, partly because I intend to be more cautious, and partly because the times are more liberal and less suspicious.”a / Francesco Vettori, on hearing of his liberation, had already written, and their letters crossed on the road. “Honoured friend,” he wrote, “I have suffered greater grief during these last eight months than I ever endured during the course of my whole life before: but the worst was when I knew that you were arrested, as I feared that, without cause or fault of yours, you would be put to the torture, as was really the case. I am sorry that I could not assist you, as you had a right to expect; but as soon as the pope was created, I asked him no favour except your liberation, which I am glad to find had already taken place. And now, dear friend, I have to entreat you to take heart during this persecution, as you have done on other occasions: and I hope, as things are now tranquil, and their (the Medici) good fortune transcends all imagination, that you will soon be permitted to quit Tuscany. If I remain here, I wish you would come to me, for as long a time as you like.” “Rome, 15th of March, 1513.” Machiavelli replies:– “Your very kind letter has made me forget my past disasters; and although I was convinced of the affection you bore me, yet your letter delighted me. I thank you heartily, and pray God that I may be able to show my gratitude to your advantage. You may derive this pleasure from my misfortunes, that I think well of myself for the courage with which I bore them, so that I feel myself of more value than I before gave myself credit for: and if my masters, the magnificent Giuliano and your Paolo, to whom I owe my life, will raise me from the earth, I think they will hereafter have cause to congratulate themselves. If they will not, I shall live as I have done before; for I was born poor, and I learnt to suffer before I learnt to enjoy. If you remain at Rome, I will spend some time with you, as you advise. All our friends salute you. Every day we assemble at some lady’s house, so to recover our strength. / Yesterday we went to see the procession in the house of Sandra di Pero, and thus we pass our time during this universal rejoicing, enjoying the remnant of life, which appears to me like a dream. Valete. “Florence, 18th of March, 1513.” a

Letter of 13 Mar. 1513.

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From this time till the end of his life we possess a series of Machiavelli’s private correspondence, of the most valuable kind. His chief friend was Vettori, who continued to reside as ambassador at Rome. Some of their letters are long political discussions, which Vettori drew Machiavelli in to write, that he might show them to pope Leo X., and excite him to admire and employ his talents. His endeavours were without success. Machiavelli continued for many years to live in obscurity, sometimes at Florence, sometimes at his country-house at San Casciano, a bathing town among the hills, south of Pisa. His letters from Florence contain the gossip of their acquaintance, – amusing anecdotes that paint the manners, while they give us no exalted idea of the morals, of the Italians of those days. Machiavelli himself had no poetry nor delicacy of imagination: his feelings were impetuous, and his active mind required some passion or pursuit to fill it. He bitterly laments the inaction of his life, and expresses an ardent desire to be employed. Meanwhile, he created occupation for himself; and it is one of the lessons that we may derive from becoming acquainted with the feelings and actions of celebrated men, to learn that this very period, during which Machiavelli repined at the neglect of his contemporaries, and the tranquillity of his life, was that during which his fame took root, and which brought his name down to us. He occupied his leisure in writing those works which have occasioned his immortality. No one would have searched the Florentine archives for his public correspondence, acute and instructive as it is, nor would his private letters now lie before us, if he had not established a name through his other writings. He wrote them to bring himself into / present notice, and to show the Medici the worth of that man whom they dishonoured and neglected. One of his letters from the country to Vettori, is so interesting, and so necessary to the appreciation of his character, that we give it at length:– “Tarde non furon mai grazie divine. Divine favours never come too late. I say this, because it seemed to me that I had, not lost, but mislaid your kindness, you having remained so long without writing to me, that I wondered what might be the cause. Your last of the 23d dissipated my doubts, and I am delighted to find how quietly and regularly you fulfil your office. I advise you to go on thus; for whosoever neglects his own affairs for those of others, injures himself and gets no thanks. As fortune chooses to dispose of our lives, let her alone. Do not exert yourself, but wait till she urges other men to do something, when it will be time for you to come forward, and for me to say, Here I am. I cannot thank you in any way except by giving you an account of my life here; and you may see whether it is worth exchanging for yours. “I remain at my country house; and since the last events I have not spent in all twenty days in Florence. I have hitherto been killing thrushes. Rising before daylight I prepared my snares, and set off with a bundle of cages at my back, so that I resembled Geta, when he returns from the harbour with Amphytrion’s books.a I a Alluding to Geta e Birria, a novella popular in the 15th and 16th centuries; a tale written in ottava rima and based on Plautus’s Amphitruo.

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took two or at most seven thrushes each day.* Thus passed September, since when, to my great annoyance, this diversion has failed me; and my life has been such as I will now detail. I rise with the sun, and go to a wood of mine, which I am cutting; where I remain a couple of hours, reviewing the work of the past day, and talking with the woodcutters, who are always in trouble either for themselves or their neighbours. I have a thousand entertaining things to tell you, which have happened with regard / to this wood†, between me and Frosino da Panzaro and others, who wanted to buy some of the wood. Frosino sent for several loads without saying a word to me; and on payment wanted to keep back ten livres, which he says he ought to have had from me four years ago, having won it at play, at the house of Antonio Guicciardini. I began to play the devil, and to accuse the carrier of cheating, on which G. Machiavelli interfered, and brought us to agree. When the north wind blew, Battista Guicciardini, Filippo Ginori, Tommaso del Bene, and several other citizens took a load. I promised some to all, and sent one to Tommaso, half of which went to Florence, because he and his wife and children were there to receive it. So, seeing I gained nothing by it, I told the others that I had no more wood, which made them all very angry, especially Battista, who numbers this among other state troubles. When I leave the wood I go to a fountain, where I watch my bird nets with a book in hand; either Dante or Petrarch, or one of the minor Latin poets – Tibullus, Ovid, or one similar. I read the accounts of their loves; I think of my own, and for a while enjoy these thoughts. Then I go to the inn on the road side; I talk with the passers by; ask the news of their villages; I hear many things, and remark on the various tastes and fancies of men. Meanwhile the hour of dinner arrives, and I dine with my family on such food as my poor house and slight patrimony afford. When I have dined, I return to the inn; where I usually find the host, a butcher, a miller, and two kiln men: with these I associate for the rest of the day, playing at cricca and tric-trac.a We have a thousand squabbles; angry words are used, often / about a farthing, and we wrangle so loudly, that you might hear us at San Casciano. Immersed in this vulgarity, I exhaust my spirits, and give free course to my evil fortune; letting her tread me thus under foot, with the hope that she will at last become ashamed of herself. “When evening comes I return home, and shut myself up in my study. Before I make my appearance in it, I take off my rustic garb, soiled with mud and dirt, * Machiavelli’s bird-catching need not excite surprise. It is the common pastime of Italian nobles of the present day, to go out with an owl for a decoy, to shoot larks, thrushes, & c. † Critics have given themselves the trouble to imagine and explain a mysterious meaning here, and to suppose that Machiavelli’s wood is an allegory of the political labyrinth: but there is no foundation for this idea. Machiavelli never recurred to allegory to express his political opinions; and we have twenty letters of his to Vettori, discussing the intentions and enterprises of the various European princes, without any attempt at mystery or covert allusion. At the same time we have also twenty letters full of anecdotes as insignificant as those of the wood. He was fond of minute details, and lively, though trifling, stories concerning himself and his friends. a

Tric-trac or backgammon; cricca or cricche, a bidding game played with tarot cards.

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and put on a dress adapted for courts or cities. Thus fitly habited I enter the antique resorts of the ancients; where, being kindly received, I feed on that food which alone is mine, and for which I was born. For an interval of four hours I feel no annoyance; I forget every grief, I neither fear poverty nor death, but am totally immersed. As Dante says, ‘No one learns a science unless he remembers what he is taught;’a so have I noted down that store of knowledge which I have collected from this conversation; and have composed a little work on princely governments, in which I analyse the subject as deeply as I can, discussing what a principality is; how many kinds there are; in what way they are acquired; how kept; how lost: and if any devise of mine ever pleased you, this will not be displeasing. It ought to be acceptable to princes, and chiefly to a new prince, wherefore I address it to Giuliano de’ Medici. Filippo Casavecchia has seen it, and can describe the thing to you, and recount the discussions we have had together about it. I am still adding to and polishing it. “Your excellency desires that I should leave this place to go and enjoy myself with you. I will do so assuredly; but am detained by some affairs, which will keep me here about seven weeks. The only thing that causes me to hesitate is, that the Soderini are in your town; and I should be obliged to see and visit them; and I should be afraid on my return that, instead of alighting at my own door, I should alight at the gates of the prison; because, although our person here (Giuliano de’ Medici) has secure foundation, and is fixed, yet / he is new and suspicious; and there are not wanting meddling fellows, like Paolo Bertini, who would draw upon others and leave me all the trouble. Preserve me from this fear, and I will certainly come to you. “I have talked with Philip concerning my little work, whether I shall dedicate it or not; and if I do, whether I shall present it myself, or send it to you. If I do not dedicate it, I fear that Giuliano will not even read it, but that Ardinghelli will get the honour of it.b Necessity drives me to present it, for I pine away, and cannot remain long thus without becoming despicable through poverty. I wish these signori Medici would begin to make use of me, even if I commenced by rolling a stone, for if I did not afterwards gain their favour I should despise myself. And, therefore, if this book were read, they would see that, for the fifteen years during which I studied the arts of government, I neither slept nor played; and every one ought to be glad to make use of one who has learned experience at the expense of others. Nor need they doubt my fidelity; for having proved myself trustworthy hitherto, I would not alter now: he who has been faithful for forty-three years, as I have, cannot change his nature; and my poverty is a witness of my honour and disinterestedness. “I wish you would tell me what you think on these matters, and so farewell. – Si felix. a Dante, Paradiso, V. 41–2: ‘chè non fa scienza, / senza lo ritenere, avere inteso’. The lines occur during Beatrice’s exposition of the doctrine of free will. b Piero di Niccolò Ardinghelli, secretary to Pope Leo X.

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“NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI . “10th of December, 1513.” The expressions in this letter appear sufficiently clear, that he wrote “The Prince,” for the purpose of recommending himself to the Medici, and of being employed by them. His sons afterwards declared to our countryman, cardinal Pole, that he alleged his intention to be, to induce the Medici to render themselves so hateful to Florence, by acting on the maxims he laid down, as to cause them to be exiled anew. There is no trace of this idea in his private correspondence. Giuliano de’ Medici was an amiable prince, / and he often praises him highly. It is true that his work is dedicated to Lorenzo de’ Medici; but this change was occasioned by the death of Giuliano. And even of Lorenzo, who was unpopular, Machiavelli writes thus to Vettori:— “I must give you some account of the proceedings of the Magnifico Lorenzo, which have hitherto been such as to fill the city with hope; so that every one begins to see his grandfather revived in him. He is diligent and affable, and causes himself to be loved and respected, rather than feared.”a Nor can it be believed that Machiavelli was so devoid of understanding, as to fancy that he could dupe men as intelligent as Leo X. and cardinal Julius, who were the heads of the family, by so barefaced an artifice. Besides that, the authority of the Medici was maintained by foreign arms, and the citizens were already very willing to get rid of them, as was proved a very few years after. Yet his real intentions form a question, perhaps, never to be decided. On one hand, the treatise is so broad and unplausible in its recommendations, that it is difficult to suppose him in earnest; and, on the other, it is so dry, and has in so small a degree the air of irony, that it can scarcely be regarded as a satire. If it is, it is ill done, since men have not yet agreed whether it is one or not. Let us turn to the work itself, however, and present some analysis of a treatise which has been the subject of so much disquisition. Machiavelli, in the letter given above, professes to have written his book for the instruction of new princes, – principi nuovi, – sovereigns lately raised to power. Italy was then divided into small states, governed by a variety of lords. Sometimes one among them endeavoured, like Cæsar Borgia, to conquer a number of these, and to unite them into one state. Machiavelli taught how a prince thus situated might acquire and confirm his power. He adduces the example of the Duke of Valence, saying, “He does not know how to give better precepts to a new sovereign / than those afforded by a view of Borgia’s conduct.”*b He describes the course of his policy, applauds the * When Leo X. formed a duchy, of which he made his nephew Lorenzo duke, Machiavelli, in a private letter to Vettori, discusses the government that he ought to adopt. In this letter he again adduces the example of Cæsar Borgia, saying, that were he a new prince, he would imitate all his proceedings. Thus of course only alludes to the civil government of Romagna, which was equitable and popular. a b

Letter of Feb.–Mar. 1514. Letter of 26 Aug. 1513.

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perfidy with which he destroyed the confederates of Magione, and holds up the death of Ramiro d’ Orco as a laudable proceeding. He allows, that perseverance in cruelty on the part of a prince becomes unendurable. “And, therefore,” he says, “a prince should determine to execute all his acts of blood at once, so that he may not be obliged each day to renew them; but give security to his subjects, and gain them by benefits. Injuries ought to be done at once, because thus they are less felt, and offend less; but benefits ought to be bestowed gradually, that they may produce a profounder impression.”a The reader may judge whether this maxim is sagacious, and seriously enjoined; or mischievous, and therefore brought forward with sinister and sarcastic motives. The first fourteen chapters are taken up by considering the various modes by which a prince acquires power – either by force of arms, or the favour of the citizens; being imposed on them by the aristocracy, or raised by the affection of the people. In the course of these considerations he remarks (chap. v.), that “he who becomes master of a city habituated to freedom, and does not destroy it, must expect to be destroyed by it; because it will, in every rebellion, take refuge in the name of liberty and its ancient rights, the memory of which can never be extinguished by time or benefits.” The fifteenth chapter is headed, – “Concerning those things for which men, and principally sovereigns are praised or blamed.” He begins by saying, – “It now remains to be seen what government and treatment a prince ought to observe with his subjects and friends. I know many people have written on this topic; and I expect, therefore, to be accused of presumption, in differing / from the opinions of others in my view of the subject. But, it being my intention to write what is useful to those who rule, it appears to me better to follow up the truth of things, than to bring forward imaginary ideas.” He adds, “A man who, instead of acting for the best, acts as he ought, seeks rather his ruin than his preservation. For he who resolves on all occasions to adhere to what is virtuous, must be destroyed by the many who are not virtuous. Hence it is necessary that a prince, who would maintain his power, should learn not to be virtuous, but to adapt the morality of his actions to the dictates of necessity.” He then enumerates the good and bad qualities for which sovereigns are distinguished, and adds:– “I know that every one will confess that it would be laudable for a prince to possess all the above-mentioned qualities, which are considered virtuous; but human nature does not allow of this. It is necessary, however, that he should be prudent, and avoid the infamy of those vices which would deprive him of power; and it would be well if he avoided the others also, if it were possible; but if it be not possible, he may yield to them with less danger. And also he must not hesitate to incur the reputation of those vices, through which his government may be preserved; for, on deep consideration, it will be found that there is a line of conduct which appears right, but which leads to ruin: and there is another which appears vicious, but from which security and prosperity flow.”b a b

Quotations in the above paragraph are from The Prince, chapters 7 and 8 respectively. Quotations from The Prince, ch. 15.

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And this is what is called Machiavelian policy. He goes on to show, that generosity, which is supported by extortion, must injure a prince more than parsimony, which makes no demands on the subject; he therefore advises a prince to gain a character for liberality, rather by being prodigal of the wealth of others than his own. “For,” he says, “nothing consumes itself so much as liberality; for while you use it, you lose your power of so doing, and you become poor and despicable; or, to escape from poverty, grow rapacious / and odious. A prince ought carefully to guard against becoming odious and contemptible: and liberality is one of the good qualities most likely to lead to this result, and therefore to be avoided.’a He then treats of “Cruelty and clemency, and whether it is better to be feared or loved.” He says;– “Every sovereign ought to desire to be esteemed merciful, and not cruel. Nevertheless, he ought to take care to what use he puts his mercy. Cæsar Borgia was considered cruel; nevertheless his cruelty subdued Romagna, and united it, and reduced it to peace and obedience. A prince, therefore, ought not to fear the reputation of cruelty, if by it he preserves his subjects tranquil and faithful. A few examples will be more merciful than tolerating disorders, through a compassion, which gives rise to assassinations and disturbances; for these injure the community, while the execution of offenders is injurious to individuals only.”b He then enters on a discussion of whether it is better for a prince to be loved or feared. He decides for the latter; for, he says, “Love is a duty, which, as men are wicked, is continually transgressed; but fear arises from the dread of punishment, which is never lost sight of.” Nothing can be more false than this. Men like to be benefited even more than they dislike being injured; and love is a more universal passion than terror. He continues, “Still a prince, while he seeks to be feared, must avoid being hated – for fear is very distinct from hatred. And he ought always to avoid seizing on the goods of his subjects. He may, as far as is justified by the cause given, proceed against the life of an individual; but let him not touch the possessions. For men more easily forget the death of a father than the loss of patrimony.”c After stating this diabolical and false maxim in all its native deformity, he proceeds to consider the propriety of a sovereign’s preserving his good faith: remarking, that though good faith and integrity are praiseworthy in a prince, experience in his own time shows those statesmen to have achieved the greatest things, who held truth in small / esteem:– “For there are two ways of acting, – one by law and the other by force; the one for men, the other for animals; but when the first does not succeed, it is necessary to have recourse to the second; and a sovereign ought to know how to put the animal man to good use. A prudent prince cannot and ought not to observe faith, when such observance would injure him, or the occasions for which he pledged himself are at an end. A sovereign, therefore, need not possess all the virtues I have mentioned; but it is necessary a b c

The Prince, ch. 16. The Prince, ch. 17. This and the previous quotation are from The Prince, ch. 18.

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that he should appear so to do. A prince cannot always practise the qualities which are esteemed good, being often obliged to maintain his power by acting against the dictates of humanity and religion. He must act conscientiously when he can; but when obliged, he ought to be capable of doing ill. A prince ought to take great care not to say a word that is not animated by good feeling, and he ought to appear full of pity, integrity, humanity, and religion; and there is nothing so necessary as that he should appear to attend to the last. Every one sees what you seem; few know what you are.”a Very false, notwithstanding its plausibility: children even have an instinct for detecting false appearances. He tells princes to cherish the affections of the people; as, he says, if loved by his subjects, he need fear no conspiracy; but, hated by them, he has every thing to dread. He avers, also, that it is easier for a newly raised prince to make friends of those who opposed him, than to preserve the good will of his own partisans. He goes on to give much advice concerning the choice of ministers and courtiers, and concerning the influence of fortune over states; and shows how concord and constancy are the only modes by which a government can preserve itself during the variations of fortune; and that, above all, it is necessary not to submit timidly, but to command her by audacity and resolution. He concludes by an exhortation to the Italians to drive the barbarians, French, Spaniards, and Germans, from their country. “It appears to me,” he says, / “considering all things, that there is an admirable opening for a new prince to introduce another state of things into Italy. Does not the whole land pray God to send her some one to free her from the barbarians? And is she not ready to follow any banner, if some one prince would display it? Nor do we see any house from which she can hope so much as yours (that of Lorenzo de’ Medici) favoured as it is by God and the church; being at the head of which, it may lead us to this redemption. The justice of your cause is great, and the war will be just, and necessary, and pious. God, also, has opened the way for you. The Italians, however, must accustom themselves to the exercise of arms, if they would defend their country from foreign invaders. The infantry of other kingdoms have their defects: the Spaniards cannot stand the impetus of cavalry; the Swiss would fear any infantry which should show itself as strong as themselves. Let the Italians, therefore, form an army of foot that shall possess none of these defects, and which shall be able to resist the shock of both horse and foot; and this must be done by a novel style of command, by introducing which, a new ruler will acquire reputation and power. You ought not, therefore, to lose this opportunity of appearing as the deliverer of Italy. I cannot express with what affection such a one would be received in those provinces which have suffered from the inundation of foreign troops; with what thirst of vengeance, what resolute fidelity; with what piety, and what grateful tears he would be followed. What gates would be shut against him? what people would refuse to render him obedience? what Italian would hesitate a

The Prince, ch. 19.

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to submit to his rule? Every one abhors the authority of the barbarians. Let, therefore, your illustrious house assume this enterprise, animated by that hope which a just cause inspires, so that your country may rise triumphant under your auspices.”a There is nothing that is not patriotic and praise-worthy in these exhortations; and they were such, moreover, / as were likely to gain the hearts of the Italians. If, therefore, he is previously sarcastic, he is serious here; and the mixture renders still more enigmatic the question of the aim he had in view in this work. Besides “The Prince,” Machiavelli wrote, at this time, his “Essays on the first Decade of Livy.”b These are considered by their author as his best work; an opinion confirmed by the learned Italians of the present day. They breathe a purely republican spirit, and have for their scope to demonstrate how the greatness of Rome resulted from the equal laws of the commonwealth, and the martial character of its citizens. He dedicated them to his friends Zanobi Buondelmonte, and Cosimo Rucellai, who were the patrons of the academy of the Rucellai gardens, a society set on foot by the father of Cosimo, for the support of the Platonic philosophy, and whose youthful followers were all devoted to liberty.c “The Art of War” was also written at this time, as well as his two comedies, his “Belfegor,” and “Life of Castruccio Castracani.”d The “Belfegor” has laid him open to the supposition that he was not happy in his married life: but there is no foundation for this notion. He was, early in life, married to Marietta Corsini, and had five children.e He always mentions his wife with affection and respect in his letters, and gives tokens, in his will, of the perfect confidence he reposed in her. “Belfegor” has always been a popular tale: it is written with great spirit, and possesses the merit of novelty and wit. His comedies are thought highly of by the Italians. The “Mandragola,” licentious as it is, was a great favourite. Leo X. caused the actors and scenic decorations to be brought from Florence to Rome, that he might see it represented; and Guicciardini invited the author to come to get it up at Modena, and tells him to bring with him a favourite singer and actress, named

a

The Prince, ch. 26. Discorsi sopra la prima deca di Tito Livio (Discourses on the First Decade of Titus Livius) (1531). c The Rucellai Gardens were designed by Italian humanist Bernardo Rucellai (1448–1514) and used by his son, Cosimo, for intellectual gatherings. The Orti Oricellari, named after the gardens, emerged as one of the most important academies of the Florentine renaissance; several of Machiavelli’s works were dedicated to members of the Orti, including the Discorsi (Discourses). d Dell’ arte della Guerra (The Art of War) (1519–20); a novel, Belfagor arcidiavolo (The Marriage of Belfagor) (1515); La Vita di Castruccio Castracani da Lucca (1520); and his comedies La Mandragola (The Mandrake) (1513) and La Clizia (based on Plautus’ Casina) (1515). Mary Shelley used the life of Castruccio as a source for Valperga (1823) and named the witch ‘Mandragola’ after Machiavelli’s play. Claire Clairmont read Belfagor in November 1820 when at Pisa (CCJ, p. 510). e Marietta di Luigi Corsini, whom he married in 1501. b

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La Barbara, to give it more effect: so early in Italian history do we find mention of prime donne, and of the court paid to them.a / But all this diligent authorship did not satisfy the active mind of Machiavelli: he tried to school himself to content, and says, in one of his letters to Vettori, “I am arrived at not desiring any thing again with passion.” But this was a deceit which he practised on himself. “If I saw you,” he writes again to his friend, “I should fill your head with castles in the air; because fortune has so arranged, that, not being able to discourse concerning the silk trade, nor the woollen trade, nor of gains nor losses, I must talk of the art of government.”b – “While I read and reread your disquisitions on politics, I forget my adversity, and appear to have entered again on those public affairs, in prosecuting which I vainly endured so much fatigue, and spent so much time.”c The endeavours of Vettori, who was attached to the Medici, to gain favour for his friend with Leo X., were long ineffectual; and Machiavelli showed symptoms of despair. “It seems,” he writes, “that I am to continue in my hole, without finding a man who will remember my services, or believe that I can be good for any thing. It is impossible that I can remain long thus. I pine away; and see that, if God will not be more favourable to me, I shall be obliged to leave my home, and become secretary to some petty officer, if I can do nothing else; or exile myself into some desert to teach children to read. I shall feign that I am dead; and my family will get on much better without me; as I am the cause of expense – being accustomed to spend, and unable to do otherwise. I do not write this to induce you to take trouble for my sake; but to ease my mind, so as not to recur again to so odious a subject.”d Yet all his letters are not complaining. The spirit of “Belfegor” and “La Mandragola” animates many of them. “We are now grave,” he writes, “and now frivolous; but we ought not to be blamed for this variety, as in it we imitate nature, which is full of change.”e The first use to which the Medici put him, was when Leo X. had placed the cardinal Julius over Florence, and wished to remodel the government. He addressed / himself to Machiavelli for his advice; and the latter wrote, in reply, his “Essay on the Reform of the Government of Florence, Written at the request of Leo X.”f Soon after Leo died, and the cardinal Julius expected to have been elected pope. He was disappointed, and returned to Florence to confirm his authority. The death of Leo awakened the hopes of the opposite party; and a conspiracy was at this juncture entered into by the nephew of the gonfaloniere a

Barbara Raffacanti Salutati, for whom Machiavelli’s comedies were written. Women were not allowed to perform on the public stage in Britain until after 1660. b This and the previous quotation from Letter of 9 Apr. 1513. c Letter of 29 Apr. 1513. d Letter of 10 Jun. 1514. e Letter of 13 Jan. 1515. f Discorso sopra il riformare lo stato di Firenze (1520).

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1514. Ætat. 45.

1519. Ætat. 50.

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1521. Ætat. 52.

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Soderini and the young philosophers of the Rucellai, to expel the Medici. It was discovered; two ringleaders were put to death, and the rest fled. Sismondi hastily assumes the fact, that Machiavelli was implicated in this plot;a but, on the contrary, there seems every proof that he took no part in it whatever; and at this very time he was again employed by the reigning powers. The Minor Friars were assembled in chapter at Carpi, in the duchy of Modena. The government of Florence wished to obtain from them, that their republic should be formed by their order, into a distinct province, separated from the rest of Tuscany. At the instance of cardinal Julius, Machiavelli was charged with this negotiation. A few days after his arrival at Carpi, the council of the company of the woollen trade commissioned him to procure a good preacher for the metropolitan church at Florence, during the ensuing Lent. His letters to his employers, on these occasions, are as serious and methodical as during any other legation; but in his heart he disdained the petty occupation. His friend Francesco Guicciardini, the celebrated historian, was then governor of Modena; and several amusing letters passed between them while Machiavelli was at Carpi. Guicciardini writes: “When I read your titles of ambassador to republics and friars, and consider the number of kings and princes with whom you have formerly negotiated, I am reminded of Lysander, who, after so many victories, had the office of distributing provisions to the army he had formerly commanded; and I say that, though the aspects of men, / and the exterior appearances of things, are changed, the same circumstances perpetually return, and we witness no event that did not take place in times gone by.”b Machiavelli replies with greater gaiety:– “I can tell you that, on the arrival of your messenger, with a bow to the ground, and a declaration that he was sent express and in haste, every one arose with so many bows and so much clamour, that all things seemed turned topsy-turvy. Many persons asked me the news; and I, to increase my importance, said that the emperor was expected at Trent, that the Swiss were assembling a new diet, and that the king of France was going to have an interview with the king of England; so that all stood open-mouthed and cap in hand to hear me. I am surrounded by a circle now, while writing, who, seeing me occupied upon so long a letter, wonder and regard me as one possessed; and I, to excite their surprise, pause now and then, and look very wise; and they are deceived. If they knew what I was writing, their wonder would in crease. Pray send one of your men again; and let him hurry, and arrive in a heat, so that these people may be more and more astonished; for thus you will do me honour, and the exercise will be good for the horse at this season of the year. I would now write you a longer letter, if I were willing to tire out my imagination; but I wish to preserve it fresh for to-morrow. Remember me, and farewell. a Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, ch. cxiv; Sismondi does not say that Machiavelli took part, but that his disciples were among the conspirators. b Letter of Guicciardini, dated (perhaps erroneously) 18 May 1521.

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“Your servant, “NICCOLÒ MACCHIAVELLI , “Ambassador to the Minor Friars. “Carpi, 17th of May, 1521.” This letter, as well as well as one of Guicciardini’s on this occasion, has been mutilated by a person, whose scrupulous good taste was offended by the tone of some of the pleasantries. That was not the age of decorum either in speech or action.a The cardinal Julius had commissioned Machiavelli to write the history of Florence, and he proceeded in it / as far as the death of Lorenzo de’ Medici. He writes to Guicciardini, on the 30th of August, 1524, “I am staying in the country, occupied in writing my history; and I would give fivepence – I will not say more – to have you here, that I might show you where I am, as in certain particulars I wish to know whether you would be offended most by my elevated or humble manner of treating them. I try, nevertheless, to write so as, by telling the truth, to displease no one.” Cardinal Julius had now become pope, under the title of Clement VII. He paid Machiavelli a regular but very limited salary as historiographer. Having brought it down to the time of the death of Lorenzo de’ Medici, he made a volume of it, and dedicated it to the pope. On this occasion he writes to Guicciardini, “I have received a gratification of 100 ducats for my history. I am beginning again; and relieve myself by blaming the princes who have done every thing they can to bring us to this pass.” He signs himself to this letter, Niccolò Machiavelli, historian, comic and tragic author, – istorico, comico, et tragico.b The condition of Italy was at this period most deplorable. The French had been driven from Italy after the battle of Pavia; but no sooner was that power humbled, than the various states began to regard with alarm the ascendency of the emperor Charles V.c A confederacy was formed by the chief among them, for the purpose of holding this powerful monarch in check; and he sent the constable Bourbon to Milan to preserve that duchy. Thus there were two armies in the heart of the peninsula, both unpaid, both lawless, and destructive to friends as well as to enemies. The emperor sent no supplies to Bourbon; and the pope, who was at the head of the Italian league, showed himself so timid and vaccillating, and, above all, so penurious, as to bring down ruin on his cause.

a

The reference to mutilation has not been traced. As often, Mary Shelley’s apparent endorsement of censorship is ambiguously worded. b Letter of 21 Oct. 1525. c Battle of Pavia, fought on 24 Feb. 1525 between Francis I, King of France (1494–1547) and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V (1500–58); a decisive French defeat, the battle established Habsburg power in Italy.

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1527. Ætat. 58.

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Bourbon was unable to keep his troops together, except by promises of plunder; and he led them southward by slow advances, with the intention of enriching / them by the sack of Florence or Rome. The danger was nearest to the former city; and Clement VII. considered it requisite to put it in a state of defence. Machiavelli was employed to inspect the progress of the fortifications. He executed his task diligently, and, as was his wont, put his whole heart and soul into his occupation. “My head is so full of bulwarks,” he says, “that nothing else will enter it.”a The imperial army continued to advance; and the Florentine government, in great alarm, sent Machiavelli to Guicciardini, governor of Modena, and lieutenant-general of the papal forces, to take measures with regard to the best method of securing the republic; and it was agreed that, if the imperialists advanced, the forces of the church should be sent in aid of Florence. The winter season and other circumstances delayed the operations of the imperialists, but early in the following spring the danger grew imminent. Bourbon had arrived with his army to the vicinity of Bologna; and there was every likelihood that his army would traverse Tuscany, and attack Florence itself. Machiavelli again went to Parma, to advise with Guicciardini, to watch over the movements of the hostile army, and to send frequent intelligence to Florence of their proceedings. The republic wished that the troops of the Italian league should assemble at Bologna, and be on the spot to guard the frontiers of Tuscany. The imperialists continued to advance: the pope, alarmed by their progress, entered into a treaty for peace with the emperor; but it was uncertain whether the army under Bourbon would agree to it. Machiavelli continued for some weeks at Parma, and then accompanied Guicciardini to Bologna, watching their movements. It was doubtful what road they would take on proceeding to Rome; but the chances still were, that they would pass through Tuscany. The army now removed to Castel San Giovanni, ten miles from Bologna, where they remained some days, detained by the bad weather, and overflowing of the low lands, / caused by the melting of the snow, which had fallen heavily around Bologna: they were in danger, while thus forced to delay, of being reduced to great straits for want of provisions. “If this weather lasts two days longer,” Machiavelli wrote to his government, “the duke of Ferrara may, sleeping and sitting, put an end to the war.”b A truce was concluded between Clement VII. and the ministers of Charles V.; but it was not acceded to by Bourbon and his army. The pope, however, unaware of this circumstance, dismissed his troops, and remained wholly unguarded. The imperialists, rendered unanimous through the effects of hunger and poverty, continued to advance. They entered Tuscany; but, without staying to attack Florence, they hurried on by forced marches and falling unexpectedly on Rome, took it by assault; and that dreadful sack took place, which filled the city with death and misery, and spread alarm throughout Italy. Machiavelli followed the a b

Letter of 17 May 1526. ‘Legazione seconda a Modena’, letter x, 18 Mar. 1526.

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Italian army, as it advanced to deliver the pope, who was besieged in the Castel Sant’ Angelo.a From the environs of Rome he repaired to Cività Vecchia, where Andrea Doria commanded a fleet; and from him he obtained the means of repairing by sea to Leghorn. Before embarking, he received intelligence of the revolution of Florence. On hearing of the taking of Rome, on the 6th of May, the republicans rose against the Medici; and they were forced to quit the city. The government was changed on the 16th of May, and things were restored to the state they were in 1512. Machiavelli returned to Florence full of hope. He considered that the power was now in the hands of his friends, and that he should again enter on public life under prosperous auspices. His hopes were disappointed – public feeling was against him: his previous services, his imprisonment and torture, were forgotten; while it was remembered that, since 1513, he had been continually aiming at getting employed by the Medici, against whom the popular feeling was violently excited. He had succeeded at last; and was actually in their service, / when they were driven from the city. These circumstances rendered him displeasing to men who considered themselves the deliverers of their country. Machiavelli was disappointed by their neglect, and deeply wounded by their distrust. He fell ill; and taking some pills, to which he was in the habit of having recourse when indisposed, he grew worse, and died two days after – on the 22d of June, 1527 – in the 59th year of his age. Paul Jovius, his old enemy, insinuates that he took the medicine for the sake of destroying himself, – a most clumsy sort of suicide, – but there is no foundation whatever for this report.* His wife Marietta, the daughter of Ludovico Corsini, survived him; and he left five children, – four sons and one daughter. He had made a will in 1511, when secretary of the republic; and in 1522 he made another, which only differs in details – the spirit is the same. He leaves his “beloved wife” an addition to her dower, and divides the rest of his slight fortune between his * He had before recommended these pills to Guicciardini, saying that he himself never took more than two at a time. They are chiefly composed of aloes. There is a letter from his son Pietro to Francesco Nelli, professor at Pisa, which relates concisely the manner of his death:–

“Dearest Francesco, – I cannot refrain from tears on being obliged to inform you of the death of our father Niccolò, which took place on the 22d of this month, of colic, produced by a medicine which he took on the 20th. He allowed himself to be confessed by Frate Matteo, who remained with him till his death. Our father has left us in the greatest poverty, as you know. When you return here, I will tell you many things by word of mouth. I am in haste, and will say no more than farewell. “Your relation, “PIETRO M ACHIAVELLI .”b a Castel Sant’Angelo, Hadrian’s mausoleum in Rome and later used by the papacy as a prison fortress. b Letter not traced. Aloes is a powerful purge.

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children. Marietta is left guardian and trustee of the younger children – to continue till they were nineteen – with a clause forbidding them to demand any account of money spent; and mentions that he reposes entire confidence in her. Machiavelli was of middle stature, rather thin, and of olive complexion. He was gay in conversation, obliging with his friends, and fond of the arts. He had readiness of wit; and it is related of him, that, being reproved for the maxims of his “Prince,” he replied – “If I taught princes how to tyrannise, I also taught the people how to destroy them.”a He probably developes in these words, the secret of his writings. He was willing / to teach both parties, but his heart was with the republicans. He was buried at the church of Santa Croce at Florence; and soon after his death a violent sensation was created against his works – principally through an attack on the “Prince,” by our own countryman, cardinal Pole. They were interdicted by successive popes, and considered to contain principles subversive of religion and humanity. It was not till the lapse of more than two centuries that a re-action of feeling took place – and the theory was brought forward, that he wrote for the sake of inducing the Medici to render themselves odious to their countrymen, so as to bring ruin and exile again on their house. In 1782, the Florentines were induced by the representations of an English nobleman, lord Cowper, to pay honour to their countryman, and set on foot a complete edition of his works; which Leopold, grand duke of Tuscany, permitted to be printed; and which was preceded by an eulogium written by Baldelli.b In 1787, a monument was erected over his remains, on which was carved the following inscription:– Tanto Nomini nullum par Elogium NICOLAUS M ACHIAVELLI . Obiit Anno A. P. V. MDXXVII.c

There remains no descendant of Machiavelli. His grandson, by his only daughter, Giuliano Ricci, left several writings relative to his illustrious ancestor, which are preserved in the archives of the Ricci family. The branch of the Machiavelli, descending from the secretary, terminated in Ippolita Machiavelli, married to Francesco de’Ricci in 1608. The other branch terminated in Francesco Maria, Marchese di Quinto in the Vicentino, who died in Florence, 1726. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME .

a

/

Not traced. Opere di Niccolo Machiavelli (1782), encouraged by George Nassau Clavering, 3rd Earl Cowper (1738–89), but the prefatory ‘Vita dell’autore’ is by Reginaldo Tanzini. c ‘For so great a name, no fitting epitaph, Niccolò Machiavelli, died in the year A.D. 1527...’’ b

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LITERARY LIVES ITALIAN LIVES VOLUME TWO

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Title Page Vignette: clockwise from the top, the portraits are of Maffei, Metastasio, Galileo and Tasso. Of these, only the biography of Metastasio was written by Mary Shelley and there is no biography of Maffei at all. Again, these names tend to suggest that the plate was designed and perhaps engraved before Mary Shelley had been invited to write the second volume of Italian Lives, though in this case the date of 1835 does not look as if it has been altered. Once again, the designer and engraver are Corbould and Finden.

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CONTENTS.

GALILEO

[3

Omitted]

GUICCIARDINI

[63]

165

VITTORIA COLONNA

[75]

174

GUARINI

[82]

180

[96

Omitted]

CHIABRERA

[163]

191

TASSONI

[169]

197

MARINI

[174]

201

FILICAJA

[180]

206

METASTASIO

[185]

210

GOLDONI

[213]

230

ALFIERI

[247]

254

MONTI

[303]

294

UGO FOSCOLO

[353]

330

TASSO

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GUICCIARDINI. 1482–1540. GUICCIARDINI was the contemporary and intimate friend of Machiavelli, but their several careers bore small similitude; for worldly prosperity attended the first, while the other was depressed by neglect and penury; and while his intellect struggled with these chains, the nobler parts of his disposition yielded to them. Machiavelli was a republican in principle, of humble fortunes, and dependent on his friends for their favour and encouragement. Guicciardini was a courtier; he was the servant of a prince, not of a state; in birth and position in life he had the advantage of his friend; and these combining circumstances rendered him more confident in himself, while at the same time it inspired him with an avowed dislike for popular governments. The Guicciardini formed one of the noblest families of Florence: it was of ancient origin, and possessed several magnificent mansions in Florence. One of the streets is named de’ Guicciardini, from containing a palace belonging to them; and they had large possessions in the Val di Pesa.a Francesco, the subject of this memoir, was the son of Piero de’ Guicciardini, a celebrated advocate, and at one time commissary-general to the Florentine army. Francesco was one of eight children. His mother was Simona daughter of the cavaliere Bongiani Gianfigliazzi, a noble Florentine.b He was born on the 6th of March, 1482.* / He was educated with care by the best masters, and taught Greek * It was a habit among the Florentines to keep memoranda of the principal events of their lives, which they called Ricordi. The date of the birth of Guicciardini has been disputed, but it is ascertained from a MS. book of his ricordi, or records, which Manni cites.c He thus writes concerning himself: – “I record that I, Francesco di Piero Guicciardini, now doctor of civil and canon law, was born on the 6th March, 1482, at ten o’clock. I was baptised Francesco, from Francesco de Nerli, my maternal grandfather and Tommasso, out of respect for St. Thomas Aquinas, on whose festival I was born. Messer Marsiglio Ficino held me at the baptismal foot, a Via Guicciardini, Florence, located just off the Ponte Vecchio; Val di Pesa, located just south of the city. b Patrician of a prominent Black Guelph family. c Domenic Maria Manni (1690–1788), Vita di Francesco Guicciardini, reprinted in various 18th-century editions of Guicciardini’s Storia d’Italia (1561), including the translation History of Italy from the Year 1490 to 1532 (1753–6). Volume and page references to ‘Manni’ and hereafter are to this edition. Mary Shelley, however, is using an Italian text.

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DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-15

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and Latin. He applied himself, as he grew up, to the study of logic and of civil law, as he was destined for the robe. He was sent to Ferrara by his father, not merely for the sake of attending the teachers there, but that his parent might have a place of refuge, where to send his property, in the event of civil disturbance or external attack upon Florence. Large sums of money were remitted to him, and he boasts of the trustworthiness of his conduct on this occasion, despite his extreme youth. It was in agitation at one time to make him a priest, as, through the interest of an uncle, who was rich in benefices, a prosperous career was opened to him in the church. He was himself inclined towards the clerical profession, as one full of honour and dignity; but his father decided against it, and resolved that none of his five sons should enter the priesthood; partly induced by the notion that the papal power was on the decline, and partly from a conscientious feeling of the impropriety of adopting the sacred calling, merely for the sake of temporal advantages. Instead, therefore, of assuming the sacerdotal garb, Francesco took a doctor’s degree in law, and at an early age was appointed by the government to read the Institute in the university of Florence. He married the following year. His wife was Maria, daughter of Alamanno di Averardo Salviati, one of the first men of the city.a Several law offices were bestowed on him, and he prides himself at this success in early life. But he felt himself still more honoured, when he was sent by the republic as ambassador to Ferdinand, king of Aragon.b Italy was then the arena on which the adverse powers of France, Germany, and Spain contended for mastery. Florence adhered to the French party, but the timid / gonfaloniere Soderini, desirous of currying favour on all sides, thought it right to preserve a good understanding with Ferdinand. Francesco, feeling his inexperience, shrunk from the responsibility of this mission, and did not accept it, till his father added his commands to those of the state. He remained two years at Burgos, in attendance on the Spanish court, conducting himself in such a way as to acquire the esteem of Ferdinand, who presented him with a number of silver vessels of great value on his departure. This was no good school for the acquirement of political integrity. The Italians were proverbially treacherous, but Ferdinand emulated them in the arts of deception. It is related of this monarch, that when he heard that Louis XII. complained of having been twice deceived by him, he exclaimed, “The fool lies, I have tricked him above ten times.”c who was the greatest platonic philosopher then existing in the world, and by Giovanni Canacci and Piero del Nero, both philosophers also.” a Patrician of a family with strong Medici sympathies; earlier part of the paragraph summarised from Manni (I, pp. iv–vi); details here and following from ibid., p. vii. b Guicciardini served from 1511–14 at the court of Ferdinand, King of Aragon and of Spain; see ‘Machiavelli’. c ‘L’yvrogne en a menti, je l’ai trompé plus de dix foix’ (Roscoe, Leo the Tenth, II, p. 79n.). Mary Shelley translates directly from Roscoe’s footnote and does not use Roscoe’s own translation (cf. her similar treatment of Roscoe’s translations of Poliziano’s letters). The first half of this paragraph is extracted from Manni (I, p. viii).

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Meanwhile the aspect of affairs changed at Florence. The French were driven from Italy, and the republic paid the penalty of the weak and disarmed neutrality which it had preserved, by being forced by the allied armies to receive back the exiled Medici.a The consequence of this return was a change of government, from that of a free state, to subjection to the will of a single family. Guicciardini acted with a prudence that acquired for him the favour of the new rulers; and, on his return from Spain, was received with every suitable mark of distinction. His joy, however, on returning to his native town, was clouded by the recent death of his father. On the event of the visit of Leo X. to Florence, attended by a numerous retinue of cardinals, Guicciardini, who had lately filled the office of magistrate, was sent, with others, to receive the pope at Cortona. Leo was so struck by him, that the next day he named him his consistorial advocate, of his own accord, without solicitation: nor did his patronage stop here; he soon after took him entirely into his service, and finding that his prudence and sagacity were equal to the good opinion / he had formed of him, he made him governor of Reggio and Modena. He acquitted himself with great credit in this high office. Having been educated for the robe, instead of the career of arms, the enemies of the pope cherished the notion, that he might be surprised and frightened in his government; but his firmness and judgment disconcerted all their stratagems. When Leo X. died, the merits of Guicciardini became yet more conspicuous. The papal power was very infirmly established in Lombardy, and the duke of Ferrara, who claimed Modena and Reggio as his own, was on the alert to take advantage of the interval of weakness caused by a delay in the election of a new pope; but Guicciardini foiled him in all his attempts. His most memorable action on this occasion was his defence of Parma. He relates it with conscious pride in his history. He had been sent by cardinal Julius de’ Medici to defend Parma from an attack made by the French. Guicciardini’s chief difficulty was, to inspire the citizens with resolution and martial enthusiasm. He convoked them together, distributed pikes among them, and causing the defenceless part of the town, on one side of the river, to be abandoned, made strenuous efforts to intrench the other. The enemy entered the deserted portion, and the people were eager to surrender. Guicciardini pointed out to them the fact, that the hostile forces were unprovided with artillery, and so succeeded in inspiring them with some degree of resolution: he led the attack himself, and the success that attended their sortie increasing their courage, the enemy was driven, off and the siege raised. Federigo da Bozzole, who commanded the attack, had made sure of success, and declared that he had been deceived in nothing during the expedition, except in the notion that a governor, who was not a soldier, and who had newly come to the city, should a After the expulsion of the Medici in 1494, Florentine republicans had established democratic control of the city. The ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’ referred to below is Lorenzo II, who came to power at the Medici restoration of 1512.

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carry on the defence at his own peril, when he might have saved himself without dishonour.a When cardinal Julius became pope, under the name of Clement VII., he showed his approbation of Guicciardini, / by naming him president of Romagna, with greater powers than had been enjoyed by any predecessor in that office: thus, a large portion of Italy north of the Apennines was under his rule. It was a situation of honour, but attended with an equal portion of difficulty and labour, from the unsettled state of the country. Prudence and firmness, and even severity, were the characteristics of Guicciardini’s administration; he was unrelenting towards criminals, but at the same time became very popular, in Modena especially, by the attention he paid to the comfort and pleasures of the people, and the embellishments he bestowed on the city. At this time the French were again, after the battle of Pavia,b driven from Italy, and Clement VII., afraid of the overweening power of Charles V., formed a league against him. The duke of Urbino was chief over the army of the league, and Guicciardini was named lieutenant-general of the pontifical army in the ecclesiastical states. The choice that had been made of the duke of Urbino, as chief leader, was injudicious. He had been driven from his states by Leo X.; Lorenzo de’ Medici had been gifted with his duchy, and he naturally was inimical to his rival’s family. His irresolute, shuffling conduct during the disastrous advance of the constable Bourbon on Rome, was doubtless a principal cause of the sack of that city. Guicciardini, as general of the papal army, exerted himself in vain to induce him to more energetic measures: instead of throwing himself before the advancing army of the imperialists, he slowly followed it. When Bourbon was in the neighbourhood of Arezzo, the duke of Urbino entered Florence. The power of the Medici was odious in that city. A formidable party, whose watchword was liberty, regarded with triumph the dangers to which Clement VII. was exposed. A number of the younger nobility among them took occasion of the alarm excited, to seize on the palace of government. The duke of Urbino prepared to attack it, but first sent Federigo da Bozzole / to treat with the party who held it. Full of enthusiasm and courage, the young men refused all terms, and Bozzole left them, enraged at their obstinacy and their personal ill-treatment of himself. Guicciardini perceived the dangers that threatened his country. It was an easy task for the duke of Urbino to attack the palace of government, to destroy it and all those within; but an act of violence and bloodshed was to be avoided. Guicciardini hastened forward to meet Bozzole as he left the palace, and represented a Paragraph extracted from Manni (I, pp. ix–x); Guicciardini recounts his defeat of the duke of Ferrara (Alfonso d’Este, 1476–1534) in his Ricorda (c. 1530). b Fought on 24 February 1525. By the subsequent Treaty of Madrid (14 January 1526) the captive French king, Francis I, ceded territories in northern Italy. Released, Francis joined the League of Cognac, May 1526, formed by Clement VII under the leadership of Francesco Maria Della Rovere, Duke of Urbino (1490–1576) to check the power of the emperor Charles V. The Della Rovere family had briefly lost the dukedom of Urbino (1516–21) to Lorenzo II de’ Medici, who during his period of ownership was also known as the Duke of Urbino.

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to him briefly how displeasing such a contest would be to the pope, and how detrimental to the confederates; and how much better it would be to calm, instead of exasperating, the mind of the duke of Urbino. Bozzole yielded, and gave hope to the duke that quiet might be restored without recourse being had to arms; pacific means were in consequence resorted to, and the insurgents induced to quit the palace. Guicciardini relates this circumstance and his interference with pride, in the belief that he had done his country as well as the pope good service, but he adds, that he got no thanks from either side; the Medici party accusing him of preferring the lives and safety of the citizens to the firm establishment of that family; while the other party declared that he had exaggerated their difficulties, and caused them needlessly to yield their advantages. It had been well for the fame of Guicciardini, if he had submitted to the blame of his contemporaries, and secured the approbation of posterity, by adhering to a line of conduct so impartial and patriotic. Although the fall of the Medici was suspended for a short time on this occasion, the taking of Rome decided their expulsion. When the duke of Urbino went southward to deliver the pope, besieged in the Castel Sant’ Angelo, the Florentines seized the opportunity to drive out the Medici, and to restore the freedom of their government. The wars carried on by Clement VII. had weighed heavily on the republic, since he drew from it his chief resources; the people were thus exasperated against his / rule, and now that they possessed the power, displayed their hatred of his family by many acts of outrage. To have served them was to share their disgrace, and the odium with which they were regarded. It has been related how Machiavelli, republican as he was, and personally attached to many of the leaders of the popular party, was unable to overcome the prejudice excited by his having entered the service of the Medici. Guicciardini was visited by more open marks of the dislike of the new leaders; and he was the more angry because he had displayed a wish to join them. He neither loved nor esteemed Clement, whom he represents as timid, avaricious, and ungracious. He regarded his imprisonment by the imperialists with very lukewarm interest, and even raised soldiers for the defence of Florence: but these demonstrations did not avail to acquire for him the confidence of his countrymen, and he was forced to fly the town during a popular tumult. Hence seems to spring his hatred of free institutions, and his subsequent conduct in aiding in the destruction of the liberties of his country. From this time he entered with all the zeal of personal resentment into the cause of the Medici. His name has thus received a taint never to be effaced. He became the abettor of tyrants, the oppressor of his fellow citizens; and that equity and firmness which he before exercised, by establishing order in the districts over which he presided, were changed to the persecution of the martyrs of liberty.* It is impossible to slur over * See a clever pamphlet, entitled “Saggio sulla Vita a sulle Opere di Francesco Guicciardini,” by Rosini, a professor of the University of Pisa.a a Giovanni Rosini, Saggio sulla vita e sulle opere di Francesco Guicciardini (Pisa: N. Capurro, 1820), included in various editions of Guicciardini’s Storia d’Italia after 1832.

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this portion of his life as he does himself. For it is remarkable that the only events recorded in his history, which are narrated in a slovenly and confused manner, are those in which he took a principal share, – the second restoration of the Medici, and the final overthrow of the liberties of Florence. When a reconciliation had been patched up between Charles V. and Clement VII., the force of their united arms was turned against Florence. The republic was / headed by gallant spirits, who, seeing their last hope of freedom in a successful resistance, exerted every nerve to defend themselves.a They were willing to suffer any extremity, rather than submit to a slavery which must crush for ever the proud independence and free institutions of their native city. Guicciardini had been named by the pope, governor of Bologna, and took no part in the war against his country; but he is accused of participating in the iniquitous proceedings which followed the surrender of the city. The pope acted with the utmost treachery. He granted generous terms; but when in possession, held a mock assembly of the people, keeping off, by means of the troops he introduced, all the citizens, except those prepared to receive law at his hands. He thus, as it were, obtained a legal decree, which changed the form of government, and denounced its late leaders. Executions and confiscations became the order of the day; the chief power was placed in the hands of Vettori,b Guicciardini, and two others, and their conduct entailed on them the execration of their fellow citizens. So zealous did Guicciardini show himself, that the pope entrusted him with the office of reforming and restricting the list of candidates, who were selected to be members of government, and he displayed his prudence and sagacity for the reigning family at the expense of the lives and liberties of the most virtuous among his fellow citizens. Under his auspices, the office of gonfaloniere, which had subsisted for 250 years, was abolished, and Alessandro de’ Medici was named duke, which title was to descend in perpetuity to his successors. This miserable man was the son of a negro-woman, and regarded as the offspring of Lorenzo, the son of Piero de’ Medici: but it was more probable that he owed his existence to Clement VII.; at least the latter claimed the honour of paternity. His disgraceful birth stamped him with contempt; his profligacy and cruelty acquired the hatred of the people over whom he ruled.c / Guicciardini endeavoured to restrain him in the indulgence of his vices, but without avail. He was now wholly devoted to his service. When Clement VII. died, his successor wished him to continue governor of Bologna, but he refused. a Referring to the heroic last stand put up by Francesco Ferrucci in 1530. According to Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, ch. cxxii, one immediate result of the defeat of Florence was the extinction of the custom whereby the emperor had to be crowned at Rome, hitherto a recognition of Italy’s importance and independence. From this date the political influence on the rest of Europe of even independent Italian states began to decline. b Francesco Vettori (1474–1539), who had also acted as Florentine ambassador to Rome. c Alessandro de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. His paternity is still an open question. To conceal his birth, he allegedly poisoned his mother, said to have been a slave. See also ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’, n. a (p. 77) and ‘Modern Italian Romances’, vol. 4.

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While the see was vacant, he had yielded to the entreaties of the senators, and remained to prevent popular disturbances. They promised him every assistance to maintain his authority; but his enemies took occasion to display their disrespect. Geronimo Pepoli, and others, who some years before had retired from Bologna in distaste, took this occasion to return, accompanied by armed followers and public bandits.a Guicciardini’s haughty spirit was in arms against the insult. Among the followers of Pepoli were two outlaws under sentence of death; these he caused to be seized, led to prison, and put to death. Pepoli manifested the utmost indignation, and was only restrained by the authority of the senators from giving public token of his resentment. When the new pope was elected, and another governor appointed, Guicciardini prepared to quit the city. Pepoli threatened to attack him on his departure; but he, undismayed, set out at noon-day, accompanied only by a few attendants on horseback. His road led him past the palace of the Pepoli, nor would he diverge from it on this account, but passed under their windows with a firm and intrepid countenance, and was permitted to pursue his way unmolested. He soon after displayed this energy and firmness of character in a very bad cause. The Florentines, unable any longer to endure the tyranny and vices of duke Alexander, appealed to Charles V., whom they regarded as lord paramount of their state. The emperor summoned Alexander to Naples, where he then was, to answer the charges made against him. He obeyed: but the emperor was so incensed that he began to fear the result, and was on the point of retreating, had not Guicciardini exhorted him to remain. He drew up a defence for him, and by a judicious distribution of bribes, succeeded / in obtaining his acquittal; and Florence was again subjected to his yoke. Two years after, Alexander was murdered by Lorenzino de’ Medici, who considered that he had a better right to be considered the head of the family. But this act, undertaken without the participation of any accomplice, was not followed by the results that might have been anticipated. Lorenzino, frightened by his very success, fled the city, and his cousin Cosmo was raised to the supreme power, and afterwards named grand duke of Tuscany.b Guicciardini assisted materially in his elevation, and hoped to be real chief of the state, while the other held the nominal rank. But Cosmo was of a crafty, cold, and ungrateful disposition, and treated his benefactor with such neglect, that he withdrew himself from public life, and retired to his country seat at Montici, in the neighbourhood of Florence. From this time he occupied himself wholly in the composition of his history.c It is a fine monument of his genius and industry. It commences with the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII., and goes down to the exaltation of Cosmo. The fault attributed to him as an author is prolixity, and to this he must plead guilty. He dwells with the most tiresome and earnest minuteness on the most trivial a

Called Girolamo Pepoli in Manni’s Vita. Lorenzino Pierfrancesco de’ Medici (1515–47/8), who fled to Venice after murdering his cousin in 1537; he in turn was assassinated by order of Cosimo I de’ Medici (1519–74). c i.e. Storia d’Italia. b

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incidents; and the taking of an insignificant castle, followed by no important results, is attended by the same diffuseness and exactitude of detail as events of the greatest magnitude. But no historian surpasses Guicciardini when the subject is worthy of his pen. His animated descriptions of battles, the chances of war, and conduct of princes and leaders; his delineations of character, and masterly views of the course of events, all claim the highest admiration. The orations, which he intersperses, have been cavilled at, but they are eloquent, full of dignified exhortation, or sagacious reasoning. His account of the rise and formation of the temporal power of the popes excited great censure in catholic countries; and throughout he is accused of showing himself the enemy of the Roman / church. It is true, that the pages of no other historian afford such convincing proofs of the pernicious effects resulting from the union of spiritual supremacy and temporal possessions. His powerful character of the infamous pope Borgia;a his description of the fiery vehemence of Julius II.; his unveiling of the faults of Leo X., and the exposure he makes of the mistakes and weakness of Clement VII., present the very men and times to our eyes, and form as it were a school in which to study the philosophy of history. We perceive no partiality till the last few pages, which record the downfall of the republic of Florence. His language is, in the eyes of Italian critics, nearly pure;b it is forcible, without being concise; and the clearness and majesty of the expressions in his best passages carry the reader along with him. Guicciardini was solicited by pope Paul III.c to leave his retreat, and to enter again on public life, but he refused. The disappointment of his ambitious views on the exaltation of Cosmo, and the duke’s ingratitude, struck him to the heart. He did not live to complete his history, and died on the 27th of May, 1540, in the fifty-eighth year of his age. He expressly ordered that his funeral should be unattended by any pomp; and his directions were so strictly followed, that for some time no stone even commemorated the spot of his sepulture. Little is known of his private life. His letters have all perished, except a few addressed to Machiavelli. They are lively in their style, and very friendly. He had no son, and seven daughters, and wrote to the secretary to ask his advice in settling them in marriage. Machiavelli advised his applying to the pope for a dowry; counselling him by all means to marry the eldest well, as the others would follow her example; and he quotes a passage from Dante, referring to a duke of Provence, “who had three daughters and each a queen. And the cause of this thing, was Romeo, a poor wandering man,”d who had advised the duke to be / unsparing a Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI (1431–1503), elected to the papacy in 1492 through simony and renowned for his morally degenerate behaviour. b Mary Shelley here emphasizes the importance of prose style in Italian literature; for a comparable reflection with respect to poetic style, and its relationship to liberty, see Rambles (MWSN, vol. 8, p. 329). After the fall of the Florentine republic, Italian poets ‘grew to aim at grace of diction and beauty of imagery, unsustained by daring or original thought, or even by variety of invention’. c Alessandro Farnese, Pope Paul III (1468–1534). d Dante, Paradiso, VI. 133–5.

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in his dowry to his eldest daughter, so to command a splendid alliance, as the best means to advance her sisters also. He gave her half his duchy, and she married the king of France. Guicciardini in reply says, “You have set me on ransacking Romagna for a copy of Dante, and at last I have found one.”a But he was too highspirited to apply for a gift from the pope. Guicciardini was tall and of commanding aspect; rather squarely made, and not handsome; but robust, and with an animated, intelligent countenance. He was ambitious, and even haughty, so that he could endure neither contradiction nor advice. Prudence, industry, sagacity, and a penetrating understanding, recommended him to his employers; and he was frequently entrusted with carrying on and correcting the correspondence of the pope and other princes. The last six books of his history are considered unfinished. No portion of it was published till some years after his death, and then the passages considered injurious to papacy were omitted. A complete edition was first printed at Basle; but, even in this, the objectionable passages appeared under the disguise of Latin. His first idea had been to write only memoirs of his own life; and it was by the advice of Nardi,b it is said, that he enlarged his plan into a history of Italy during his own times. /

a b

Letter of 26 Dec. 1525. Jacopo Nardi (1476–1563), Florentine historian, aligned with Savonarolans.

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VITTORIA COLONNA. 1490–1547. IT would be giving a very faint idea of the state of Italian literature, or even of the lives led by the learned men of those times, if all mention were omitted of the women who distinguished themselves in literature. No slur was cast by the Italians on feminine accomplishments. Where abstruse learning was a fashion among men, they were glad to find in their friends of the other sex, minds educated to share their pursuits and applaud their success. In those days learning was a sort of wealth; men got as much as they could, and women, of course, were led to acquire a portion of such a valuable possession. The list of women who aspired to literary fame in Italy is very long. Even in Petrarch’s time, the daughter of a professor of Bologna, gave lectures in the university behind a veil, which has been supposed was used to hide her beauty, and which at least is a beautiful trait of modesty, where a young girl was willing to impart her knowledge to the studious, but shrunk from meeting the public gaze.a The mother of Lorenzo de’ Medici is celebrated for her sacred poems, and her patronage of literature. Ippolita Sforza, daughter of the duke Francesco, and married to Alfonso II., king of Naples, was learned in Greek and many other languages. A manuscript copy of a translation of Tully’s de Senectute is preserved of hers at Rome, and marked as having been written in her youth; and two of her Latin orations are to be seen in the Ambrosian Library at Milan. Alessandra Scala, to whom Politian was / attached, wrote Greek verses, which have been printed, appended to the Latin poetry of her learned lover.b There was an Isotta of Padua, whose letters are models of elegance, and who composed various poems of merit. The noble house of Este boasted of a learned princess. Bianca d’ Este has been celebrated by one of the Strozzi in Latin verses; he speaks of her Greek and Latin compositions with great praise. Damigella Torella, we are told, was numa Her name is said to be Novella d’Andrea; the University of Bologna permitted women to teach from the 12th century and appointed women professors during the 18th century (see Bologna 1088–1988, The Ninth Centenary of the University of Bologna, ed. Umberto Eco et. al. (Bologna, 1988), n. pag.). b This brief history of Italian women writers is largely derived from Ginguené, III, ch. xxii, pp. 555–7, with additions from other sources: Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici, see ‘Poliziano’; Ippolita Maria Sforza, daughter of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan (1401–66) and wife of Alfonso II of Aragon (1448–95) after 1465. She was celebrated for her Latin style and her poetry; Alessandra Scala of Florence, wife of Michele Marullo (c. 1450–1500). Scala is also described in Roscoe, ch. vii.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-16

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bered among the most distinguished women of her time. She was profoundly versed in the learned languages, particularly in Greek; she was an admirable musician, and as beautiful as she was wise. Cassandra Fedele, however, excelled all her sex in her acquirements.a She was of a noble family, originally of Milan; born at Venice in 1465: she was, by her father’s desire, instructed in all the abstruse studies – Greek, Latin, philosophy, and music – with such success, that even in girlhood she was the admiration of all the learned men of the age. There is a letter from Politian to her, which praises her Latin letters, not only for their cleverness and elegance of style, but “for the girlish and maiden simplicity” which adorned them. “I have read also,” he says, “your learned and eloquent oration, which is harmonious, dignified, and full of talent. I am told that you are versed in philosophy and dialectics, that you entangle others by the most serious difficulties, and make all plain yourself with admirable ease; and while every one loads you with praise, you are gentle and humble.”b This kind of knowledge would not suit these days: but those were times when men tried to puzzle themselves by scholastic learning, and when the noble Pico della Mirandola took pleasure in disputing on nine hundred questions. Isabella of Spain,c Louis XII. of France, and pope Leo X. all warmly solicited Cassandra to take up her abode at their several courts. She showed willingness to accept the queen’s invitation; but the Venetian republic set so high a value upon her, that they would not permit her to leave their state. She married Mapelli, a physician, / who was sent to Candia by the republic, and Cassandra accompanied him. She became a widow late in life, and lived to extreme old age. She was elected when ninety years old to be the superior of a religious house in Venice; and died at the age of one hundred and two.d This list might easily be much enlarged; but we have no space for further dilation; and therefore turn from names less illustrious, to Vittoria Colonna, the woman of all others who conferred, by her virtues, talents, and beauty, honour on her sex. Vittoria Colonna was the daughter of Fabrizio Colonna, grand constable of the kingdom of Naples, and of Anna di Montefeltro, daughter of Frederic duke of Urbino.e She was born at Marino, a castle belonging to her family, about the year a Isotta Nogarola (1418–66), celebrated for her widely circulated correspondence with Ludovico Foscarini, in which the authors debated the relative guilt of Adam and Eve; Bianca d’Este, natural daughter of Niccolò III d‘Este, Duke of Ferrara (1384–1441), celebrated by Palla Strozzi (1373–1462), humanist and classical scholar; Damigella or ‘Lady’, an apparently erroneous conflation of the poetess Domitilla Trivulci of Milan, described thus in Ginguené (III, ch. xxii, p. 556), and Barbara Torella of Ferrara, identified in Tiraboschi (VI. iii. p. 848) as the wife of Ercole Strozzi and also a poet; Cassandra Fedele or Fidelis (1465–1558), who as a young woman gave Latin orations at several Italian universities; following Ginguené, but also described in Roscoe, ch. vii. b Loosely translated and abridged, seemingly from Ginguené, III, ch. xxii, pp. 557–8. c Isabella of Castile, Queen of Spain (1451–1504), consort of Ferdinand of Aragon. d Gian Maria Mappelli, a physician stationed in Venetian Candia (Crete); neither Roscoe nor Ginguené is the source for this further information on Fedele. e Fabrizio Colonna (d. 1520) and Agnesina (‘Anna’) di Montefeltro, daughter of Federigo di Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino (d. 1482), father of Guidobaldo.

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1490. At the infantine age of four she was betrothed to Ferdinando Francesco d’Avolos, marquess of Pescara, who was not older than his baby bride.a She was educated with the most sedulous care, and was sought in marriage by various princes – but that fidelity of disposition which was her beautiful characteristic through life, prevented her from breaking her contract with her young lover. They were married at the age of seventeen. He competed with her in talents and accomplishments. They loved each other with the utmost tenderness, and lived for four years succeeding to their marriage, in solitude, in the island of Ischia, where Pescara had a palace.b But this happiness was of short duration; at the time when Julius II. leagued all Italy against Louis XII.,c the marquess of Pescara joined the army of the emperor. Vittoria was full of chivalric feelings; her enthusiasm, as well as her tenderness, were gratified by the occupation of embroidering banners for her hero, who, at the early age of one-and-twenty, was made general of cavalry at the battle of Ravenna.d That disastrous day was adverse to him. He was taken prisoner and sent to Milan, where he remained a year, and wrote a dialogue on love, addressed to his wife, in a dedication in which he laments that he can no longer / visit her as he was used, whenever the duties of his station permitted his absence. As a kind of answer to this testimony of his affection, Vittoria designed an emblem – Cupid within a circle, formed by a serpent, with the motto “Quem peperit virtus, prudentia servet amorem” – “May prudence preserve the love, which originated in virtue.” After the French were driven from Italy, that unhappy country enjoyed a short interval of peace, interrupted by the invasion of Francis I. Pescara was present at the battle of Pavia, and distinguished himself by his intrepidity, and mainly contributed to the success of the emperor’s arms. He was not rewarded as he deserved, and the opposite or French party thought that his consequent discontent afforded an opening for a reconciliation with them. Geronimo Moronee was employed by them to seduce him from his fidelity to Charles V. He was offered the kingdom of Naples as a reward, and every argument was used that might have a

Ferrante Francesco d’Avolos, Duke of Pescara (1488–1525); they were married in 1507. Located some twelve miles off the coast of Naples. Information from this paragraph and the next (including the motto, given in Italian) derives from Albrizzi’s Ritratti, sections II, VI–X, pp. 170–5. ‘But this happiness was of short duration’ translates ‘Ma fu di toppo breve durata questa pura felicita’, an example of Mary Shelley’s subtle tempering of Albrizzi. c The so-called Holy League, formed in 1511, which recalled the Medici. d The savage battle fought on 11 April 1512; see ‘Machiavelli’, p. 140; an important French victory, despite the vast sums of money dispensed by Julius II to secure the support of Spain, Venice and the emperor. e Girolamo Morone, Grand Chancellor of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, whose efforts to secure Pescara’s betrayal of Charles V (1500–58) in 1525 were unsuccessful; as with Girolamo Pepoli, another case of a Girolamo/Geronimo substitution. Pescara’s base behaviour, but not Vittoria’s plea, is in Sismondi, Républiques italiennes (ch. cxvi). Both Ritratti and Roscoe’s Leo the Tenth treat Pescara as exemplary; Ritratti does not mention this episode. Otherwise, material in this paragraph and the next (as far as ‘bitterest anguish’) follows Ritratti, sections XI–XIV, pp. 175–7. b

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most weight; – the honour he would acquire by driving the barbarous nations from Italy, and the favours which the pope and other princes would shower upon him. These were, however, but specious reasonings. Pescara lent too ready an ear to them; but Vittoria at once detected their fallacy, and the disgrace that would befall her husband if he abandoned his imperial master. She wrote him a letter full of earnest persuasion to refuse the dazzling offers of Morone. She spoke of the glory acquired by fidelity and unblemished honour, as far outweighing any that a crown could bestow, saying, that for herself, she desired to be called the wife, not of a king, but of that great and glorious soldier, whose valour and generosity of soul had vanquished the greatest kings. Pescara’s conduct on this occasion is wholly unworthy of the precepts of his admirable wife. He continued faithful to the emperor, but acted the base part of a spy and informer: by his means Morone’s designs were betrayed, and he was thrown into prison. There is no doubt that the high-minded Vittoria continued to the / last entirely ignorant of this ignoble action; and praised her husband for having listened to her exhortations, and rejected a crown. But while the marquess was acting so as to cast an eternal stigma on his honour, death was at hand to terminate every ambitious project. His many wounds, and the fatigues he had endured during the long wars, had so shaken his health, that neither his good constitution nor the skill of physicians were any longer able to afford relief. While preparing to die, he desired to take leave of his wife, and sent for her to join him at Milan; but when he found that he should not survive long enough to see her, he sent for his cousin, the marchese del Vasto, and recommended Vittoria to him with the warmest affection. Vittoria, on hearing of her husband’s illness, had left Naples to join him. She passed through Rome, where she was received with the greatest honours, but on arriving at Viterbo, she received intelligence of Pescara’s death: her grief caused her to forget her religious resignation and fortitude; its excess overwhelmed her with tears and the bitterest anguish. From that time this illustrious lady never ceased to spend every faculty of her soul in lamenting her lost husband. They had been married seventeen years, but had no child; she gave herself up entirely to sorrow; and her faithful heart, incapable of a second attachment to replace one which had begun with her life, cherished only the image of her past happiness, and the hope of its renewal in another life. Her active mind could not repose tranquilly on its misery; she continued to cultivate it, so to render it more worthy of Pescara, and she exercised and amused it by the many sonnets she wrote in his honour. An Italian author has named her second only to Petrarch.a Her verses are full of tenderness, of absorbing passion, of truth and life. They fail in poetic fancy; and yet, so much does the reader sympathise in the intense and fond sorrows of this extraordinary woman, a Translates ‘Nulli post Petrarcham secunda’ (second to none after Petrarch), quoted in Ritratti, section XVIII, p. 181, and attributed by Albrizzi to ‘Giametto Toscano’. Mary Shelley’s estimate is more measured.

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that none can criticise, while all are / touched by her laments.a The best poem in her volume has been attributed to Ariosto, I do not know on what authority; but if written by her, has that elegance of style and concentration of expression, which characterises true poetry. It begins with the affecting exclamation, “I am indeed her you loved! Behold how bitter and eating grief has changed me! – Scarcely could you recognise me by my voice. On your departure, that charm which you called beauty, and of which I was proud, since it was dear to you, left my cheeks, my eyes, my hair! – Yet, ah! how can I live, when I remember that the impious tomb and envious dust contaminates and destroys thy dear and beautiful limbs!” These verses may in their original be very justly compared in pathos and grace to Petrarch:– Io sono, io son ben dessa! or vedi come M’ ha cangiata il dolor fiero ed atroce Ch’ a fatica la voce Può di me dar la conoscenza vera. Lassa! ch’ al tuo partir, partì veloce Dalle guancie, dagli occhi, e dalle chiome Questa a cui davi come Tu di beltade, ed io n’ andava altera, Che me ’l credea, perchè in tal pregio t’ era. *

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Com’è ch’ io viva, quando mi rimembra, Ch’ empio sepolcro, e invidiosa polve Contamina e dissolve La delicate alabastrine membra?b

For seven years she gave up her whole heart to sorrow. Her relations, thinking her too young at the age of thirty-five to continue unmarried, pressed her to accept one of the many offers of marriage which she received. But, wedded as all her thoughts had been since her earliest infancy to one object, she felt unconquerably averse to any second nuptials. She lived in retirement either at Ischia or Naples, dedicating herself wholly to memory. Her active mind, refusing to find comfort in any sublunary blessing, had recourse to religion for consolation. She now employed herself in writing sacred poetry, and her enthusiastic disposition led her to project a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; but the marchese del Vasto opposed her putting it into execution. a cf. Stebbing, for whom Vittoria Colonna’s poetry exemplifies the proposition that ‘notwithstanding the proverbial saying that genius is of no sex [. . .] in its best and finest manifestation it takes the form and substance of the heart, so that when it exists naturally in woman, unmixed with affectation or an ambitious pretension to learning, it only speaks the language of feminine affections’ (Stebbing, II, pp. 115–16). b Rime di Vittoria Colonna (1539), from the canzone beginning ‘Spirto gentil, che sei nel terzo giro’, ll. 31–9, 55–8; translated above. Quoted, with the same omissions, in Ritratti, pp. 182–3. There is no mention of ‘Spirto Gentil’ being attributed to Ariosto in Ritratti.

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She now left Naples on a tour to the north of Italy, / and visited Lucca and Ferrara. She afterwards took up her residence at Rome, and became the intimate friend of the cardinals Bembo, Contarini, and Pole, and various distinguished prelates.a A love of yet greater retirement induced her a few years after to retreat to a convent at Orvieto; from whence she removed, after a short time, to the convent of Santa Caterina, at Viterbo. Our countryman, cardinal Pole, resided in this town, and an intimate friendship subsisted between him and Vittoria. There is a resemblance in their characters that renders this intercourse interesting; they were both singleminded, enthusiastic, and noble. Vittoria added feminine tenderness to these qualities, while religious fervour formed a bond of sympathy between them. The companions of cardinal Pole were Flaminio and Pietro Carnescecchi:b the latter having afterwards become a protestant, doubts have been raised concerning the orthodoxy of Vittoria; but there is every evidence that she never fell off from her adherence to the catholic church. A short time before her death she returned to Rome, and took up her abode in the Palazzo Cesarini; where she died, in the year 1547, at the age of fifty-seven. During her last moments her attached friend, Michael Angelo, stood beside her. He was considerably her junior, and looked up to her as something superior to human nature, and entitled to his most fervent admiration. He has written many sonnets in her praise; and there is extant a letter, in which he states how he stood beside her lifeless remains, and kissed her cold hand, lamenting afterwards that the overwhelming grief and awe of the moment, had prevented him from pressing her lips for the first and last time.c This almost divine woman was held by her contemporaries in enthusiastic veneration. Her name is always accompanied by glowing praises and expressions of heartfelt respect. Ariosto joined with all Italy in celebrating her virtues and talents, and has addressed several stanzas to her in his Orlando Furioso.d /

a Cardinals Pietro Bembo (1470–1547), Gasparo Contarini (1483–1542) and Reginald Pole. This paragraph is very selectively drawn from Ritratti, pp. 19, 188. b Cardinals Marcantonio Flaminio (1498–1550) and Pietro Carnesecchi (1508–67), prominent figures in the Counter-Reformation. c Michelangelo di Ludovico Buonarroti (1475–1564) wrote at least 17 poems to Colonna from 1536–47. Details of his devotion come from Roscoe, Leo the Tenth, III, pp. 220–1. d Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, XXXVII. xviii–xx, in which Vittoria Colonna is compared to Artemis. ‘Enthusiastic veneration’ is exemplified by Albrizzi’s apostrophe to Colonna beginning: ‘Donna ammirabile!’

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GUARINI. 1537–1612. BATTISTA GUARINI was descended from a family illustrious for its literary merits. One of his ancestors, known as Guarino of Verona, was conspicuous among the restorers of learning of the fifteenth century; and his descendants emulated his labours. Battista was born at Ferrara, in 1537. His mother was Orsolina, the daughter of count Baldassare Machiavelli.a We are nearly in ignorance with regard to any of the circumstances of the early youth of Guarini. He studied at Pisa and Padua, and visited Rome while very young. On his return to Ferrara, he gave lectures on Aristotle in the university. He was made professor of belles lettres, and was already known to his friends as a poet. He married young, Taddea Bendedei, of a noble Ferrarese family.b But Guarini was not contented with a life of literary labour, and preferred the distinction of a court to poetic fame. There is a letter of his, dated 1565, which gives token that he had already made the paltry ambition of serving a prince the aim of his life.c This letter is written to a friend at Pisa, who had asked his advice on the subject of whether he should enter on the service of his sovereign. Guarini establishes the doctrine, that in private life a man is as far from tranquillity as in public; he is equally pursued by envy and pride, without the compensation he might find in courtly favour. In his own person he acted on these ideas, and reaped the usual harvest of disappointment and mortification. His wishes were, however, at first gratified. He was / sent, by the duke Alfonso, to Venice, about this very time, to congratulate the new doge, Pietro Loredano;d and, his oration being printed, he acquired a reputation for talent and learning. He was for some time resident at Turin, as ambassador to Emanuel Philibert, duke of Savoy. In 1571, he was sent to Rome, to pay homage to Gregory XIII., who had succeeded to Pius V. He arrived in the evening, after a hasty journey, and passed the night a Guarino de’ Guarini (1374–1460), great-great-grandfather of Battista Guarini; the probable source is Ginguené, VI, ch. xx, p. 379. b Following Ginguené, VI, ch. xx, p. 380. Guarini married Taddea Benedidio (d. 1590) in 1560; she was the sister of Lucrezia, Countess Machiavelli, one of the women idealised by poet Torquato Tasso. c Letter of 27 June 1565 to Livio Passeri; see Lettere del Signor Cavaliere Battista Guarini (1593). d Alfonso II d’Este, Duke of Ferrara (1533–97), on the occasion of Pietro Loredano’s (1482– 1570) elevation to 84th Doge of Venice in 1567. From this point on the paragraph is loosely adapted from Ginguené, VI, ch. xx, pp. 382–3.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-17

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in composing his speech, which he delivered the next morning in consistory. Two years afterwards, the duke sent him to Poland, to congratulate Henry of Valois on his accession to the throne. On his return, he was named counsellor and secretary of state. After an interval, he was a second time sent to Poland, on a mission of the highest importance. Henry of Valois succeeded to the crown of France, and Alfonso was desirous of being chosen in his room to the Polish throne.a Guarini was sent to negotiate his election. He felt the weight and responsibility of his errand fall heavily on him. His letter to his wife during the journey has been several times quoted, but it is too interesting to be omitted here.b It is dated from Warsaw, November 25. 1575, and is as follows:– “This which you read is my letter and not my letter; it is mine, for I dictate it, – it is not mine, because I do not write it. But you must not so much grieve that I have not a hand to write with, as rejoice that I have a tongue to recount that which, from vain compassion or negligence, another might conceal. I know you must have been complaining of my dilatoriness in writing, but I shall find no difficulty in excusing myself, since the cause has been worse than the effect; and, instead of lamenting my silence, you may thank God that you at last hear from me. I set out, as you know, more in the fashion of a courier than an ambassador; and it would have been well if my body alone had laboured, while my mind reposed. But the hand used by day to whip on my horses, was put to service at night in turning over papers. Thus, formerly, I arrived / at Rome in the evening by post, and the next day presented myself at the consistory. Nature gave way under the double fatigue of body and mind, especially as I travelled by the road that passes through Saravalle and Ampez, which is inexpressibly disagreeable and incommodious, as well from the rudeness of the inhabitants as the state of the country; the want of horses, scarcity of provisions, and, in short, of every necessary of life; so that, on my arrival at Hala, I fell ill of a fever, in spite of which I hurried on to Vienna. I leave you to imagine what I suffered from fever, weariness, and thirst: unable to procure remedies or medical treatment; cast upon bad lodgings, bad food, and into beds that smothered me with their feathers; devoid of all those conveniences and comforts which are necessary to the sick. My malady increased, and my strength grew less; and every thing, except wine, became distasteful to me, so that I had small hopes of life, and turned with disgust even from the few days I expected to live. While I navigated the Danube, we were nearly overwhelmed by a rapid and dangerous stream, and should not have escaped had a Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy (1528–80); Ugo Buoncompagni, Gregory XIII (1502– 85), succeeded Michele Ghisleri, Pius V (1504–72) to the papacy in 1572; Henry of Valois (1551–89), King of Poland (1573) and (as Henry III) King of France (1574). b Briefly described but not quoted in Ginguené; Mary Shelley’s reference is untraced. In addition to the reasons she gives, interest in this letter may be partly due to the example of Mary Wollstonecraft’s travel letters. Guarini’s itinerary passed through the Ampez valley of the Italian Dolomites, north-east into Austria. He crossed the Tatras range at Death Valley and continued northeast into Krakow, Poland. He was seeking a position at the court of Alfonso II of Ferrara, who was poised to claim the throne of Poland after the death of Charles IX in 1574.

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not the sailors made use of the assistance of the strong and active men of the country, who are accustomed to contend with this danger, being always on the spot to give aid, and who, by force of oars, stemmed the torrent. But for their help no vessel could escape wreck; and the place is worthy of the infamous reputation it has gained, and the name of the Pass of Death, which is bestowed on it. The boldest travellers fear the passage, and disembark, and proceed by land, till the boat has got beyond the danger, for it is really frightful; but I was so ill, that I had lost all sense of peril, and remained on board with the brave boatmen, – I will not say whether from stupidity or intrepidity, – yet I may say that I was intrepid, since I felt no fear when but two steps from certain death. “I arrived at last at Vienna, where a physician, without considering the symptoms of my illness, gave me a medicine that poisoned me, and my malady grew / worse. You will all say that I ought to have stopped short, and taken care of my life: my common sense, my sufferings, the failure of strength, and a natural wish to live, love for my fellow creatures and my family, suggested the same counsel; but my honour forced me to proceed, and obliged me, since I was at the head of this embassy, and as the whole weight of so important a negotiation rested on me, to prefer the interests of my prince to my own safety; and I acted so that I might testify to all Poland my fidelity to my sovereign by my death, rather than, by preserving my life, give room to the suspicion that I feigned an illness so to break my promises, the fulfilment of which was expected with anxiety; which false notion among those selfish and distrustful men would at once have discredited our negotiation, and deprived our prince of the crown which we are endeavouring to place on his head. “It is impossible to form an idea of what I suffered during a journey of more than 600 miles, from Vienna to Warsaw; dragged and torn along, rather than conveyed, by my incommodious carriage. I do not know how I survived: beset by continual fever, without rest, or food, or remedies; enduring excessive cold and infinite inconveniences, while I passed through an uninhabited country, where I often found it better to remain for the night in my uncomfortable carriage, than to expose myself to the stench of the inns or, rather, stables, where the dog, the cat, the fowls, the geese, the pigs, the calves, and sometimes squalling children, kept me awake all night. The difficulties of the journey were increased also by the robbers, who, during this interregnum, infest the country, robbing whatever they can; so that it was impossible to proceed without a strong escort; and, although I took infinite pains to avoid them, I had twice nearly fallen into their hands, escaping rather through Divine Providence than human foresight. I arrived at last at Warsaw, a great deal more dead than alive; nor have I gained any relief to my sufferings by being here, except that I am no longer in movement, / nor dragged along by my carriage; for the rest, I enjoy no repose, either night or day. My fever is now my least evil; the objects by which I am surrounded are worse: the place, the season, the food, the drink, the medicines, the physicians, the servants, the inquietude of my mind, and other troubles, are greater ills than the fever, which 182

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would soon quit me but for these annoyances. Indeed, I have not yet discovered whether my sleepless nights arise from illness, or the constant noise around me. Imagine a whole nation assembled in a little village, and I lodged in the middle of it. There is no spot above, below, to the right nor to the left, – there is no room by day or by night, that is not full of noise and disturbance. No particular time is set apart for business here; they are always at work, because they are always drinking, and without wine all transactions grow cold. When business is ended visits begin, and when these are over, drums, trumpets, cannons, shouts, cries, quarrels, and every other species of tumult, fill up the interval till I am distracted. If I suffered these things for the glory and love of God, it would be called a martyrdom; and yet, to render service without hope of reward, almost deserves the same name. God knows what is to become of me! I should feel that my life was no longer in danger if I could take any care of myself. Prepare your mind for every evil. It is the part of a silly woman to lament a husband who is content to die. Let others honour my memory with their tears; do you honour it by your courage. I recommend our children to you; for if I die, you must be a father as well as a mother to them. Arm yourself with reflection and manly fortitude; guarding them from those who have reduced me to this state, and teaching them to imitate their father in any thing rather than in his fortunes.”* / This letter presents a lively picture of Guarini’s disposition; – his energy in struggling with evils; his ambition to please his prince, and his fears lest he should * There is another letter of Guarini, dated from Cracovy, during his first visit to Poland, written with less personal feeling, and greater toleration: – “I have viewed the climate and manners of this country,” he writes, “with infinite pleasure; mitigating the annoyances resulting from unusual things, by the enjoyment of unusual sights. The country and its inhabitants are certainly much less barbarous than is generally supposed; and in / my opinion there would be no fault to be found, if the former was gifted with wine, and if the latter abstained from it. But I am afraid that my words will scarcely find credit with you, prejudiced as you are by the accounts given by the French who have been here. Yet I am sure you would agree with me, if you ever visited the country. The kingdom is extensive, rich, powerful, united, abundant, and peopled by a brave population. The senators display great talent during peace – the cavaliers valour in war: their aim is glory – their support liberty. The form of the government is mixed, like that of Sparta, but better than that. For the kingdom is neither oppressed by the tyranny of one, nor the insolence of a few, nor the baseness of the many; but having mingled the best parts of all three modes of government, one has resulted, in which the kingly power cannot intrench upon liberty, nor licence endanger the monarchy. The nobles cannot oppress the people, nor the people injure the nobles. Valour holds the first rank, nobility the second, riches the third; and every one, however lowly born, may nourish the expectation of rising by merit to the highest honours. How I wish that you had an opportunity of visiting it: I am certain that you would be highly pleased. A journey to France is more fatiguing; and after arriving in Poland, I, to whom an excursion to Rome used to appear an arduous undertaking, begin to think that travelling is a natural state for every man.”a a Letter of 25 September 1574 to Monsignor Manzuoli. The theme of Polish freedom was especially topical in aftermath of the failed Polish revolution of 1830–1. During the 18th century Poland had been partitioned between Russia, Prussia and Austria and no longer existed as an independent nation.

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not be fitly recompensed; the fervour of imagination, which magnified ill fortune, and which, while it gave him strength to meet it, yet doubled its power over him. Although he failed in the object of the embassy, yet, after all the dangers to which he had exposed himself, he felt that he had sacrificed his life to his prince, and yet that he should go unrewarded. He was not deceived; but he was incapable of meeting the fulfilment of his anticipations with any patience or fortitude. His mind was naturally turned to poetry; but he pretended to disdain such occupation. On the subject of his Pastor Fido, he writes to a friend: – “This is the work of one who does not profess the poetic art, but writes for his own amusement, as a recreation from more serious studies; and who would willingly burn his works when they do not appear good to good judges.”a The fame and favour which Tasso was enjoying made him depreciate himself, since he could not excel his rival. Tasso and he had been friends for many years; they quarrelled at this time, but the discord did not result from any literary contest, but from rivalship in the favour of a lady. They both loved the / countess of Scandiano. Tasso wrote a sonnet, accusing Guarini of lightness and inconstancy in his passion, as well as of the greater sin of boasting of his triumphs over the ladies of his love. Guarini replied, with bitterness, in another sonnet, accusing his rival of uttering falsehoods that mirrored his own faithlessness, which enabled him to nourish love for two objects at the same time.*b This contention broke off their friendship; but Guarini was no ungenerous enemy; he possessed a loyal and noble spirit, and never did any thing to injure his unfortunate rival. On the contrary, some years after, when the Gerusalemme Liberata of Tasso was about to be published in a very defective and erroneous state, he took great pains to furnish a correct copy. After struggling with his discontents at court for some time, he requested his dismissal from the duke; and retired to his villa in the Polesine of Rovigo, named La Guarina, having been bestowed upon an ancestor by a former duke of Ferrara. He now congratulated himself on having escaped from the tempests of public life into port; yet his disappointments, and the duke’s ingratitude, rankled at his heart, and overflowed upon paper, even when the subject immediately before him was not in accord with the pervading feeling of his mind. He occupied himself at La Guarina by writing the Pastor Fido;c and he makes one of the characters of the pastoral complain of wrongs similar to his own. Carino, narrating his story, says,– * Abate Serassi, Vita di Tasso. a

Letter of 1 April 1586 to Cavaliere Salviati. Eleonora Sanvitale, Countess of Scandiano (c.1558–82); the sonnet addressed to Guarini was ‘Questo, ch’ai cuori altrui cantando spira’. Guarini responded in the sonnet ‘Questi, che indarno ad alta meta aspira’. Details adopted from Abate Pierantonio Serassi (1721–91), La Vita di Torquato Tasso (1790), I, pp. 264–5. c Pastor Fido (1584/1590), called by Guarini a ‘pastoral tragi-comedy’. Villa la Guarina is located near Ferrara; detail from Ginguené, VI, ch. xx, p. 384. b

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How I forsook Elis and Pisa after, and betook Myself to Argos and Mycene, where An earthly God I worshipped, with what there I suffered in that hard captivity, Would be too long for thee to hear, for me Too sad to utter. Only thus much know;– I lost my labour, and in sand did sow: I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had; I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad, Now high, now low, now in esteem, now scorn’d; And as the Delphic iron, which is turned Now to heroic, now to mechanic use, I fear’d no danger – did no pains refuse; Was all things – and was nothing; changed my hair, Condition, custom, thoughts, and life – but ne’er Could change my fortune. Then I knew at last, And panted after my sweet freedom past. So, flying smoky Argos, and the great Storms that attend on greatness, my retreat I made to Pisa – my thought’s quiet port. *

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Who would have dreamed ’midst plenty to grow poor? Or to be less, by toiling to be more? I thought, by how much more in prince’s courts Men did excel in titles and supports, So much the more obliging they would be, The best enamel of nobility. But now the contrary by proofs I’ve seen: Courtiers in name, and courteous in their mien They are; but in their actions I could spy Not the least transient spark of courtesy. People, in show smooth as the calmed waves, Yet cruel as the ocean when it raves: Men in appearance only did I find, Love in the face, but malice in the mind: With a straight look and tortuous heart, and least Fidelity where greatest was protest. That which elsewhere is virtue, is vice there: Plain truth, fair dealing, love unfeign’d, sincere Compassion, faith inviolable, and An innocence both of the heart and hand, They count the folly of a soul that’s vile And poor, – a vanity worthy their smile. To cheat, to lie, deceit and theft to use, And under show of pity to abuse; To rise upon the ruins of their brothers, 185

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And seek their own by robbing praise from others, The virtues are of that perfidious race. No worth, no valour, no respect of place, Of age, or law – bridle of modesty, No tie of love, or blood, nor memory Of good received; nothing’s so venerable, Sacred, or just, that is inviolable By that vast thirst of riches, and desire Unquenchable of still ascending higher. Now I, not fearing, since I meant not ill, And in court-craft not having any skill, Wearing my thoughts charactered on my brow, And a glass window in my heart – judge thou How open and how fair a mark my heart Lay to their envy’s unsuspected dart. FANSHAWE ’s Trans. of Pastor Fido.*a / * Come poi per veder Argo e Micene Lasciassi Elide e Pisa, e quivi fussi Adorator di deità terrena, Con tutto quel che in servitù soffersi, Troppo nojosa istoria a te l’ udirlo, A me dolente il raccontarlo fora. Si dirò sol, che perdei l’ opra, e il frutto. Scrissi, piansi, cantai, arsi, gelai, Corsi, stetti, sostenni, or tristo, or lieto, Or alto, or basso; or vilipeso, or caro. E come il ferro Delfico; stromento Or d’ impresa sublime, or d’ opra vile, Non temei risco e non schivai fatica: Tutto fei, nulla fui: per cangiar loco, Stato, vita, pensier, costumi e pelo, Mai non cangiai fortuna: alfin conobbi, E sospirai la libertà primiera. E dopo tanti strazi, Argo lasciando E le grandezze di miseria piene, Tornai di Pisa ai riposati alberghi. *

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Ma chi creduto avria di venir meno Tra le grandezze, e impoverir nell’ oro? Io mi pensai che ne’ reali alberghi Fossero tanto più le genti umane, Quant’ esse han più di tutto quel dovizia Ond’ ha l’ umanità si nobil fregio. Ma vi trovai tutto il contrario, Uranio, Gente di nome e di parlar cortese, a

Richard Fanshawe, Pastor Fido, The Faithfull Shepard (1647), V. i. ll. 103–122, 130–169, with minor alterations.

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The Pastor Fido is the principal monument of Guarini’s poetic genius. Despite his pretended carelessness, he was animated by the spirit of poetry, and emulation spurred him on to surpass the Aminta of Tasso;a and he took pains even to compose whole passages in opposition, and manifest rivalship, of that drama. A pastoral presents in its very nature a thousand difficulties. It has for its subject the passions in their primitive simplicity, and the manners are deprived of all factitious refinement; and yet the most imaginative thoughts and the softest and noblest sentiments are to / flow from the lips of the untaught shepherds and shepherdesses. Thus its foundation being purely ideal, our chief pleasure must be derived from the poetry in which it is clothed. Guarini endeavoured to overcome the want of interest inherent in this species of composition, by a plot more complex than that usually adopted. A portion of this is sufficiently clumsy, and the bad character of the piece, the coquette Corisca, is managed with very little art or probability. There is much spirit and beauty, however, in the final Ma d’ opre scarsa e di pietà nemica: Gente placida in vista e mansueta, Ma più del cupo mar tumida e fera; Gente sol d’apparenza, in cui se miri Viso di carità, mente d’invidia Poi trovi, e in dritto sguardo animo bieco, E min or fede allor, che più lusinga. Quel ch’ altrove è virtù, quivi è difetto. Dir vero, oprar non torto, amar non finto, Pietà sincera, inviolabil fede, E di core e di man vita innocente; Stiman d’ animo vil, di basso ingegno Sciocchezza e vanità degna di riso. L’ ingannare, il mentir, la frode, il furto E la rapina, di pietà vestita, Cescer col danno e precipizio altrui, E far a sè, dell’ altrui biasmo onore, Son le virtù di quella gente infida: Non merto altrui, non valor, non riverenza, Nè d’ età, nè di grado, nè di legge, Non freno di vergogna, non rispetto Nè d’ amor nè di sangue, non memoria Di ricevuto ben, nè finalmente, Cosa si venerabile, o si santa. O si giusta esser può, che a quella vasta Cupidigia d’ onori, a quella ingorda Fame d’ avere, inviolabil sia. Or io, che incauto e di lor arti ignaro Sempre mi vissi, e portai scritto in fronte Il mio pensiero, e disvelato il core, Tu puoi pensar se a non sospetti strali D’ invida gente fui scoperto segno. Pastor Fido, atto v. scena 1. a

Torquato Tasso (1544–95), Aminta (1573), lyrical drama.

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1585 Ætat. 48.

1586. Ætat. 49.

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development, – in the discovery that the priest makes that he is about to sacrifice his own son, and the joy occasioned by the conviction suddenly flashing on his mind, that the oracle, on which the whole depends, is happily fulfilled. Still the chief charm of the Pastor Fido is derived from its poetry; the simplicity and clearness of its diction, the sweetness and tenderness of the sentiments, and the vivacity and passion that animate the whole. No doubt he was satisfied with the result of his labours, and found pride in communicating it. While affecting to despise his poetic productions, their genuine merit, and his own vanity, which was great, caused him to collect with pleasure the applauses which his Pastor Fido naturally acquired for him. He read it at the court of the duke Ferrante di Gonzaga, to a society composed of courtiers, ladies, and eminent men. It was acted at Turin on occasion of the festivals to celebrate the nuptials of Charles Emanuel, prince of Savoy, with Catherine, daughter of Philip II., king of Spain. The drama excited the greatest admiration; and Guarini was looked on henceforth with justice, as second only to Tasso among the poets of the age. But he was not fortunate enough to be allowed to dedicate his whole time and thoughts to poetry; and he might bring forward his own experience in proof of his assertion, that private life is not more exempt than public, from cares and the influence of evil passions. He was perpetually plunged in lawsuits, his first being against his father, who had married a second time, it / was said out of spite, and disputed his just inheritance. He had a family of eight children to provide for; and unrewarded by his prince, he found himself, after struggling for fourteen years to advance himself at court, overwhelmed by debt and embarrassment. His time and attention were taken up by exertions to extricate himself, and to settle his affairs; while his warm, impatient disposition ill endured the delays and disappointments, and the contact with selfish or dishonest men, which are the necessary concomitants of pecuniary difficulties. Perhaps these annoyances rendered him less unwilling to accept the invitation, or rather to obey the commands, of the duke of Ferrara, and to return to his post at his court. Alfonso, perceiving the esteem in which he was held by other princes, with his usual selfishness resolved to appropriate the services of a man, which others also were desirous of obtaining: he made him secretary of state, and sent him on missions to Umbria and Milan. His stay, however, was short: very soon after his children had advanced to manhood, those dissensions occurred between them and him, which form a painful portion of Guarini’s life. It is difficult to say who was most to blame. The poet’s temper was impetuous, and he perhaps showed himself tyrannical in his domestic circle, at the same time that his nature was without doubt, on most occasions, generous and artless. His son had married a lady named Virginia Palmiroli,a and continued, as is so usual in Italy, to reside with his wife under the paternal roof. But this arrangement became, it is conjecta Virginia Palmiroli (b. 1572), the young heiress to whom Guarini’s son, Alessandro, was married in 1586.

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ured, from the pride and imperiousness of the father, quite intolerable; and the young pair left the house, and instituted a suit at law to obtain such a provision as would enable them to live in independence. The suit was decided against Guarini; and his indignation, and assertion that his defeat was occasioned by the partiality of the duke towards his son, seem to evince that he had more justice on his side than we are enabled to discover. However this / may be, he was so angry at what he considered the injustice of the sentence pronounced against him, that he again requested permission to retire from Alfonso’s court. The duke granted his request, but not without such tokens of displeasure, as induced Guarini to leave Ferrara privately and in haste. He betook himself to the court of Savoy, where the prince willingly took him into his service; but the poet found that the change of masters benefited him little, and he was so constantly employed, that he had not even time to write a letter. Alfonso also set on foot some intrigues against him, disliking that any dependant of his should find protection elsewhere. His tranquillity being thus disturbed, he hastily quitted Savoy and took up his abode at Padua. He here lost his wife, whom he affectionately names in his letters as the better part of himself; and, by the separation of his eldest son, and the absence of his daughters, who were either married or had places in the palaces of various princesses of Italy, his family circle was reduced to one son of ten years of age, whom he calls “the hope of his house, and the consolation in his solitude.”a This change gave birth to new projects in his restless mind. “This sudden alteration and transformation of my life,” he writes to the cardinal Gonzaga,b in a letter dated from Padua, the 20th of November, 1591, “appears to me to be brought about by the will of God, who thus calls me to a new vocation. I am not so old nor so weak as to be unfit to make use of those talents which God has bestowed on me; and it appears to me that I act ill in spending without profit those years, which by the course of nature I could turn to the advantage of my family, and of my young son, whose inclination for the priesthood I am desirous of assisting; and I would willingly spend the remnant of my days at Rome, if I could obtain such preferment, as would enable me to proceed honourably in the advancement of my moderate expectations.” This idea, however, was but the offspring of disappointed hopes, and it vanished when other prospects were opened to him; yet these / were variable and uncertain. His life, both from the ingratitude of Alfonso and his own restlessness, was destined to be passed stormily; discontent and distrust had taken root in his mind, and existence wore a gloomy aspect. At length Alfonso died, and this circumstance, and the death of a daughter, assassinated by a jealous husband, caused him to quit Ferrara, and to establish himself at Florence, where he was honourably received by the grand duke Ferdinand.c Here doubtless he might have remained in peace, but for the irascibility of his temper, the indignation he felt when his views were thwarted, and his a b c

Letter of 20 Nov. 1591. Scipione Gonzago (1542–93). Ferdinand I de’ Medici (1587–1609), Grand Duke from 1549.

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tendency to consider himself an ill-used man. His younger son, whom he mentions in the letter quoted above with so much interest, was placed at Pisa for the sake of his education, where he contracted an imprudent marriage with a young, beautiful, and dowerless widow. Guarini was transported by rage: he accused the duke of abetting his son in this act of disobedience, and indulged in implacable anger against the youth himself, to whom he refused any assistance, when reduced to the most necessitous circumstances. Guarini exalted the paternal authority, and exacted filial obedience, in a manner that displayed more pride than affection. Now in his old age, he was at variance with nearly all his children; his violent expression is a proof that he suffered; but his heart did not relent nor open towards them, even when death snatched them from him; and it is impossible to sympathise in passions, which thus centred and ended in himself. On leaving Florence, he visited Urbino; but, dissatisfied with his reception, he retired to Ferrara. The citizens deputed him to Rome to congratulate Paul Usur on his being created pope. It was on this occasion that cardinal Bellarmino reproached him for having done more harm to the Christian world by his Pastor Fido, than Luther and Calvin by their heresies – a singular denunciation – since, though the softness and tenderness of love, which pervades the poem, may / tend to enervate; yet the fidelity, the devotion, and purity of sentiment, exhibited in the actions of the chief personages, certainly do not lay it open to excessive censure. Guarini retorted by a witty reply, which the respect paid to the cardinal by the historians, has not permitted to be transmitted to us.a This was the last public service of Guarini. A few years after he was invited to be present at the nuptials of Francesco Gonzaga and Marguerite of Savoy, during which a comedy of his was represented with great splendour. Chiabrera wrote the interludes, and the architect Viamini arranged the scenery and decorations. The last years of his life were taken up by the lawsuits, which so strangely chequered his career. He hired a lodging at Venice, where many of his causes were decided, as near as possible to the courts, and frequently visited that city to attend the proceedings; and he made a last journey to Rome at the time that two suits were decided in his favour. On his return to Venice he was seized by a fever, of which he died, after an illness of seventeen days, on the 7th of October, 1612, at the age of seventy-five. /

[TASSO has been omitted.]

a

This paragraph and the next are taken from Ginguené, VI, ch. xxv, pp. 396–7. Camillo Borghese, Pope Paul V (1550–1621), elected 1605; Robert Bellarmino (1542–1621), formidable Counter-Reformation theologian. The comedy performed at the Gonzaga wedding was the Idropica (Dropsical Lady); ‘Viamini’ is a misprint for ‘Vianini’.

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CHIABRERA. 1552–1637. GABBRIELLO CHIABRERA was born at Savona, a town on the sea-shore, not far from Genoa, on the 8th of June, 1552. He was born fifteen days after his father’s death, and his mother, Gironima Murasana, being young when she was left a widow, married again; which circumstance caused Chiabrera to be brought up by an uncle and aunt, brother and sister to his father, who were both unmarried.a At the age of nine, his uncle, who resided at Rome, took him thither, and gave him a private tutor, who taught him Latin. He was twice during childhood assailed by dangerous fevers, which left him so weak and spiritless, that his uncle placed him at the Jesuits’ college, that he might regain vigour and hilarity in the company of boys of his own age. The experiment succeeded, and Chiabrera became robust and healthy to the end of his long life. During his juvenile years, his application, memory, and studious habits attracted the applause of his instructors; and the Jesuits were desirous of inducing him to become one of them. The youth showed no disinclination; but his uncle watched over him, and prevented that sacrifice of liberty and independence, which would have rendered him miserable through life. When he was twenty this good uncle died; but he had emancipated himself from monkish influence, and after paying his relations at Savona a short visit, he returned again to Rome, where coming accidentally into contact with the cardinal Comaro Camerlingo,b he entered his service, in which he remained some years. / His residence at Rome, however, came to a disastrous termination: he was insulted by a Roman gentleman, and being forced by the laws of honour to avenge himself, the consequences obliged him to quit the city; nor was he permitted to return till eight years after. He now took up his abode in his native town, and grew to love the leisure and independence of his life. At one time his tranquillity was disturbed by another quarrel, in which he was wounded; but with his own hand, as he tells us, took his revenge. He was forced, on this, to absent himself from Savona; and remained, as it were, outlawed for several months, when at last a a Identified in Chiabrera’s autobiography, Vita di Gabriello Chiabrera, Savonese, da lui stesso descritta, pt 1, as Margherita and Giovanni Chiabrera. b Following Chiabrera, Vita, pt 2. Cardinal Luigi Cornaro, camerlengo for Michele Ghisleri, Pius V (1504–72); camerlengo was the title given to the Vatican’s chief financial minister, a person entitled to serve in papal capacity during the interim between the death of one and the succession of another Pope.

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reconciliation being brought about, he returned and enjoyed many years of complete tranquillity. Chiabrera had been born rich, but he was negligent of his affairs, so that at last his fortune was reduced to a mere competence; and this was at one time even endangered by a lawsuit at Rome, all his property there being confiscated; but it was returned to him, through the intervention of cardinal Aldobrandini.a At the age of fifty he married, but had no children. With the few interruptions above recorded, he passed a life of peaceful leisure, content with his fortunes, honoured and esteemed by every body, and rendered happy by the exercise of his talents and imagination. While at Rome in his early life, he had cultivated the friendship of literary men; and during his leisure, on his return to Savona, he occupied himself by reading poetry as a recreation. His own genius developed itself as he studied the productions of others. The Greek poets particularly delighted him; and perceiving how much they excelled all other writers, he made them his study, till, his emulation being awakened, he wrote some odes in imitation of Pindar:b these being much admired, he was encouraged to continue, still making the Greek lyrical poets his models, though he did not confine his admiration to them only. Homer he preferred to all other writers; he was charmed by the versification and imagery of Virgil; and appreciated in / Dante and Ariosto, the power which they possessed of felicitously describing and representing the objects which they desire to bring before their readers.* Chiabrera had the ambition of forming a new style; as he expressed it, he meant to follow the example of his countryman, Columbus, and to find a new world, or be wrecked in the attempt.d His wish was, to transfuse the spirit of the Greeks into the Italian language. He perceived that the fault common to the poets of his day, was a certain cowardice of style, and an obedience to arbitrary laws, which limited and chilled the poetic fervour. He shook off these trammels, and adopted every possible mode of versification, and even bent the dialect of Petrarch and Tasso to new and unknown forms of expression. He was no lover of rhyme, preferring to it a majestic harmony in the arrangement of syllables and sound, which he found more musical and expressive than the mere jingle of a concluding word. His style thus became at once novel and exalted. He adorned his

* Vita di se stesso.c a Cardinal Cintio Aldobrandini (d. 1610), nephew of Ippolito Aldobrandini, Pope Clement VIII (1536–92). b Pindar (518–438 BC) furnished the classical model for rhapsodic lyric poetry. c Loosely extracted from Chiabrera, Vita, pts 4–6 and 13. d The voyages of discovery to America of Christopher Columbus (1451–1566) were financed by Spain, but he was Italian.

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verses with pompous epithets and majestic turns of expression: he was harmonious and dignified, fervent and spirited.* As he dedicated nearly the whole of his long life to the composition of poetry, he has left a vast quantity, much of which has never been printed, – narrative poems, dramas, odes, canzoni†, sonnets, &c.; but his canzoni, or lyrics, far excel all the rest. This results from his style being at once more original and beautiful than his ideas. We are apt to say, as we read, we have seen this before, but never so well expressed. He does not, like Petrarch, anatomise his own feelings, and spend his heart in grief: even in his love poetry, while he complains, he does not lament, and there is a sort of laughing and vivacious grace and a liquid softness diffused over these poems in particular, which is infinitely / charming. One of his most celebrated, beginning– “Belle rose porporine,”

is in praise of his lady’s smile. It is impossible for any thing to be more airy and yet heartfelt – he speaks of how the earth is said to laugh, when, at the morning hour, a rivulet or a breeze wanders murmuring amid the grass, or a meadow adorns itself with flowers; – how the sea laughs, when a light zephyr dips its airy feet in the clear waters, so that the waves scarcely play upon the sands; – and how the heavens smile when morning comes forth, amidst roseate and white flowers, adorned in a golden veil, and moving along on sapphire wheels. “When the earth is happy,” he says, “she laughs; and the heavens laugh when they are gay: but neither can smile so sweetly and gracefully as you.”a The flowing measure, the admirable selection and position of the words render this and other similar poems models of lyrical composition. A fairy-like colouring, and a thrilling sweetness, like the scent of flowers, invest them, and render them peculiar in their aerial vivacity and spirited flow. These lighter and more animated productions have not been translated; but, as a specimen of his more serious style, we select one of the epitaphs or elegiac poems among those which Mr. Wordsworth has translated, with his usual accuracy and force of diction:–

* Muratori.b † There is no English word that gives the exact idea of a canzone; we call such lyrical poems; yet in Italian they form a class apart. a

‘Belle rose porporine’ (Beautiful crimson roses) (1601), stanza 8, from the Italian: ‘Ben è ver, quando è giacondo / ride il mondo, / ride il ciel quando è gioso: ben è ver; ma non san poi / come voi / fare un riso grazioso’. b Ludovico Antonio Muratori (1672–1750), Modenese Italian literary scholar and a secondary source for this life, author of the Rerum italicarum scriptores (1723–51) probably used by Mary Shelley in 1822–3 when researching Neapolitan history for her aborted drama on Manfred II (MWSJ, I, pp. 367, 418).

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There never breathed a man who, when his life Was closing, might not of that life relate Toils long and hard. The warrior will report Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, And blast of trumpets. He, who hath been doom’d To bow his forehead in the court of kings, Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, Could represent the countenance horrible Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage Of Auster and Boötes. Forty years Over the well-steer’d galleys did I rule: From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; And the broad gulphs I traversed oft and oft; Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir I knew the force; and hence the rough sea’s pride Avail’d not to my vessel’s overthrow. / What noble pomp, and frequent, have not I On regal decks beheld! Yet in the end I learn that one poor moment can suffice To equalise the lofty and the low. We sail the sea of life – a calm one finds, And one a tempest – and, the voyage o’er, Death is the quiet haven of us all.*a *Per il Signor Giambattista Feo. Uomo non è, che pervenuto a morte Non possa raccontar della sua vita Lunghi travagli. Il cavalier di Marte Dirà le piaghe, e lo splendor de’ brandi, Ed il suon delle trombe: il condennato, Nelle gran Reggie, ad inchinar la fronte, De’ Re scettrati, narrerà le frodi, Le lunghe invidie, ed i sofferti affanni Infra le schiere de’ bugiardi amici. Io, che mi vissi in su spalmate prore, Potrei rappresentar l’ orribil faccia Del mar irato, ed i rabbiosi sdegni E d’ Austro e di Boöte. Anni cinquanta Commandai su galere a buon nocchieri: Dal gran Peloro all’ Atlantei colonne Non sorge monte a gli occhi miei non noto, a

William Wordsworth, Epitaphs, Translated from Chiabrera, IV, with the last four lines omitted; ‘forty’ in l. 13 is a slip for ‘fifty’. Wordsworth translated nine elegaic poems by Chiabrera.

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The tranquil life of Chiabrera was agreeably varied by his love, not exactly of travelling, but of visiting the various cities of Italy, and by the honours paid him by its princes, in recompence for his poetry, which was enthusiastically admired by all his countrymen. He never made any long stay away from home, except at Genoa and Florence, and there he possessed friends who were glad to welcome him; for if he was of an irascible, he was of a placable disposition, and though serious of aspect, he was gay and good-humoured in society. The grand duke of Tuscany, Ferdinand I., held him in high esteem, and employed him in arranging various dramatic representations on the marriage of Mary de’ Medici with the king of France.a Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy, made him generous offers of remuneration, if he would take up his abode at his court; but Chiabrera wisely preferred his independence. It has / been mentioned that he arranged the interludes of a comedy of Guarini, when it was represented on occasion of the marriage of the son of the duke of Mantua with a princess of Savoy. All these princes rewarded him with gifts, or honours, which he seems to have set a still higher value upon; lodging him in their palaces, sending their carriages for his conveyance, and permitting him to remain covered in their presence. He had been the intimate friend of cardinal Barberini, and when the latter was created pope, under the name of Urban VIII., Chiabrera often visited Rome, though he would never reside there; and the pope made him priestly gifts of agnus dei and medallions, and in the year of the jubilee wrote him a brief, or letter of compliment, similar to those sent to sovereign princes and men of the highest rank.b Chiabrera was always an orthodox catholic, “a sinner,” he expresses it, “but not without christian devotion. He had Santa Lucia for his advocate; and during a space of sixty years, he never failed twice a day to devote himself to pious

E gli ampj golfi veleggiai più volte: D’ogni nube, che in ciel fosse raccolta, Seppi la forza, onde marino orgoglio A’ legni miei non valse fare oltraggio. Che nobil pompa non mirai sovente Su regie poppe? E pure io provo al fine, Che le disuguaglianze un’ ora adegua. Tutti quaggiuso navighiamo in forse. Altri ha tempesta, ed altri ha calma, e poscia Nel porto della Morte ognun dà fondo. a Marie de’ Medici (1573–1642), second wife of Henry IV, King of France (1553–1610), whom she married in 1600. One of the dramas arranged by Chiabrera for Ferdinand I de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany (1549–1609), was Il rapimento di Cafalo, rappresentato nelle nozze della Christianiss. Regina di Francia è di Navarra Maria Medici (1600). b Paragraph adopted from Chiabrera, Vita, pt 10; agnus dei, ‘lamb of God’, devotional object of the Catholic faith, typically a wax disc bearing the impression of a cross and a lamb.

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thoughts, which continued uppermost in his mind all his life.”a His moderate desires and temperate habits assisted to preserve him in uninterrupted good health. He died at the advanced age of eighty-six, and was buried in his own chapel in the church of San Giacomo. /

a

From Chiabrera, Vita, pt 15.

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TASSONI. 1565–1635. ALESSANDRO TASSONI was born at Modena, in 1565, of a noble and ancient family. He was so unfortunate as to lose both parents in early childhood; nor had he any near relative to watch over his tender years and guard his interests. In consequence, scarcely had he emerged from boyhood, than his inheritance was attacked by lawsuits, and he was involved in the most annoying struggles with private enemies, while long and painful illnesses unfitted him to cope with these evils. Still a love of knowledge rose above the multiplied disasters that beset him, and from his earliest years he was a student. He learnt the Greek and Latin languages under Lazzaro Labadini, a learned and worthy man, but somewhat of the Dominie Sampson species: simple-hearted and abstracted, he was exposed to ridiculous mistakes; and his pupil records in his celebrated poem, how, when a servant informed him of the death of a cow, he sent to the apothecary’s shop for drugs to cure her.*a While yet under this master’s tuition, he wrote a Latin poem named Errico,c which displayed an extraordinary smoothness of versification and command of language. At the age of eighteen he took the degree of doctor of laws, and in 1585 he entered the university of Bologna, where he continued five years, applying himself to philosophy, under the most celebrated masters. He afterwards studied jurisprudence at Ferrara, and acquired a reputation for his learning and critical acumen. It was not till past thirty years of age that he appears / to have seriously entered on the task of bettering his moderate fortunes. He visited Rome, and entered the

* Là dove il Labadin, persona accorta, Fe’ il beverone alla sua vacca morta.b a

Details adopted from La Secchia Rapita, Poema Eroicomico di Alessandro Tassoni, con la vita e con le note, compilate da Robustiano Gironi (Milan, 1806); in Gironi’s preface (but not in the text of the poem or Gironi’s notes), the tutor is named as ‘Sabadini’, an apparent error which Mary Shelley has corrected. Dominie Abel Sampson in Guy Mannering (1815) by Walter Scott (1771–1832), read by Mary Shelley in both 1815 and 1818 (MWSJ, II, p. 672), is an honest, awkward and simple pedagogue. b La Secchia Rapita, III. xxx. ll. 7–8. c A tragedy, according to Gironi, who does not, however, specify that it was in Latin and the title would imply that it was in Italian. Possibly Mary Shelley is collating Gironi with some other source, such as Muratori, Gironi’s source.

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service of cardinal Colonna. He accompanied his patron to Spain, and two years after was sent by him to Rome, to obtain permission from pope Clement VIII. to accept the viceroyalty of Aragon. Succeeding in his mission, Tassoni returned to the cardinal. It was during these journeys that he amused himself by composing his “Considerations on Petrarch,”a which afterwards occasioned so much controversy. The cardinal sent him again to Rome to manage his affairs there; but a few years after, for some reason, with which we are unacquainted, Tassoni quitted his service. Restored to independence, he visited Naples, and then took up his abode at Rome. He now published his “Considerations on Petrarch,” and his “Thoughts on various Subjects,”b which exposed him to the attacks of the literati of Italy. Tassoni was of a bold and original turn of mind; he hated literary prejudices, and loved to set himself against received opinions, merely because they were supported by the greater number. Thus he attacked Homer, Aristotle, and Petrarch.c He was singularly acute in discovering minor defects, and his sarcastic and witty talent rendered his criticisms doubly poignant. He was attacked for his publications and he replied with a mixture of humour and bitterness peculiarly galling. He had thus become well known in Italy, when his reputation was raised to its highest pinnacle by the “Secchia Rapita,” or Stolen Bucket, a serio-comic or mock-heroic poem, the first of the kind that had appeared.d A work of this nature is adapted only to the very region in which it is composed; and even then, there are certain minds which never relish travesti.e How much more is Hudibras spoken of than read, and to how many, except in select and peculiar passages, does it prove heavy and tedious.f To an English reader the “Secchia Rapita” must appear greatly inferior to the work of Butler; it is coarser and more long-winded; besides that / the rhymes, the wrenching and transformation of language, the vulgarisms and idioms fall coldly on the ears of those, who have not been habituated from infancy to their use or abuse. The “Secchia Rapita” is founded on those petty wars between two towns, so common in Italy in the 14th and 15th centuries. The people of Modena had, in 1325, discomfited the Bolognese at Zoppolino, and the vanquished fled with such precipitation, that their pursuers entered their town with them. The Modenese a

Considerazioni sopra le rime del Petrarca (Thoughts on the Poetry of Petrarch) (1609). Dieci libri di pensieri diversi (Ten Books of Various Thoughts) (1620). c Gironi observes that Petrarch was so venerated in the early 17th century that to attack him seemed sacrilege. d Mary Shelley follows Gironi here in crediting Tassoni with originality. La Secchia Rapita (1614) had ancient antecedents, such as The Battle between the Frogs and the Mice, formerly attributed to Homer, but it appears to have been the first full-scale (12-canto) mock-heroic epic of modern times, since Pulci’s Morgante Maggiore is of mixed mode. It influenced both the Lutrin of Boileau (see ‘Boileau’, vol. 3) and Pope’s The Rape of the Lock (1714). e travesti: former name for a mock-heroic poem, a term given currency by Paul Scarron’s Le Virgile travesti en vers burlesques (Virgil Disguised in Burlesque Verses) (1648). f Hudibras (1663–80) by Samuel Butler (1613–80), a satire, mainly on Puritan sectarianism and the politics of Restoration England. b

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were driven out again, but carried off, as token of their triumph, the bucket belonging to the public well of the city. The Bolognese made an expedition to recover it, and this forms the basis of the poem. The plebeian names of the “unwashed artificers”a who compose the several armies, their ridiculous proceedings, their combats, mocking those of belted knights, are all infinitely relished by the Italians. Tassoni is praised also for the various fancy he displays in individualising the combatants, their combats, and the modes by which they die, as well as for the dignity with which he invests the really noble personages who take a part in the warfare.b There are episodes also, some more dignified, others more burlesque even than the main subject of the poem; the gods and goddesses take part, and the kings of Naples and Savoy are brought in on either side. The chief satire of the poem falls on an unfortunate count di Culagna, under which name Tassoni held up to ridicule count Paolo Brusantini, a noble of Ferrara, who had provoked him by instigating a violent and infamous attack on one of his works. Tassoni was unable to avenge himself openly, as Brusantini was a favourite of his prince, but vowed future vengeance, and writing to a friend he exclaims, “If God lends me life, he shall learn, in one way or another, that he has furnished a work to the devil.”c The count di Culagna falls in love with the Amazon of the poem,d and resolves to poison his wife: he makes a confidant of one Titta, a Romagnole, a courtier of the papal court, who was in fact the lover / of the countess, and betrays to her the murderous design. The lady accordingly deceives her husband, changes her soup plate with him, and then flies to the tent of Titta. The count’s physician, however, who had been applied to for poison, has only furnished physic, and Culagna recovers. He hears of the infidelity of his wife, and defies Titta to mortal combat. Titta is not brave, but Culagna is trebly a coward. When his challenge is accepted, he takes to his bed, makes his will, and declares that he is going to die. His friends cannot inspire him with any valour, but his doctor, by administering three or four large cups of wine, imparts the necessary courage. The opponents meet; Titta’s spear strikes the throat and chest of the count, who falls to the ground, and is carried to his tent, to bed, with Titta exults in his overthrow and death. The surgeon visits Culagna’s wound; but, to the surprise of all, the skin even is not scratched: “Yet I saw something red,” cries the count, “it was assuredly my blood!” On this they examine him with more attention, and discover a red riband hanging from his throat to his girdle. This blow of Titta disordering his dress, had exposed this unfortunate silk of sanguineous hue to the eyes of the frightened combatant, who at once believed that she had received a mortal wound. Now, perceiving how he had been deceived, the count thanked God most fervently, a

King John, IV. iii. 215: ‘another lean unwashed artificer’. Referring particularly to the praise of Pierre Perrault (brother of Charles and translator of La Secchia Rapita), whose prefatory remarks to the translation (1664) are cited by Gironi. c Translated from Gironi, p. xix; his correspondent was Canon Annibale Sassi. d Called Rennopia. Imitating Virgil’s Camilla, epic poems often feature a warrior maid or ‘Amazon’. b

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and, in his artless, pious gratitude, pardoned his friend and his wife all the injuries they had done him. Such is the outline of the principal episode of the “Secchia Rapita,”a which concludes by a peace brought about by the pope’s legate; the bucket remaining, however, with the Modenese; and there it probably is to this day. Goldoni saw it, in 1730, suspended by an iron chain from the belfry of the cathedral.b This poem was hailed with rapture, even in manuscript: for some time, indeed, it was only known thus, and numerous copies were made at the price of eight crowns each. As Tassoni had not spared his countrymen or his contemporaries, great obstacles were thrown in / the way of its publication; and even when printed at Venice and Padua, no edition was really on sale till 1622, when it was published at Paris, under the inspection of Marini.c Tassoni’s slender fortunes meanwhile did not permit him to preserve his independence: he accepted the offers of Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy; but scarcely had he entered on his new service, than a series of persecutions was commenced against him, which ended by his taking refuge in private life. Again free from all slavery, disgusted by the inconstancy of men and the intrigues of courts, he took up his abode at Rome, where he had a house and vineyard, giving himself up to the enjoyment of solitude and study, and deriving his chief pleasure from hunting and the cultivation of flowers. Still he was not wholly weaned from the world, nor content to be neglected: he said that he reminded himself of Fabricius expecting the dictatorship;d and to follow up this truly mock-heroic similitude, he accepted the offer of cardinal Ludovisio, nephew of pope Gregory XV., and entered his service, in which he remained till his patron’s death. He afterwards returned to his native town, and being taken into favour by its reigning prince, he passed the remnant of his life prosperously, under the shadow of that fame, which his works, his arduous studies, and great talents caused to gather thick around him. After a few years spent in peace and honour, he died on the 5th of April, 1635,e in the seventy-first year of his age. /

a Summarising cantos X–XI, paraphrasing the Count’s words; the episode of the riband occurs in XI. xliii. b Gironi noted that a bucket, said to be the stolen original, was to be seen in the Torre Ghirlandina (the campanile of Modena’s cathedral). This bucket was kept in the campanile until comparatively recently. Detail is from Goldoni’s Memoirs, not Gironi. c Publication details are drawn from Gironi. d Gaius Fabricius Luscinus (d. after 275 BC), Roman statesman; refusing to betray Rome to its enemies, he represented a model of self-sacrifice and virtue. e The 25th, according to Gironi.

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MARINI. 1569–1625. GIAMBATTISTA MARINI was born at Naples on the 18th of October, 1569. His father, a celebrated jurisconsult, was desirous of bringing up his son to the same profession; but the youth felt an unconquerable distaste to the career of the law. Marini possessed a fervid and lively imagination, and a facility in the composition of poetry which determined, without a question, his destiny in life. There are many poets even, we may say, of a higher class than Marini – many more sublime, more earnest, more pathetic – but, in his degree, Marini is a genuine poet, and gave himself up with confidence and ardour to the pursuit of that fame of which he reaped so large a harvest. His father, angry at his resistance to his wishes, was doubly indignant when he gave open testimony of his new career, and actually published a volume of poetry: he turned him from his house, and refused to supply him with the necessaries of life. But Marini was born under a more fortunate star than usually smiles upon men who give themselves to the fervent aspirations of genius. Amiable and generous as he was, he did not possess that stern independence of disposition, nor that selfengrossed intensity of feeling, which often render poets an intractable race. Several noblemen stepped forward to assist and patronise the young adventurer in the groves of Parnassus.a The duke of Bovino, the prince of Conca, and the marquess of Manso, the friend of Tasso, offered him protection and shelter.b He became acquainted with Tasso, who encouraged him to pursue his poetic career; and he published his Canzoni de’ Baci,c which acquired for him a great reputation. / He was concerned in some youthful scrapes; and having assisted a friend to escape, who had been imprisoned on account of a love adventure, he was himself thrown into a prison. He amused himself there by writing gay and light-hearted verses; but soon after he escaped from confinement, and fled to Rome, where he took up his abode with monsignore Crescenzi. With him he visited Venice, but returned to Rome after a short absence, and entered the service of cardinal a i.e. the literary life. The Castalian spring on Mount Parnassus, in central Greece, was in classical myth said to be the source of poetic inspiration. b Inigo of Guevara, Duke of Bovino; Matteo di Capua, Prince of Conca; and Giovanni Battista, Marquis of Manso (1561–1645), Neapolitan nobles by whom Marini was employed from c. 1590–2, 1592–1600 and 1600–11, respectively. c La canzone dei baci (Canzone on Kisses) (c. 1600).

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Aldobrandini. At Venice he published a volume of lyrical poetry, which established his fame.a Marini was always a popular man, and beloved and esteemed by his friends. When Paul V. was created pope, his patron, cardinal Aldobrandini, was sent as legate to Ravenna, and Marini accompanied him. He frequently visited Venice and Bologna, and formed intimacies with the men of reputation and talent residing in those cities. He was devoted to the cultivation of poetry; and here he first conceived the idea of the “Adone.”b He accompanied the cardinal to Turin, where Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy, received him at his court with the most flattering marks of distinction. Marini repaid him by a panegyric, which he called “Il Ritratto,” or the Portrait,c and was rewarded by the gift of a gold chain, and made cavalier of the order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus. When cardinal Aldobrandini returned to Ravenna, the poet was invited to remain at the Piedmontese court; and, with the consent of his former patron, he accepted the offer. Marini’s life was chiefly diversified by literary quarrels, in which he came off with his usual good fortune. He had already sustained several skirmishes with various authors, when the most deadly war was declared against him by Gasparo Murtola, a Genoese, and secretary to the duke.d He believed himself to be the first poet of the age, and was indignant at the favour shown to Marini. He levelled an attack of epigrams and satirical sonnets against him, which Marini answered, and was considered to have the best of the battle: they published / these collectively afterwards, under the title of the Murtoleide and the Marineide:e but Murtola, still more angry at the advantages gained by his adversary in this paper hostility, took a more injurious mode of showing his enmity: he shot at him as he was walking in the public square, but, missing his aim, wounded a favourite of the duke who was with him. Murtola was thrown into prison, and condemned to death. Marini generously interceded in his favour, and at his solicitation he was pardoned and liberated. Murtola, more angry and envious than ever, brought forward a poem of his enemy, which satirised the duke of Savoy. In vain Marini represented that this work had been written at Naples in his youth, many years before. He was thrown into prison, nor liberated till the marchese Manso sent his testimony of the truth of what he had declared, as to the period of its composition.f His tranquillity does not appear to have suffered by this persecution. He a Melchior Crescenzi, clerk of the Papal chamber during the late 16th century; Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini (1571–1621) nephew of and secretary of state for Pope Clement VIII. Marini’s early work was widely circulated in manuscript and gained great popularity in this form. His early poems were published as Le rime (1602) and later in two volumes as La lira (1608 and 1614). b L’Adone (Adonis) (1623). c Il Ritratto del ser. Don Carlo Emanuello, duca di Savoie (Portrait of Don Carlo Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy) published in Epitalami (1616). d Gaspare Murtola (1560–1624), secretary (1608–15) to Charles Emmanuel. e La Murtoleide, Fischiate del Cavalier Marini, con La Marineide, Risate del Murtola (1626). f Marini was imprisoned from April 1611–July 1612; the offending poem has been alternatively identified as La Cuccagna (The Cockaigne) and La Gobbeide (The Hunchback).

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continued to devote himself to learning and poetry: he applied himself to the study of the Holy Scriptures and the writings of the Fathers, and published his poem on the Murder of the Innocents, which he considered his best production.a His fame, spread beyond the Alps, had induced queen Marguerite of France to invite him to her court. Marini accepted her invitation; but by the time he arrived in Paris his patroness had died. Queen Mary de’ Medici stepped forward, however, in her room,b and the place of gentleman to the king, with a pension of 2000 crowns, was bestowed on him. He became very popular among the French nobility; many learnt Italian for the express purpose of reading his works. He lived a happy and honourable life. His great pleasure consisted in forming a valuable and extensive library, and collecting pictures by the best artists. The queen showed him many marks of favour: if she met him in the street, she was in the habit of stopping her carriage, for the sake of conversing with him; and such generosity was shown him by her, and his other noble / patrons, that he was enabled to buy a villa near Naples, on Mon Posilippo, whither he intended at some future time to retire, and end his days.c No doubt, in the chill climate of Paris, under the dusky atmosphere of the north, his lively imagination recurred with yearning to the beautiful and genial land of his nativity. He published his “Adone” while at Paris. The popularity of this poem was extraordinary; nothing was spoken of but it and its author, and the rapid sale enriched Marini, though it also exposed him to much literary enmity, and the censures of the church. Italian critics have since become exceedingly indignant, and consider it the origin of the false taste, the conceits, and flowery style of the seicentisti.d But, while it must be allowed that the imitators of Marini form a school of poetry remarkable for its corrupt style, its mannerism, and false and metaphoric imagery, it is impossible not to admit that the “Adone” itself is a work of great beauty and imagination: it wants sublimity, and deep pathos and masculine dignity; but its fancy, its descriptions, its didactic passages, are animated by the undeniable spirit of poetry. Marini possessed an extreme ease of versification, and a versatility and fecundity of style that carries the reader along with it. The “Adone” is founded on the well-known mythological story of Venus and Adonis. Cupid, having been chastised by his goddess mother, in revenge, resolves to wreak on her the miseries of love. He brings the son of Myrrhae to the shores of Cyprus, and while the Queen of Beauty is regarding the beautiful youth as he sleeps, her a

La strage degli innocenti (1632). Marguerite, Queen of France (1553–1615), first wife of Henry IV (1553–1610), whom he divorced in 1599; from 1615–23 Marini was attached to the French court, where Marie de’ Medici, Henry’s second wife and widow, was regent during the minority of her son, Louis XIII. c Posilippo, now a suburb of Naples; also a site of events in Lodore (MWSN, vol. 6, p. 164). d Marini’s style formed the basis of the 17th-century literary movement known as Marinism or Seicentismo. e Myrrha conceived Adonis through her incestuous relationship with her father, the king of Cyprus (Ovid, Metamorphoses, X. 298–502). Mary Shelley was especially interested in this story, which forms part of the context of her Matilda (1819). b

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wily son pierces her heart with his love-poisoned arrow. She falls in love on the instant, and Adonis, on awakening, is not slow to return her passion. Venus conducts him to her palace, where Cupid relates to him his adventures with Psyche, and Mercury those of Narcissus, Hylas, Actæon, and other victims of love.a He is then led through the gardens of pleasure, into the tower of delight; but the loves of the goddess and her favourite are interrupted by the jealousy of Mars, and Adonis / flies in alarm from the angry god. He falls afterwards into the hands of a fairy, who imprisons and annoys him: he escapes, and, after many wanderings and adventures, returns to Venus. It is then that he departs on that fatal hunting expedition which brings on the catastrophe. Mars and the malicious fairy unite in sending the boar against him, by which he is destroyed: his death – the grief of Venus – his interment – and the combats with which the goddess celebrates his funeral, conclude the poem. Its chief fault is, that it is terribly wiredrawn, even in the particular descriptions; for as to the story itself, that forms but a slender portion of the whole composition. Besides this, we are told that an allegory of youth is contained in the temptations, pleasures, and fatal catastrophe of the young lover; and this, as well as the unreal and fantastic nature of the personages, deprives it of all vivid interest. It is far removed from the fire of Ariosto, or the pathos and dignity of Tasso; still it is pleasing, varied, and imaginative, and but for its lengthb would to this day be a more general favourite. The cardinal Ludovisio, nephew of pope Gregory XV., earnestly entreated Marini to forsake Paris and repair to Rome. The king and queen of France permitted him to accept the invitation; and he returned to Italy, unterrified by the accusation that hung over his head, on account of the licentiousness of his work. He was received at Rome with enthusiasm, and his society was courted by every person of distinction. Here, as elsewhere, however, he was involved in literary squabbles; so that at last he resolved to retreat to the home he had prepared for himself at Naples. The tribunal, meanwhile, demanded alterations in his poem, accused of licentiousness and a tendency to impiety.c Two of his friends appeared to answer for him; but he permitted two stanzas only to be altered. The poem of Marini is certainly in its very texture soft, effeminate, and amorous; but there are no passages so reprehensible as many in Ariosto: the “Orlando Furioso” was never denounced; / and it is singular that so pertinacious an outcry should have been raised against the “Adone.” a Psyche’s jealous sisters persuaded her to look upon her invisible lover, Eros (Cupid), who then disappeared; Narcissus rejected the love of Echo and instead fell hopelessly in love with his own reflection; Hylas was taken under the water by nymphs on account of his beauty; Actaeon, the hunter, chanced to see the virgin goddess Artemis naked from her bath, was turned into a deer, and attacked by his own dogs. b L’Adone is nearly 41,000 lines long. c Marini was arrested on charges of immorality in 1598 and in 1600; Mary Shelley may be recalling P. B. Shelley’s making minimal alterations under protest to Laon and Cythna (1817) cutting out blasphemy and direct references to incestuous love.

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Its author, however, was not destined to suffer persecution, nor to enjoy his success for any long time. Soon after his return to Naples, he established himself at his delightful villa at Posilippo, where his life came to a sudden close: he fell ill of a painful malady, and died on the 25th of March, 1625, aged fifty-six. He was buried in the cloister of the Theatin Fathers,a to whom he had bequeathed his valuable library. /

a Order of Italian monks that takes its name from the town of Chieti (formerly Theate) in the Abruzzi.

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FILICAJA. 1642–1707. V INCENZO DA FILICAJA was born at Florence, on the 30th of December, 1642. The families of both his parents were noble; his mother being the daughter of Christofano Spini, one of the most distinguished families of Tuscany. His father educated him with care, and he attended the public schools of Florence. He gave early token of his literary and poetic genius: his memory was tenacious, and his industry indefatigable; while the seriousness of his disposition rendered retirement and study natural and easy to him. Perceiving his inclination for learning, his father sent him to the university of Pisa, to fit him for pursuing the legal profession. Filicaja attended the lectures of the professors on this subject; yet he could not induce himself to bestow his whole time on the law, but applied himself also to philosophy and theology, and to the imbuing himself with a perfect knowledge of the Latin and Italian languages. He was naturally inclined to piety, and spent much of his time in prayer and devout exercises. His habits were regulated by strict principles of morality; and so devoted was he to the cultivation of his intellect, that he always rose two hours before dawn, finding his mind clearer, and more capable of grappling with the abstruse subjects of his contemplation, in the early hours of morning. While yet a student at Pisa, when on a visit to his home during the vacation, he fell in love; and his poetic talent first developed itself in verses addressed to the beautiful and noble girl who was the object of / his affection. She died soon after, and he lamented her death in poetry; but the exact moral discipline to which he subjected his inclinations reproached him for giving himself up to the influence of passion; and he burnt all his love poetry, and made a resolution, which he kept to the end of his life, of dedicating his genius to the celebration only of moral and sacred subjects. After a residence of five years at Pisa, having taken the degree of doctor of laws, he returned to Florence, and was placed under Giovanni Federighi, a jurisconsult of eminence, that he might add to his theoretical, a practical knowledge of law. At the age of thirty-two, he married Anna, the daughter of the marchese Capponi.a Soon after his father died; and, freed from all restraint, he followed the bent of his disposition, by retiring into the country, where he spent the greater a

Marchese Vincenzo Capponi (d. 1683), an associate of the Accademia della Crusca.

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part of each year in domestic retirement, devoting himself to the education of his two sons. Hitherto his poetic merits were unknown beyond the limits of a small circle of friends; but public events called his genius to higher flights. The Turkish army overrunning Hungary, laid siege to Vienna, and filled Christendom with alarm.a The enthusiastic piety of Filicaja added to the natural disquietude inspired by such a disaster; and while the fate of the war was in suspense, and afterwards, when victory drove the infidels from the gates of the capital of Austria, he poured out his terrors and his exulting triumph in odes, which breathe a pure and elevated lyric spirit. At the time when he wrote, Italian poetry had received a check from that unfortunate propensity men have to shackle the free course of genius by rules and precedent. There was a distinction made between the poetic and prosaic style; the former was founded upon Petrarch, and it became a law to use no expressions but such as had his authority. The language of Italian verse was thus becoming, as it were, a dead idiom; repeating itself, and incapable of any original expressions. / Filicaja disdained these shackles, and revivified his poetic diction by transfusing into it many elevated and energetic modes of speech, hitherto reserved for prose only. Facility, dignity, and clearness are his characteristics; and the grandeur of his ideas gives force to the originality of his expressions; which, emanating spontaneously, as they did, from a mind full of his subject, found an echo in the hearts of his readers. His friends alone had hitherto been aware of his talent; but the enthusiasm they felt on reading these spirited odes led them to give copies; and they got into the hands of those princes who, as the leaders of the armies against the Turks, were celebrated in them. One of his finest odes he had addressed to John, king of Poland;b who acknowledged the honour in letters full of praises and thanks. Christina, queen of Sweden, displayed in a more kind and liberal manner her admiration: hearing that Filicaja had two sons, she insisted upon providing for their education; declaring that she would bring them up as her own children.c She showed herself so generous, that the poet was accustomed to say, that he could not look on his home and family without perceiving the marks of her favour. While her modesty was such, that she insisted that her bounty should be kept a secret; declaring she was ashamed it should be known that she did so little for a man, whom she esteemed so much; and her benevolence remained unknown till after her death. Filicaja’s life was not, however, wholly prosperous: on the death a

Referring to the incursions of Sultan Mahomet IV and the siege of Vienna in 1683. John Sobieksi (John III), King of Poland (1629–96). Alluding to the Canzoni in occasione dell’assedio e liberazione di Vienna (1684), comprised of six linked triumphal odes on the subject of the Turkish defeat at Vienna, variously addressed to the Christian army, Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I (1640–1705), John III, Charles V, Duke of Lorrain (1643–90), God and the Ottomans; the third ode is particularly admired here. c Kristina Wasa, Queen of Sweden (1626–89), who abdicated the throne in 1654 and retired to Rome. b

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of Christina, he became involved in pecuniary embarrassments, and he was attacked by a dangerous malady. He lost, also, his eldest son, who, since the queen’s death, had been appointed page of honour to the grand duke of Tuscany. The high opinion entertained of him by Cosmo III.a extricated him from a part of his difficulties. This prince named him to the command of the city of Volterra. Ancient feuds and old and almost irremediable abuses of various kinds, afflicted the town; and it required / all the influence which Filicaja obtained by his justice, his benevolence, and urbanity to put an end to these evils. Volterra enjoyed tranquillity and plenty under his direction; trade and the arts flourished; and this venerable city was restored to a portion of its former splendour: he thus became so dear to the citizens, that they twice petitioned the grand duke to continue him in the government. Their request was accorded; and when, at last, he was recalled, he carried with him the universal regret. On his removal from Volterra, he was, for two years, governor of Pisa, – a situation of high trust. On his return to Florence, he filled several law offices of great power and emolument. He was popular and beloved throughout: equitable, but benevolent; diligent and conscientious, his virtues were adorned by his pleasing and affable manners. His piety caused him to devote much of his leisure to devotional exercises; and his taste led him to cultivate poetry. His industrious habits enabled him to compose a great deal when his time was otherwise much taken up by his public duties. He wrote much in Latin, a small portion only of which has been published;b and it displays a deep knowledge and command of that language. He employed himself also in correcting and adding to his Italian poetry. He was a severe critic on his own works; and yet, mistrusting his judgment, he submitted them to the further censorship of four selected friends. He was much beloved, as well as admired, by all who knew him; and belonged to the Della Crusca academy, and to the Arcadian, – of both of which he was the brightest ornament.c His last work was an “Ode to the Virgin,” which occupied him but a few days before his death. Filicaja was not only devout, but a rigid catholic. One of the acts of his life previous to entering on a new career, had been a pilgrimage to Loretto;d and, in a

Cosimo de’ Medici (Cosimo III), 6th Grand Duke of Tuscany (1642–1723), ruling from 1670–1723. b Benoit Farjat, Vincenzo Filicaja and Henry Newton, Henrici Nevvton, sivè de Nova Villa, Societatis Regiae, Londini, Arcadiae Romanae, Academiae Florentinae, et ejus quae vulgò vocatur della Crusca socii, Epistolae, orationes, et carmina (1710). Several poems by Filicaja written in Latin were also published, under the subtitle Carmina adoptiva. c Accademia degli Arcadi, an 18th-century literary movement, typified by the poetry of Metastasio. A response against the rhetorical complexity and artificiality of Marinism, it emphasized simplicity and restraint. Established in 1582, the Della Cruscan Academy (lit. ‘Academy of the Chaff’) was dedicated to the ‘winnowing’ and purification of the Tuscan language and its poetry; its linguistic restrictions were codified in dictionaries and vocabulary lists throughout the 17th century, most notably the Vocabolario degli Accademici della Crusca. Suppressed during the late 18th century, the Academy was re-established by Napoleon in 1808. d Loreto, prominent Italian Marian shrine; the birthplace of the Virgin Mary and the site of the annunciation were believed to have been miraculously transferred there.

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his dying moments, a picture of the Virgin excited his pious and poetic thoughts. There is great spirit and sweetness in this ode, in which he recurs / to the love of his earlier days; and how, on losing the object, he transferred his devotion, entire and for ever, to the mother of his Saviour. While thus employed, he was seized by an inflammation of his lungs. His religious faith supported him in his sufferings, and did not forsake him to the last. He died on the 24th of September, 1707, at the age of sixty-five. He was buried in his family tomb in the church of San Piero, at Florence. /

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METASTASIO. 1698–1782. METASTASIO was of obscure origin. He owed his prosperity, in the first place, to the talents with which nature had endowed him; and, in the second, to singular good fortune; while his amiable disposition and excellent character gave a scope to the course of felicitous circumstances; which, among men of genius, is frequently checked by their impetuosity and thoughtlessness, or by the proud sense of independence attendant upon their organisation. The name of the poet’s father was Felice Trapassi, a citizen of Assisi. His poverty had forced him to enter into the Corsican regiment of the pope; and he added to his slender means by acting as copyist. He married Francesca Galasti, of Bologna; by whom he had two sons and two daughters. Later in life, he saved money enough to enter into partnership in a shop of l’arte bianca, – a sort of chandler, where maccaroni, oil, and other culinary materials, are sold. His younger son, Pietro, was born at Rome, on the 13th of January, 1698. The child gave early indications of genius; and his father resolved to bestow on him the best education in his power; and placed him, at a very early age, with a watchmaker, that he might learn a respectable art. But the boy was born to pursue a nobler career. He was already a poet; and, when only ten years old, attracted an audience in his father’s shop by his talents as improvisatore. It happened, one summer evening, that Vincenzo Gravina, a celebrated jurisconsult, and renowned for his learning and love of letters, was walking with the poet Lorenzini in the streets of Rome.a / Passing by Trapassi’s shop, he was attracted by the childish voice of the juvenile poet, who was in the act of reciting extempore verses. He joined the audience; and, being perceived by Pietro, the little fellow introduced some stanzas in his praise into his effusion. Gravina, charmed by his talent and prepossessing appearance, offered him money, which the child refused. The lawyer continued to question him, and was so satisfied by the propriety and spirit of his answers, that he immediately proposed to adopt him as his son; promising to give him a good education, and to facilitate his career in the same profession as himself. No objection could be raised to so generous and beneficent an offer. The boy was not to be taken from his native town, nor were his duties towards his parents to be interfered with.

a Giovanni Vincenzo Gravina (1664–1718), co-founder of the Accademia degli Aracadi in 1690, and Maria Lorenzini (1680–1743), an Arcadian poet.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-22

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One of Gravina’s first acts was to change his adopted son’s name from the ignoble one of Trapassi to the better sounding appellation of Metastasio, which was a sort of translation of his paternal name into Greek. Gravina did not delay to cultivate the boy’s understanding, so as to fit him for a literary career. Being an idolater of ancient learning, his first care was to initiate his pupil in the languages of the writers of Greece and Rome, and then to imbue him with a knowledge of their works. Metastasio showed himself an apt scholar: at the age of fourteen he wrote a tragedy,a which, in a letter written in after years,b he freely criticised. “My tragedy of ‘Giustino,’” he says, “was written at the age of fourteen, when the authority of my illustrious master did not permit me to diverge from a religious imitation of the Greek models; and when my own inexperience prevented me from discerning the gold from the lead in those mines whose treasures were but just opened to me.” The tragedy, written thus in strict imitation, is necessarily frigid; nor does the language bear the stamp of the ease and grace which so distinguished Metastasio’s after writings. He still continued to improvisare verses in company. This attractive art renders the person who exercises it / the object of so much interest and admiration, that it is to be wondered that any one who has once practised it, can ever give it up. The act of reciting the poetry that flows immediately to the lips is peculiarly animating: the declaimer warms, as he proceeds, with his own success; while the throng of words and ideas that present themselves, light up the eyes, and give an air of almost supernatural intelligence and fire to the countenance and person. The audience – at first curious, then pleased, and, at last, carried away by enthusiastic delight – feel an admiration, and bestow plaudits, which, perhaps, no other display of human talent is capable of exciting.c The youth, the harmonious voice, and agreeable person of Metastasio added to the charm: yet, fortunately, he gave up the exercise of his power before it had unfitted him for more arduous compositions. He gives an account of his success, and his quitting the practice, in a subsequent letter to Algarotti. “I do not deny,” he writes, “that a natural talent for harmony and rhythm displayed itself in me earlier than is usually the case; that is, when I was about ten years of age. This strange phenomenon so dazzled my great master, Gravina, that he selected me as soil worthy to be cultivated by so a

Giustino (1712). Metastasio’s letters were collected in two important contemporary editions: Charles Burney (1726–1814), Memoirs of the Life and Writings of the Abate Metastasio, in which are incorporated translations of his principal letters (1796) and the Italian Lettere del signor Abate Pietro Metastasio (1786). Burney was Mary Shelley’s primary source both for information and translations; however, she consistently revised his translations by turning to the original Italian, which she renders more literally than Burney does. The passage cited is adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 6–7. c This description of the improvvisatore is Mary Shelley’s own and recalls some of her letters written in 1821 on the performances of Tommaso Sgricci (1789–1836) at Pisa. The characterisation, in particular, of the supernatural appearance of the inspired speaker is repeated in several of her letters (MWSL, I. pp. 170–2, 180–2). b

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celebrated a man. Until I was sixteen, he brought me forward to improvisare verses on any given subject; and Rolli, Vanini, and Perfetti, then men of mature years, were my rivals.a Many people tried to write down our effusions while we extemporised, but with no success; for, besides that they were no adepts in shorthand, it was necessary to deceive us cleverly, otherwise the mere suspicion of such an operation would have dried up my vein. This occupation soon became burdensome and injurious to me; burdensome, because I was perpetually obliged, by invitations which could not be refused, to task myself every day, and sometimes twice a day, – now to gratify some lady’s whim, now to satisfy the curiosity of some high-born fool, and now to fill up a blank in some grand assembly, – losing thus miserably the greater part of the time necessary for my studies. / It was injurious, because my weak and uncertain health suffered. It was perceptible to every one that the agitation attendant on this exercise of the mind, used to inflame my countenance and heat my head, while my hands and extremities became icy cold. Gravina consequently exerted his authority to prohibit me from making extempore verses, – a prohibition which, from the age of sixteen, I have never infringed, and to which I believe that I owe the remnant of reasonable and connected ideas that are to be found in my writings.”b He goes on to state the evils that result to the intellect perpetually bent on so exciting a proceeding; when the poet, instead of selecting and arranging his thoughts, and then using measure and rhyme as obedient executors of his designs, is obliged to employ the small time allowed him in collecting words, in which he afterwards clothes the ideas best fitted to these words, even though foreign to his theme: thus the former seeks at his ease for a dress fitted to his subject; while the latter, in haste and disturbance, must find a subject fitted to his dress. On withdrawing his pupil from the exercise of this fascinating art, Gravina became aware that his education could not be carried on with success amidst the pleasures and idleness of his life at Rome; and he sent him to study under his cousin Camporese, who lived near the ancient Cortona, a town of Magna Græcia, famous in antiquity for its schools of philosophy.c Metastasio was very happy at this period of his life; and, in a letter written at an advanced age, he recurs to it with yearning fondness. “Of how many dear and pleasing ideas, my friend,” he writes to Don Saverio Mattei, “you have awakened the recollection, by causing a Paolo Antonio Rolli (1687–1765) and Bernardino Perfetti (1681–1747), contemporary Italian poets; the improvvisatore Vanini, alluded to in Metastasio’s letter to Francesco Algarotti (1 Aug. 1751), has not been further identified. b Addressed to Francesco Algarotti (1712–64); letter dated 1757, adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. p. 9, with additions from the original Italian text. c Identified in Metastasio’s letters as Gregorio Caroprese (or Caloprese) (1650–1715), celebrated philosopher and cleric, with whom he resided in Calabria (Burney, Memoirs, II. p. 388). ‘Cortona’ (a town in the Italian Arezzo) is probably an error for Crotona (modern Crotone) on the Calabrian coast in southern Italy, where the school of Pythagorean philosophy had flourished. Magna Graecia, or ‘Greater Greece’, refers to the region of southern Italy, once a Greek colony.

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me to go over in my thoughts the happy time I spent, not less usefully than delightfully, between boyhood and adolescence, in Magna Græcia. I saw again as if they were present all those objects which pleased me so much at that time. Again I inhabited the little chamber, in which the sound of the breakers of the neighbouring sea so often lulled me into the sweetest / sleep; and, by force of my imagination, I revisited in my boat the shores of neighbouring Scalea;a and the names and aspects of many places recurred to me, before forgotten. I heard again the venerable voice of the renowned philosopher Camporese; who, stooping to instruct one so young, led me, as it were, by the hand among the vortexes of the then reigning Descartes,b of whom he was a strenuous advocate, and attracted my boyish curiosity, by showing me in wax, as if in a game, how globules were formed from atoms, and filling me with admiration of the bewitching experiments of philosophy. It seems to me as if I again saw him labouring to persuade me that his dog was formed upon the same principle as a watch; and that the trinal dimension is a sufficient definition of solid bodies. And I behold him smile, when, having kept me long plunged in a dark reverie, by forcing me to doubt of every thing, he perceived that I breathed again, on his assertion, ‘I think, therefore, I am;’ the invincible proof of a certainty which I had despaired of ever again attaining.”c Camporese died, unfortunately, in the midst of these studies, and Metastasio returned to Rome. It was soon after his lot to lose his adopted father, Gravina. He expresses, both in letters written at the time, and in after years, his deep grief on the death of his benefactor. Gravina kept his word, of considering him as his son; and, with the exception of a legacy to his mother, left him heir to all that he possessed, to the amount of about fifteen thousand crowns. Finding himself thus independent, and even rich in his own eyes, Metastasio gave himself up to the study of poetry. Hitherto the rules of Gravina had limited his reading: now he emerged into freedom; and, having been before allowed only to peruse Ariosto, among the Italians, he read the “Jerusalem Delivered” for the first time. He was enchanted by the order and majesty of a single action, conducted with art, and terminated with dignity. The grandeur of the style, the vivid colouring and fervid imagination of Tasso, transported him with delight. / Ovid was also an especial favourite; and it is recorded that he regarded Marini with an approbation which that poet, indeed,

a

Scalea, town in Calabria, southern Italy. Caroprese evidently expounded the key tenets of Cartesianism, the system of the French philosopher René Descartes (1596–1650). Descartes maintained that space was not a void, but filled with an infinite number of vortically moving particles. He denied that animals other than humans think; they ‘act naturally and by springs, like a watch’. Man, however, is endowed with reason and self-consciousness, and can have certain knowledge of the existence of his own mind, a certainty arrived at through the mental exercise of first doubting its existence. To doubt, however, confirms the existence of a doubting mind. Hence the famous axiom ‘I think, therefore, I am’. c Letter of 1 Sept. 1772, from Burney, Memoirs, III. pp. 123–8. b

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deserves, but of which, as the original corrupter of the Italian style, and the leader of the degenerate Seicentisti, he is usually deprived. Unfortunately, independence and youthful thoughtlessness led Metastasio into other deviations from Gravina’s lessons, less praiseworthy than reading Tasso. The poet was warm-hearted, hospitable, and gay. He was surrounded by companions ready to share the pleasures and luxuries which his money procured; while he believed his future prospects secured by the promises he received from influential protectors. Two years had not passed before he was undeceived. He had squandered the greater part of his fortune; he had made many enemies, and his friends fell off. With a firmness worthy of his education, he stopped short of actual ruin; and, disgusted with the society of Rome, and the treatment he had suffered, he changed, on a sudden, his whole plan of life, following up his new designs with zeal and perseverance. “There lived at Naples,” says his biographer, Venanzio, “a rough incult lawyer, called Castagnola, covered with rust and dust, and an enemy to every thing that was not allied to forensic struggles and turmoils.”a Wishing to place a barrier between his will and his inclinations, Metastasio went to Naples, and chose this man for his master, believing that his asperity and detestation of poetry would serve to guard him against having again recourse to an art towards which nature impelled him. For nearly two years he submitted to the control of Castagnola, and devoted himself to the severest study. But he was well known at Naples, and his talents were appreciated. He was perpetually solicited to compose epithalamiums, theatrical pieces, and occasional verses. He resisted the temptation as long as he could: at last, commanded by the viceroy, he consented to write a drama, to celebrate the birthday of the empress Elizabeth Christina, wife of Charles VI.b / He, however, obtained a promise of secrecy, and hoped to conceal his crime from his master. To accomplish this, he was obliged to steal for his work the hours usually devoted to sleep; but his natural vein, checked for some time, flowed with such felicity, that he accomplished his task before the appointed time. The “Orti Esperidi” charmed his august employer, who bestowed on it the highest praise, and presented the author with a purse containing two hundred ducats. The success of this interlude on the stage confirmed the judgment of the viceroy. It was admirably set to music, and the decorations were most splendid. All Naples flocked to the representation – all Naples resounded with its praises, and every one was eager to thank and applaud the author. But Metastasio, reluctant to quit his legal studies, shrank from the censures of his master, and continued to preserve the concealment he had at first adopted: he even angrily denied the charge when he was accused of being the writer, and put enquiry to fault; till at last the discovery was made by the prima donna, Marianna Bulgarelli, usually a

Possibly Girolamo Venanzio (active c. 1820–50), Italian neoclassicist and literary scholar; the quotation may come from another untraced source. b Elizabeth Christina Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, wife of Habsburg Emperor Charles VI (1685–1740). The drama was Gli Orti esperidi (The Garden of the Hesperides) (1721).

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called La Romanina, from her native city.a She had received the greatest applause in the character of Venus, in this drama; and her gratitude and admiration made her eager to learn to whom she owed her success. Despite all his efforts, she discovered that Metastasio was the author, and she lost no time in spreading the report throughout Naples. Castagnola was highly indignant. He treated his pupil with severity and disdain; while, on the other hand, the Romanina used every argument to inspire him with self-confidence, and to induce him to follow the career for which he was formed by nature. He consented at last: he quitted the angry lawyer, who refused even to listen to his farewell; and, at the earnest invitation of his new friend, took up his abode at her house. Marianna Bulgarelli had a society around her of distinguished men and accomplished artists, and among these Metastasio found every encouragement to pursue / his new career. He studied the science of music under Porpora,b the first composer of the day, and acquired a knowledge of the art which greatly assisted the melody of his verses; so that, he tells us, he never wrote any lyrical poetry without imagining an accompaniment at the same time, which regulated its cadences and modulated the sounds. His natural inclination led him to desire to write tragedies; but, on reflection, he found that it was not sufficient that tragedies should be written, if there were no actors to represent them, nor an audience which could take interest in the representation. His association with musical people, and a prima donna, led him to consider the opera as the natural drama of Italy. Operatic dramas owed their origin to Florence, the birthplace of so much that is great and admirable, and were first brought forward in 1594. After that time they fell into disrepute, till Apostolo Zeno, choosing in ancient mythology and history the groundwork of his plots, brought out pieces that acquired great popularity.c To this species of composition Metastasio accordingly turned his thoughts. Marianna encouraged him to proceed; and, when he received the commission to furnish the Neapolitan theatre with an opera for the carnival of 1724, she suggested the subject of “Didone Abbandonata,” or the desertion of Dido. In this, she filled the part of the unfortunate queen; and her dignity, pathos, and musical powers imparted an attraction to the piece, which filled the audience with enthusiasm, while her heart warmed with gratitude towards the poet, whose admirable conception and execution gave a scope to her talents, before denied to them. The reputation of Dido spread through Italy: during the carnival of the following year, it was acted at Venice, la Romanina being still engaged to fill the principal part. Metastasio accompanied his friend, and wrote, while in that city, another opera, called “Siroe.”d a Marianna Benti-Bulgarelli (d. 1734), also prima donna at the San Bartolomeo theatre in Vienna. b Niccolò Antonio Porpora (1686–1766), Viennese composer and music instructor. c Apostolo Zeno (1699–1750), Italian melodramatist, Imperial Laureate, and Metastasio’s collaborator, with whom he established the 18th-century opera seria tradition. d Siroe re di Persia (Siroe, King of Persia) (1726).

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This was the last appearance of Marianna on the stage: she was no longer young, and retired from her / profession. She took up her residence at Rome, and with some difficulty persuaded her friend to return to his native city. The two families resided under the same roof – Marianna and her husband – Metastasio with his father, elder brother, and two sisters. The relations of the poet were indigent; but he possessed some property, and his friend was comparatively rich. The household was in common; Marianna acting as steward and housekeeper, while she still kept her station beside the poet; encouraging him in moments of despondency; suggesting subjects for his muse; and displaying, at all times, that active and generous affection which so distinguished her. Metastasio did not, however, meet with the encouragement at Rome which hailed his first exertions. He wrote his drama of “Cato,” which was acted in 1727; but it was not attended with his accustomed success. The austere character of the Roman hero – the cold loves – and disastrous ending – displeased the morbid tastes of the spectators, who were unable to appreciate the simplicity of the plot, or the grandeur of the sentiments. Metastasio had a true tragic bias for an unhappy catastrophe; but his audience did not relish it, and, subsequently, he adapted himself better to their tastes, and his operas have usually the happy ending, then supposed more consonant to the inherent lightness of musical dramas, or, probably, to the talents of the singers: as, in our days, the sublime acting of Pasta has induced composers to bring forward tragedies of the deepest dye, “Medea” and “Otello,” as the subjects best fitted for their art.a Metastasio was discouraged: he was poor, and he had many enemies at Rome, who prejudiced the pope against him, and rendered his abode very disagreeable. At this moment, fortune came to his aid, and his whole future life became prosperous and stable. In November, 1729, he received a letter from prince Pio of Savoy, director of the imperial theatricals, inviting him to become the court poet of Vienna.b Apostolo Zeno was at / that time poet laureate to the emperor Charles VI.; but he also, with praiseworthy liberality, seconded the emperor in his wish to invite Metastasio to his court; and the way was opened to him by the absence of envy in one, who might have looked on him as a rival, but who generously preferred regarding him as a fellow-labourer, or rather, successor, to his own exertions. Metastasio at once accepted the offer with many expressions of gratitude. He was allowed to delay his journey to Vienna till the spring of 1730, and to fulfil his engagement of supplying the Roman theatre with two pieces for the carnival. These were “Alexander in India,” and “Artaxerxes.”c The latter was a a Giuditta Maria Costanza Pasta, née Negri (1797–1865), leading dramatic soprano, at the height of her career 1815–1830. Her ‘divine’ singing and acting deeply affected Mary Shelley, who attended performances between 1824–6 and saw her in the roles mentioned (see many references in MWSL, I). b Mary Shelley appears to have made a slip. Burney gives the date of the invitation as 31 August 1729. It is Metastasio’s letter of acceptance that has a November date (Memoirs, I. pp. 43–4). c Alessandro nell’ Indie (1729) and Artaserse (1730).

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favourite from the first: the poet considered it the most fortunate of his productions, and was accustomed to say that he owed it more obligations than any other of his dramas; since, even when set to indifferent music, it never failed to meet with success. Metastasio thus made his appearance at Vienna, surrounded by the halo of a recent triumph. He left Rome with pleasure; but he quitted his family with regret: more than all he must have lamented his separation from his generous and affectionate friend, Marianna, the encourager of his youthful timidity, the chief promoter of his fortunate choice of a profession, and his unwearied comforter during adverse circumstances. He went to new scenes and to a new people, and adapted himself at once to the change. He was kindly received by the emperor, and his heart overflowed with gratitude for his condescension and beneficence. It is a strange fact, how little we are contented with negative qualities in our fellow-creatures; and, indeed, how amiability, and even generosity, become slight in our eyes, if unaccompanied by energy, independence, and pride. Metastasio was the most amiable of men: his disposition was affectionate and constant; yet he was derided in his own time for his courtier-like qualities, and the gratitude he naturally evinced towards his / imperial benefactors; and censured for a coldness of heart of which we can find no trace in his writings or actions. There is one circumstance that renders posterity more just, and, in particular, induces those who write his biography to regard him with a favourable eye: this is the publication of his letters. We possess a series from the age of thirty to that of eighty-four, when he died, which let us into the secrets of his heart, and display his good sense, his friendly disposition, his justice, and the ready sympathy that he afforded to those to whom he was attached, in a more undisguised manner than could be known to his contemporaries. These letters prepossess the reader in his favour; and, while the biographer finds few events to record, and little of misfortune or error to mark his pages with high-wrought interest, he may envy the tranquil career of the fortunate poet, and wish that fate had made him the friend of such a man. Metastasio entered on his employments at Vienna in the year 1730, at the age of thirty-two. He took up his abode in the house of Niccolo Martinetz,a who held a place in the court of the apostolic nuncio, and with whom he remained to the end of his life. The dramas that he brought out during the year succeeding to his arrival were eminently successful. These were “Adriano,” and “Demetrio;” and, during the three following, he wrote the “Olimpiade,” “Demoofonte,” and “Issipile.”b Each, as it appeared, excited still renewed admiration and applause. After the representation of “Issipile,” the emperor broke through his habitual majestic a Niccolò Martinez, father of Marianne Martinez (1744–1812), Austrian composer and vocalist, who studied under composer Christoph Willibald von Gluck (1714–87). Burney is Mary Shelley's source for the spelling ‘Martinetz’. b Adriano in Siria (Hadrian in Syria) (1732) on the subject of Emperor Hadrian and his conquest over his passions; Demetrio (1731) on the theme of duty and sacrifice; L’Olimpiade (1733) on the sacrifices of friendship; Demoofonte (1733) on marital affections; Issipile (1732) in which the heroine risks her life and the life of her paramour to save her father.

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reserve, and expressed his satisfaction to the poet, who was enraptured by the unusual condescension. His imperial master soon after testified his approbation in a more solid manner, by bestowing on him the place of treasurer to the province of Cosenza in Naples, worth annually 350 sequins. Unfortunately, the war of the Spanish succession deprived him of this income, after he had enjoyed it but for a few years.a The poet’s heart and soul were in his profession, and his operas were written with that fervent and exalted / spirit which marks the compositions of genius; while his modesty engendered doubts concerning their reception, which were delightfully dissipated by the triumph of their success. His feelings are all ingenuously expressed in his letters to Marianna Bulgarelli, who, together with her husband, still remained at Rome with the poet’s family. “I did not believe,” he writes, “that I should have been able to send you the good news I now give – I was so entirely prepared for the contrary. My Demetrio was brought out last Sunday, and with so great success, that the old people here assure me they never witnessed such universal applause. The audience wept at the Addiob – my august master was not unmoved – and, notwithstanding the respect paid to the imperial presence, the public could not restrain themselves from giving marks of applause. My enemies have become my applauders. I cannot express my surprise, for this opera is so delicately touched, without any of that strong colouring that strikes at once, that I feared that it was not adapted to the national taste. I was mistaken – every one seems to understand it, and passages are recited in conversation, as if it were written in German.”c While composing the “Olimpiade,” he thus addresses his friend: – “Here is a moral sonnet which I wrote in the midst of a pathetic scene, that moved me as I wrote it: so that, smiling at myself, when I found my eyes humid from pity at a fictitious disaster, invented by myself, I expressed my feelings in the sonnet I send. The idea does not displease me; and I did not choose to lose it, as it will serve as an incitement for my piety.”d The thought of the sonnet is, that, while he smiles at himself for weeping over dreams and fables of his own invention, he may remember that every thing that he fears and hopes is equally fictitious, – that all is false, his existence a delirium, and his whole life a dream; – a Mary Shelley apparently mistakes the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) for the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–8). After the death of the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI in 1740, the succession of his daughter Maria Theresa (1717–80) was contested by several competing interests, notably Frederick II (‘the Great’), King of Prussia (1712– 86). b The final aria of an opera; another example of Mary Shelley’s preference for retaining the precision of the Italian. c Letter of 10 Nov. 1731, adapted with substantial changes from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 75–6. d Letter of 6 June 1732, adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 84–5; the sonnet was ‘Sogni, e favole io fingo, eppure in carte’. Mary Shelley’s attention to this sonnet is in keeping with both Shelleys’ fascination with the concept of life as a dream; see ‘Calderon’ in Spanish Lives for her admiration of the drama and the auto of La vida e sueño.

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and it ends with a prayer that he may awaken and find repose in the bosom of truth. Again, he writes, “Will you suggest the subject of an opera? Yes or no? I am in an abyss of doubt. / Oh! do not laugh, and say that the disease is incurable; for indeed, the choice of a subject merits all this inquietude and scepticism. It is my lot to be forced to make a choice, and I cannot avoid it, otherwise I should continue to doubt until the day of judgment, and then begin again. Read the third scene of the third act of my ‘Adrian;’ remark the character which the emperor gives of himself, and you will see my own.* From this you may conclude, that I know my faults, but not that I can correct them. This pertinacity in a fault, which torments me without the recompence of any pleasure, and which I clearly perceive, without being able to remedy, makes me often reflect on the tyranny which the body exercises over the mind. If my understanding is convinced, when reasoning calmly, that this excess of indecision is a troublesome, tormenting, and useless vice, and an obstacle to the execution of any design, why do I not get rid of it? Why not abide by a resolution, so often taken, to doubt no more? The answer is clear; that the mechanical constitution of the soul’s imperfect habitation gives a false colouring to objects before they reach it, as rays of the sun appear yellow or green or red, according to the hue of the substance which they traverse to meet our eyes. Hence it is clear, that men for the most part do not act from reason, but from mechanical impulse, subsequently adapting, by the force of their understanding, / their reason to their actions, so that the cleverest frequently appear the most reasonable. Do not get weary, because I play the philosopher with * “Ah, tu non sai Qual guerra di pensieri Agita l’ alma mia. *

*

*

*

Trovo per tutto Qualche scoglio a temer. Scelgo, mi pento; Poi d’ essermi pentito Mi ritorno a pentir. Mi stanco intanto Nel lungo dubitar, tal che dal male Il ben più non distinguo: alfin mi veggio Stetto dal tempo, e mi risolvo al peggio.” “Ah, thou knowest not the war of struggling thoughts That agitates my soul. I find in all Some peril still to dread. I choose; and then, My choice repent – and then again regret Having repented; while protracted doubt Wearies my mind, so that the ill from good No longer I distinguish; till at length The flight of time impels me to the worst.”a a

Adriano, III. iii. 18–20, 23–30. Burney has noted the same extract, but Mary Shelley retranslates from the Italian and does not adopt Burney’s rendering.

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July 4. 1733.

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you; I have none else with whom to play it; and doing it thus by letter, I call to mind conversations of this kind, which made us spend so many happy hours together. – O, how much more matter for such has my experience in the world given me! We will again talk on these subjects, if fortune does not, through some caprice, entangle the thread of my honourable but laborious life.”a A few months after fortune cut, rather than entangled, the thread of these prospects; Marianna died, and, true to her feelings of friendship* to the end, she left the poet heir to her possessions, to the amount of thirty thousand crowns. Metastasio writes thus to his brother, on receiving this sad intelligence:– “In the agitation I feel from the unexpected death of the poor and generous Marianna, I cannot long dilate. I can only say, that my honour and my conscience have both induced me to renounce her bequest in favour of her husband. I owe it to the world to undeceive it from a great mistake, – that of fancying that my friendship was founded on avarice and interested motives. I have no right to take advantage of the partiality of my poor friend to the injury of her husband, and God will by some other means make up for what I now renounce. I need nothing for myself; I possess sufficient at Rome to maintain my family in decency, and if Providence preserves to me my property in Naples, I will give my / relations other marks of my affection, and think seriously of you in particular. Communicate my resolution to my father, as I have not time to write to him. Assure him of my intention always to contribute as heretofore to his comfort, and even to increase my assistance, if my Neapolitan income does not fail me. In short, make him enter into my feelings, so that he shall not imbitter them by disapproving of my honest and Christian determination. “You will continue to live with signor Bulgarelli, who will, I hope, display towards you that friendly kindness which my conduct with regard to him deserves. All will go on as before; only poor Marianna will never return, nor can I hope for any consolation, and the rest of my life will be insipid and painful.”b “I feel,” he wrote to another friend on this occasion, “as if I were in the world as in an unpeopled solitude; desolate as a man would feel, if, transported in his sleep among the Chinese or Tartars, he should, on awakening, find himself among * We have made no remark on the nature of this kind-hearted and generous woman’s attachment. In Italy it is customary to look on such as formed by friendship only, and to consider that they are rendered respectable by constancy. The Italians lavish the greatest praise on Marianna Bulgarelli for her perception of the poet’s merits, her zeal in persuading him to, and assisting him in, his arduous career; and the disinterested affection which caused her at once to make a sacrifice of her own feelings, and to advise his journey to Vienna. Her errors are those of her country. Any one who has visited Italy must at once censure, and deeply deplore, the social system there carried on – a system which blights the affections, degrades the moral feeling, and causes almost universal unhappiness. But it is unjust to heap the censure of a system belonging to a whole country, and carried on for centuries, on the head of an individual, whose virtues, we may presume to say, redeemed an error, the very existence of which is, after all, uncertain. a

Letter of 4 July 1733, adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 94–7. Letter of 13 Mar. 1734, addressed to Leopold Trapassi, adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 106–8. b

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a people whose language, manners, and customs are alike unknown to him. In the midst of such fancies, so much reason remains, as permits me to be aware how without foundation they are, and how produced; but reflection has not yet sufficed to dissipate them. You will have heard that I have renounced the bequest. I know not whether this renunciation will be approved of by all, but I know that neither my honour nor my conscience permit me to take advantage of the excessive partiality of a woman to the injury of her relations, and that the want of the riches which I refuse, is more tolerable than the shame which they would produce in me.”a Metastasio was, with his accustomed modesty, disturbed by the fear, lest his honourable conduct would be disapproved of by his friends and the world; and he was agreeably surprised when, on the contrary, it met with the general approbation it deserved. “I should be insincere,” he writes to the same friend, “if, affecting philosophy, I pretended to be annoyed by the kind approval / which my country has universally yielded to my renunciation of Marianna’s bequest. It delights me in the first place, and like a vow, confirms me in my opinion of the justice of the act; and in the second, it surprises me, as being the testimony of the affection of so great a mother for the least of her sons.”b This, during the space of ten years, from the time of his first arrival in Vienna, was the only event that disturbed Metastasio’s life. These ten years are the period during which his poetic powers flourished most vigorously, and during which his best as well as the greater number of his works were produced. The favour they met confirmed his situation at court, while they caused him to labour unintermittingly. It is difficult to give one not versed in the Italian language a correct idea of the peculiar merits of his poetry, and the excellences of his dramas. They are not absolute tragedies: their happy conclusions, the introduction of airs, and their being compressed into three acts, give them a lightness and a brevity unlike the heavier march of tragedy. They are to a great degree ideal, and yet possess the interest which passion and plot, described and developed with masterly skill, necessarily impart. His command of language is singularly great, and he adapted poetic diction to dramatic dialogue with wonderful felicity. A long and profound study of the genius of his native tongue gave him such extreme facility, that the perfection of art takes the guise of the most unadorned nature; and the flow and clearness of his verses so excite our sympathy, as to make us feel as if the thoughts and sentiments which we find in his pages were the spontaneous growth of our own minds. The magic of his style renders sensible and distinct the most delicate and evanescent feelings, so that it has been remarked*,c that many of the * Baretti. a

Letter of 3 Apr. 1734, adapted from Burney, Memoirs, I. pp. 108–10. Letter of 22 May 1734, from the same extract given in Burney, Memoirs, I. p. 110. c By Giuseppe Marco Antonio Baretti (1719–89), author of Poesie del Signor Abbate Pietro Metastasio (1773), as well as various other works on Italian literature of the 18th century; see ‘Monti’. b

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movements of the human soul, which the ablest writers have scarcely been able to indicate in prose, and which, from their subtlety, are almost hidden from our consciousness, are brought home / to us in his verses with a lucid felicity of expression, that leaves no portion of them either obscure or vague. He thus formed a language peculiarly his own. In his airs the words flow in so unforced a manner and with such extreme propriety, that they appear to place themselves: not one can be changed, not one omitted. There is no pedantry, no affectation; simplicity is his principal charm; it seems as if a child might utter them, – they are so unstudied; and yet no other poet possesses to an equal degree the art of clothing his ideas with the same easy grace. When we reflect on the singular perfection of his style, we are not surprised that he preserved it with the most jealous watchfulness. He was careful not to accustom his mind to the use of any language except Italian, and never knew more of German than the few words “sufficient,” as he forcibly expresses it, “to save his life.”a Many nobles of Vienna paid him the compliment of learning his language for the sake of conversing with him, and Italian being in common use among the well-educated, he did not lose so much as might be expected: yet he must have felt the privation. He was right, however, in adhering to his resolution. He was settled at Vienna for life, while at the same time his present occupation and his future glory depended on his preserving uninjured that delicacy of taste, and felicity of expression in his native language, which characterises his compositions. But to return to his operas. He himself has said, that if he were forced to select one of his dramas to be preserved, while all the rest were annihilated, he should fix upon “Attilio Regulo.” The principal action of this play, founded on the well-known heroism of Regulus, in dissuading his countrymen from an exchange of prisoners, and his consequent return to servitude and a cruel death in Carthage, is conducted with dignity and pathos.b But the interest of the piece is somewhat marred by an underplot, and the airs interspersed are not among his best. Perhaps / we are inclined to give the preference among them to “Themistocles:” the dignity of the subject raises it to this pre-eminence; but in pathos, tenderness, and impassioned dialogue, the “Olimpiade” is unequalled. Devoted friendship forms the action; the personages are placed in the most interesting situations, and the language is sustained to the height of those emotions which the clash of heroic feelings would inspire. There are scenes in “Demofoonte” as fine as any to be found in Metastasio, but there is a reduplication of plot which mars the unity of the action; as, after deeply syma

Following Burney (Memoirs, III. 136–7), who refers the reader to his earlier Musical Tour through Germany, published as The Present State of Music in Germany, the Netherlands, and United Provinces (1773), in which he recorded his conversations with Metastasio at Vienna in 1772. b Attilio Regulo (1740), on Marcus Atilius Regulus (fl. 3rd century BC), Roman general, who had previously pledged his word to his Carthaginian captors that he would return to them if he failed to persuade the Roman senate to the terms required. On Metastasio’s high estimation of the opera, see Burney, Memoirs, III, p. 309.

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pathising with the hero in his fears concerning his wife’s fate, through nearly four acts, we are somewhat exhausted, and cannot well reawaken other sentiments, to mourn over the relationship that he imagines that he has discovered to exist between them. Voltaire and others have praised the scene between Titus and Sestus in the “Clemenza di Tito,” as surpassing the representation of any similar struggle of feeling in any other dramatic poet; and the airs in that piece are among his happiest compositions.a It was the poet’s aim and pleasure, in all his writings, to make virtue attractive, and to paint patriotism, self-sacrifice and the best affections of the soul, in glowing and alluring colours. This gives a great charm to his dramas. We live among a better race, and yet the sorrows and passions and errors of the personages are represented in a manner to call forth our liveliest sympathy. A heartfelt pathos reigns throughout, and if passages of sublimity are rare (though there are several which merit that name), the elevated moral feeling acts on our minds to prevent the enervating influence of mere tenderness and grief.*/ * There is a curious instance in Metastasio of a poet using the same image adopted by a preceding writer, which yet, it is probable, that the later one had not read. The explanation may be, that both drew it from an ancient writer; but we have been unable to find it. The passages are subjoined as, if both are unborrowed, it forms a curious though natural coincidence of thought. And as goodly cedars, Rent from Oeta by a sweeping tempest, Jointed again, and made tall masts, defy Those angry winds that split ’em, so will I New pieced again, And made more perfect far, Stand and defy bad fortunes. FLETCHER , Tragedy of “Valentinian.” Spezza il furor del vento Robusta quercia; avezza Di cento verni, e cento L’ ingiurie a tollerar. E se pur cade al suolo Spiega per l’ onde il volo, E con quel vento istesso Va contrastando il mar. Adriano.b a Themistocles (1736); Demofoonte (1733); La Clemenza di Tito (The Clemency of Titus) (1734), whose story focuses on the betrayal of Roman emperor Titus by the lovers Sestus and Vitellia. The Mozart opera La Clemenza di Tito, the libretto adapted from Metastasio’s play by Caterino Mazzolà, seems to have been associated with Jane Williams’s singing by Mary Shelley. Her transcription of the duet ‘Ah perdona’ was recovered, water-stained, from the boat in which P. B. Shelley and Edward Williams drowned. b John Fletcher (1579–1625), English dramatist; his Tragedy of Valentinian (1614, published 1647), V. iii. 33–9, with omissions. An almost identical version occurs in his Bonduca (1614, 1647), I. ii. 184–90. Mary Shelley’s conjecture of a common source may be right. Alexander Dyce glossing Bonduca, without reference to Metastasio, found a parallel passage in an anonymous epigram in The Greek Anthology; see Dyce, ed. The Works of Beaumont and Fletcher, 11 vols (London: Edward Moxon, 1844, vol. V). Metastasio and Fletcher (a good classical

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Besides his dramas, Metastasio composed at this period two canzonetti, which are among the best of his productions. The “Grazie agli inganni tuoi,” or thanks of a lover to his lady for having disenchanted him by her caprices, is written at once with feeling and spirit. The “Partenza” is yet more beautiful.a It was founded on the unfortunate attachment of a Viennese nobleman for a public singer, who at last yielded to the entreaties of his friends, in detaching himself from her, on condition that Metastasio should write some verses of adieu. The lover must have been satisfied, and the lady charmed, despite regret, by the passion, tenderness, and beauty of the poem which celebrates their separation. Metastasio’s tranquil and prosperous life was broken in upon in 1740, by the death of the emperor Charles VI., who fell a victim to either poison or indigestion, after eating mushrooms. The poet was unfeignedly attached to his imperial master, whose moral and religious character was congenial to his own; and the disturbed state of Europe, immediately after, added to his regret. This prince had no son, and his daughter, Maria Teresa, succeeded to him as queen of Bohemia and Hungary. Her husband aspired to the imperial crown; but the influence of France caused the duke of Bavaria to be elected, under the title of Charles VII. This disappointment was not the only misfortune of the queen; the king of Prussia invaded Silesia almost immediately after her father’s death, and Vienna being threatened with a siege, she was obliged to quit it, and to / take refuge in Presburg. After a reign of four years, Charles VII. died, and the husband of Maria Teresa, then grand duke of Tuscany, was elected emperor in the year 1745, under the name of Francis I.: but the war still continued, and its various success, and the disasters, with which it was attended, gave the court little leisure or inclination for amusement, until the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.b On the death of Charles VI., several of the European sovereigns invited Metastasio to their courts, and made him advantageous and honourable offers; but, as Maria Teresa still continued him in the place he held under her father, the poet felt that fidelity and gratitude alike forbade him to change masters during her adversity. His naturally sensitive mind was strongly agitated by the various success of the empress queen’s arms. His susceptibility of disposition did not allow him to regard the course of events with a stoical eye; and to the disquietude he suffered is attributed the bad state of health into which he fell after the year 1745, when he was forty-seven years of age. His malady was chiefly nervous; hysterical affections, and a rush of blood to the head, were brought on by the slightest scholar) both had training in Greek. ‘The fury of the wind breaks the stubborn oak that had been wont to bear the buffets of twice a hundred winters, and yet if it falls to earth it wings its way over the wave and, with that self-same wind, challenges the sea’ (Adriano, I. iii. 8–15). a Grazie a gl’inganni tuoi, properly titled La Libertà (1733); La Partenza (1746). b Charles Albert, Duke of Bavaria (1697–1745), Holy Roman Emperor as Charles VII from 1742–5, during the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–8) was succeeded as Emperor by Francis I (1708–65) husband of the Archduchess Maria Theresa. The peace of Aix-la-Chapelle was signed on 18 Oct. 1748.

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mental exertion, followed by a total temporary inability to write, or even to think: he was thus obliged entirely to suspend his poetic labours; and when he forced himself to them, they bear the mark of a falling off in his powers. It cannot be doubted that this unfortunate state was brought on in a great degree by climate. He was a native of Rome, and, till the age of thirty-two, had resided constantly in the south of Italy. What a dreary contrast did Vienna present to the enchanting land in which he passed his youth! The clear skies, the perpetual summer, the cheerful feelings produced by the habits of a southern life, were injuriously changed for the gloom of the freezing north. The very precautions which the natives take to protect themselves from cold during the interminable winters, the stoves, closed windows, and consequent want of fresh air and healthy exercise, being / in diametrical opposition to the more hardy habits of southern nations, are injurious to the health and spirits of those who are accustomed to regard the “skiey influences”a as friendly instead of inimical to their comfort and well-being. Metastasio never left Germany after he first entered it. A part of his occupation, in the sequel, became the teaching the archduchesses, daughters of Maria Teresa, Italian: this was an office he felt that he could not desert, with any grace, even for a limited number of months. The kindness of the empress in yielding to the total suspension of all theatrical composition on his part, forced on him by ill health, bound him yet more devotedly to her. As he grew older, he became a man of habit, and consequently averse to travelling. It is impossible, however, not to believe, that if he had varied his residence in Germany by occasional visits to his native country, the disease under which he laboured, which embittered though it did not shorten existence, would have been dissipated and cured. Metastasio’s life, we are told, is only to be found in his letters, yet these detail no event; one of them contains, indeed, an offer of marriage to a lady, whose name is omitted: it is well written, and with considerable delicacy of sentiment; but, as he had no acquaintance with the object, and aspired to her alliance on account of her character, and his friendship for her father, his feelings could not be very deeply interested. Many of his letters are addressed to his brother, and they display a warm interest for his family. After the death of Marianna, the management of his affairs in Italy devolved on his relatives, and many are taken up with directions and advice. Leopold, and the rest of Metastasio’s family, fell into the common error of supposing, that since he was in favour at court, the greatest prosperity would flow in upon him. The poet endeavoured to undeceive him: – “Princes and their satellites,” he writes, “have neither the will nor power to confer benefits correspondent to the notions people are pleased to form. I do / not know what definition merit bears among them; and I religiously abstain from inquiring, placing it among those mysteries which are beyond, though not contrary to, our understanding. Following these principles, I do all that is enough to prevent my feeling remorse for sins of omission; but I never allow hope to interfere a

Measure for Measure, III. i. 9.

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in the guidance of my cautious line of conduct. It is a long time since I have ceased to be the dupe of hope, and it would be shameful to become such at our age. Expect less, therefore, on my account, and you will find the scales more even. This letter speaks more freely than any other, as I write only for you, and among other earthly goods, I desire for you the most useful of all, – a clear perception, if not of all, of the greater part of those innumerable errors, contracted through our lamentable education, and our intercourse with fools.”a These sentiments did not float merely on the surface of Metastasio’s mind, – he made them the guides of his actions. As he says, gratitude and duty regulated his conduct, but no servile hunting after greater benefits mingled with the deference he manifested towards those in power. He acted on the defensive in his intercourse with courts, with such consistency of purpose, that he refused the honours chiefly valued there, and declined the various orders, and the title of count, which the emperor Charles VI. had offered to bestow on him. It is from passages such as these, interspersed in his letters, that we can collect the peculiar character of the man – his difference from others – and the mechanism of being that rendered him the individual that he was. Such, Dr. Johnson remarks, is the true end of biography, and he recommends the bringing forward of minute, yet characteristic details, as essential to this style of history;b to follow which precept has been the aim and desire of the writer of these pages. In other letters Metastasio writes concerning his works, and explains his views in the development of his dramas; but he never makes himself the subject-matter without an apology. “Never in my life,” he / writes on one occasion, “did I before write so much concerning myself. I perceive this at the end of my letter, and blush, not because I feel myself guilty of too great self-love, but because I shall appear so to you. Remember that few people distrust themselves to a fault, as I do; and in communicating to you the perfection which I desire to attain, I do not fancy that I am exempt from those defects, to which human nature and my own weakness expose me.”c All his letters to his brother express the most earnest and affectionate interest. It is the more necessary to mention this, as one of the calumnies propagated against him was, an aversion to render service to his relatives. “You know,” he writes to his brother, “that your honour and welfare have always been the objects of my solicitude, and that I never proposed to myself any reward, except the agreeable consciousness that my endeavours to introduce you and sustain you in the career of letters, have not failed of success; if you think that you owe me any gratitude, pay it by increasing my self-satisfaction on this account. You can never show yourself more generous to me than by meriting that esteem which begins to be your due.”d a

According to Burney (Memoirs, I, p. 118) a letter written c. June 1744. A view expressed by Johnson in, for example, The Rambler no 60 (13 Oct. 1750). c Letter of Metastasio to Leopold Trapassi, 12 June 1752. d Letter of 23 Mar. 1743. b

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On the death of their father he writes with great feeling: – “The loss of our poor father did not surprise, while it filled me with the liveliest grief. I measure your sorrow by my own. I feel that it will require time to render me reasonable. I thank you for your fraternal kindness in the midst of your affliction. Dear brother, you now fill the place of a father in his stead: do it worthily, and if there is any thing that I can do to comfort you, demand it from me without reserve: your consolation will produce mine. My poor sisters! – how lost they will feel themselves! take care of them, dear Leopold: reflect how much fewer supports they have than we against the assaults of passion, especially of that feeling which is derived from the most sacred of nature’s laws. Adieu. If I have always / loved you, consider how this affection is augmented by the loss of him who possessed before so large a proportion of it. Let yours increase also.”a His brother distinguished himself afterwards by some writings in favour of religion; and it appears that he even had the design of writing the poet’s Life. Metastasio, while he praised Leopold for occupying himself in a praiseworthy manner, advised him against publishing controversial arguments, which would occasion him to be attacked by the cleverest men of Europe; and which, doubtless, were not stamped with that talent which could insure success. Metastasio, while deprecating the spread of unbelief occasioned by the French philosophers of those days, yet joined with the throng in fearing their attacks, and in flattering Voltaire, – showing in how great awe he stood of the enmity and sarcasm of that wonderful man. It is supposed that Leopold died in 1770, after which date no more letters appear addressed to him. One of the principal correspondents of Metastasio, and to whom his most agreeable letters are addressed, is Farinelli.b The poet and the singer were nearly of the same age; both began their career at Naples at the same time; which causes Metastasio to give his friend the affectionate appellation of his twin. Both met with immediate and complete success; and they formed a friendship, which the letters of the poet prove to have been maintained on his side with sentiments of the warmest affection, and the most active wish to render service. After having met with the greatest applause in the various theatres of Europe, Farinelli was invited to Spain, in 1737, where his voice had the peculiar effect of calming and solacing the accesses of malady to which the king, Philip V., was subject. On this account he was retained at the Spanish court, a large income was settled on him, and he never sang again on the public stage, being, to please the Spanish notions of etiquette, made cavalier of the orders of St. Jago and Calatrava, that he might be / considered of rank sufficient to attend the private hours of the monarch. Philip V. died in 1746, but Farinelli continued in equal favour with his successor. a

Letter of 4 Mar. 1754. Carlo Broschi, known as Farinelli (1705–82), Italian castrato soprano, court singer (1737– 59) to Philip V (1683–1746) and his successor. He was knighted in 1750. This twinship is first noted by Burney (Memoirs, I. 194), who refers to the letter of 26 August 1747 (I. pp. 196–208). This was a recurring theme in Metastasio’s letters to his friend. b

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His prosperity continued till the accession of Charles III., in 1763, when he was ordered to quit Spain, and, with singular cruelty, not permitted to make choice of an abode. At last, Bologna was prescribed to him as the place that would best please the Spanish monarch, – we are not told for what reason, except that Farinelli was as a foreigner in that city, and cut off from all personal intercourse with his friends. An interesting volume might be formed out of Metastasio’s letters to the singer. They are full of enthusiastic friendship; now dwelling on alterations made to operas for the peculiar benefit of Farinelli, – now on more personal topics. Metastasio’s days were clouded by ill health, and his genius impaired through the same cause; but it did not check the overflow of his kind heart, nor injure the happy influence of his contented disposition. It is difficult, however, to select passages, since the interest consists in the openness, friendship, and warmth of the whole, and mere isolated extracts would be devoid of attraction. The whole correspondence is replete with frank exhibitions of the writer’s mind, and the style is remarkable for its vivacity as well as elegance. With the exception of his physical sufferings, which were rather annoying than painful, and that sensibility of character which could not fail to checquer his life with a thousand various emotions, Metastasio’s latter years was singularly prosperous, and perfectly monotonous. A few weeks spent each autumn in Moravia was his only change. The empress kindly excused him from forcing his powers to compose new dramas, and his occupation principally consisted in the easy task of instructing the archduchesses in Italian. When the empress Maria Theresa died, the emperor Joseph II.a continued to him his protection; and the esteem and / even affection in which he was held at the imperial court prevented the death of his benefactress from injuring his fortunes, or disturbing his repose. He filled, however, a place in the public eye which exposed him to a good deal of trouble. As the first Italian poet of the day, each minor aspirant to the laurel sent their verses for his criticism, or rather approval. He has been accused of lavishing praise without moderation or judgment. It is difficult for one author not to flatter other authors, since severity of criticism will be attributed to envy or illhumour; and, besides, the Italian genius is singularly inclined to superlative panegyric. But it may be remarked that, though Metastasio gilds the pill, he never fails, particularly to his friends, to point out the weak points of their works, and to bestow sagacious and valuable observations. When Dr. Burney visited Vienna in 1772, Metastasio was an old man; and his life, uninterrupted by any events, flowed on in one unbroken and quiet stream. “He lives,” writes the doctor, “with the most mechanical regularity, which he suffers none to disturb. He has not dined from home these thirty years. He studies from eight o’clock in the morning till noon. Then he is visited by his acquaintance. He dines at two; and at five receives his most intimate friends. At nine, in a

Joseph II (1741–90), Holy Roman Emperor from 1765–90.

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summer, he goes out in his carriage, pays visits, and sometimes plays at ombre. He returns at ten o’clock, sups, and goes to bed before eleven. In conversation he is constantly cheerful; fanciful, playful, and sometimes poetical; never sarcastic or disputatious; totally devoid of curiosity concerning the public news or private scandal in circulation; the morality of his sentiments resembles that of his life. In confidence with few, but polite to all, his affection to his countrymen is great, and extends to ecclesiastics, painters, musicians, poets, and ministers from the Italian states, who are all sure of his kindness and good offices. I was no less astonished than delighted to find him look so well; / he does not seem more than fifty years of age. There is painted on his countenance the genius, goodness, propriety, and benevolence, which characterise his writings. I could not keep my eyes off his face, – it was so pleasing and worthy of contemplation.”a He thus spent in ease and peace the last years of his life. It has been said that, like Dr. Johnson, he had a great aversion to any allusion being made to death in conversation, and carefully avoided all lugubrious subjects.b He continued to live with his friend Martinetz, whose daughter, Marianne, being educated by Gluck, became a celebrated musician; and in this family he met with that respect, attachment, and attention that rendered old age easy. His last letter was written to Farinelli. He complains of the “dreadful season,” and says, that he “cannot find a friend or acquaintance who does not complain of ill health.” – “We are all equally obliged,” he writes, “to have recourse to resignation. My neighbour prays for me, and I pray for my neighbour; and we all are wishing better health to our afflicted friends. My complaints obstinately defend their posts, and I my patience.”c This letter is dated in March, 1782, and was written but a short time before he died. Though advanced to the age of eighty-four, his death was unexpected, as the vigour of his constitution, and his vivacity and unbroken powers, promised several years more of life; nor did his nervous indispositions threaten dissolution, for they neither interfered with his sleep nor appetite, nor the enjoyment he both conferred and received in his domestic circle. A fever, attended with weakness and loss of speech, and lethargy, carried him off after an illness of only twelve days. He died tranquilly, and without pain, on the 12th of April, 1782. He left the family of Martinetz his heirs to considerable wealth; his property consisting of about 130,000 florins, in addition to many valuables presented to him by sovereign / princes. He was sincerely regretted at Vienna; and Martinetz struck a medal in his honour. Nor was he forgotten in his native country; and the various literary academies of Italy vied with each other in offering poetic testimonials of veneration to his worth and genius. / a

Loosely extracted from Burney, The Present State of Music, I. pp. 231–2, 299–300. An aversion most dramatically recounted in James Boswell (1740–95), The Life of Samuel Johnson (1791), III, ch. 4. c Adapted from Burney, Memoirs, III. pp. 278–80. b

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GOLDONI. 1707–1792. THE life of Goldoni, written by himself,a is, as well as his comedies, a school, not of crabbed philosophy, but of Italian manners, in their gayest, lightest guise. At a time when it is hoped that a change is taking place in the system of society in that country, resulting in a great degree from the concourse of English, it is interesting to observe what they were anterior to the French revolution, and to remark the state of the Italians before they awoke to the sense of their oppression, or, rather, while oppression was in exercise only of the first of its effects – the demoralisation of its victim, before the second stage of its influence, that of producing a noble and impatient disdain of servitude. Carlo Goldoni was born at Venice, in the year 1707, in a large and good house, situated between the bridge of Nomboli and that of Donna Onesta. The Venetians, who, when on land, spend their lives in running up and down the bridges that cross the canals, make them the chief land-marks of their directions. The family of Goldoni came originally from Modena. His grandfather, while studying at Parma, formed an intimacy with two Venetian nobles, who persuaded him to accompany them to Venice; and the death of his father rendering him soon after independent, he established himself in the native city of his friends. He had an employment under government, and was sufficiently rich, but not at all economical. He loved the drama; comedies were played in his own house; the most celebrated actors and singers were at his orders; and he was for ever surrounded by a concourse of theatrical people. His son had married a lady of the / Salvioni family, and resided with his father. Carlo was born in the midst of all the bustle and hilarity attendant on a predilection for actors and acting: his first pleasures were derived from plays; his first recollections were of histrionic gaiety; and his future life retained the colouring imparted by the amusements of his early years. He was the delight of the family. His mother devoted herself to his education, and his father to his amusement. He made a puppet theatre for him, and, with two or three friends, drew the cords and acted plays to the boy’s infinite delight. But a change soon came over this holiday life. His grandfather died, in 1712, from the effects of a cold, caught at an assembly. His extravagance had dissipated his fortune; and, from abundance and luxury, the family fell into the narrowest cira Goldoni, Mémoires de M. Goldoni, pour servir a l’histoire de sa vie et a celle de son théâtre (1787).

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cumstances. The prospects of the father of Goldoni were dark. He had no employment and no profession, and his inherited property was all sold or mortgaged. In the midst of this distress, his wife gave birth to a son: this added to the solicitude of the father; but, unwilling to be the prey of useless gnawing cares, he set out on a visit to Rome, for the sake of diverting his thoughts. His wife remained at home with her sister, and two sons. The second, never a favourite, was put out to nurse; and she devoted herself to Carlo. He was gentle, obedient, and quiet. At the age of four he could read and write and say his catechism; on which they gave him a tutor. He grew to love books, and made progress in grammar, geography, and arithmetic; but the old instinct survived, and plays were his favourite reading. There were a good many in his father’s library; he pored over them at his leisure hours, copied the passages that pleased him most; and, incited by a noble hardihood, at the age of eight, wrote a comedy.a Some laughed at it; his mother scolded and kissed him at the same time; while others insisted that it was too clever to have been written by a child of his age, and that his tutor must have helped him. / Meanwhile his father, instead of returning after a short visit, remained four years at Rome. He had a rich friend there, who received him cordially, lodged him in his own house, and introduced him to Lancisi, physician and private attendant to Clement XI.b He attached himself warmly to Goldoni, who was clever and agreeable, and sought to advance himself. Lancisi advised him to study medicine. The advice was taken. After attending lectures and hospitals for four years at Rome, he took his doctor’s degree; and his patron sent him to Perugia to exercise his profession. He became in vogue in this town: if he were not the best physician in the world, he was an agreeable man, and quickly gained the esteem and friendship of the first families. Thus fortunately situated, he resolved to have his son with him. He does not appear to have thought of inviting his wife also; and the mother and child were separated, to the deep grief of the former. Carlo quitted Venice for the first time, in a felucca.c He disembarked at the mouth of the Marecchia, and it was proposed that he should continue his journey on horseback. Carlo had never seen a horse except at a distance: he was frightened when placed on the saddle, confused when told to hold reins and whip; but, as the novelty wore off, he made acquaintance with this new and strange animal, and fed him with his own hands. On arriving at Perugia he was placed at school. His first trial by the masters, for the purpose of judging what progress he had made in Latin, was infelicitous; he became the ridicule of his companions; his masters conceived a slight opinion of his abilities; his father was in despair, and Carlo fell ill from mortification. The holidays drew near, when it was usual for the scholars to present a Latin a

Detail from Mémoires de Goldoni, I. p. 33; the title of this lost juvenile drama is not known. Giovanni Maria Lansici (1654–1720), Protomedico of the Papal State under Giovanni Francesco Albani, Pope Clement XI (1649–1721). c Felucca, a type of three-masted Mediterranean sailboat. b

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composition, as a specimen of their powers, on which their advancement to a higher class was determined upon. Carlo had no hope of any such promotion. The day came: the master gave out the theme; the pupils wrote. The boy summoned all his powers; he thought of his honour, his father, his / mother; he saw his companions look at him and laugh; rage and shame animated him to redoubled exertions; he felt his memory clear – his thoughts free: he finished, sealed, and delivered his paper before any of his comrades. Eight days after, the school was assembled – the decision announced: Goldoni had the first place – his translation was without a fault. He now received compliments on all sides, and his father was desirous of rewarding him. He was aware of his love for theatricals, and shared it. He assembled a company of young actors in his own house, and erected a theatre. A play was got up, in which Goldoni took the part of prima donna, and was much applauded; but his father told him that, though not devoid of talent, he would never make a good actor, and after experience proved the justice of his decision.a The signora Goldoni bore her husband’s absence very philosophically; but she could not consent to continue separated from her son: she entreated her husband to return; and, on his refusal, removed herself to Perugia. But, accustomed to the soft air of Venice, the climate of that city, placed on the summit of a hill, and surrounded by mountains, disagreed with her: other circumstances tended to disgust her husband with Perugia; and, as soon as Carlo had finished his course of education at the school, they resolved to return to Venice. Passing through Rimini in their way, they were received kindly by a friend, who persuaded them to leave Carlo for the sake of his pursuing his studies under a celebrated professor. His parents embarked for Chiozza. Chiozza is a town twenty-five miles from Venice, built, like that city, upon piles in the midst of the sea; it contains 40,000 inhabitants; the population were divided between rich and poor; the rich wore a wig and a cloak; the poor, a cap and a capote. These last, who were fishermen and sailors, while their wives fabricated lace, had often more money than many individuals of the class named rich. The signora Goldoni took a liking to this place; and her husband was averse to return to Venice till / his circumstances should have become more easy. To further this end, he was obliged to make a journey to Modena: he proposed to his wife to establish herself at Chiozza till his return; and she consented. Carlo, meanwhile, remained at Rimini. He did not like his master, who, bigotted to rules and systems, wearied him to death: he escaped from him, to read Plautus, Terence, Aristophanes, and the fragments of Menander;b and soon the incarnate spirit of drama arriving at Rimini, he was wholly turned from his abstruser studies. A company of actors made their appearance, and Goldoni became familiar with them: he went behind the scenes; joined in their parties of pleasure; and they, being all Venetians, were happy to find a countryman. One a Entire paragraph, and the succeeding episode concerning Chiozza, adapted and translated from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 37–43. b Classical farcical comic dramatists; Menander (342–291 BC).

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Friday it was announced that they were leaving Rimini, and that a boat was engaged to carry them to Chiozza. “To Chiozza!” said Carlo, “My mother is at Chiozza!” – “Come with us, then,” cried the director. “Yes, come with us,” cried the whole company, “come in our boat; you will have a pleasant passage; it will cost you nothing: we shall laugh, dance, and sing, and be as happy as the day is long.” A boy of fourteen could scarcely resist so strong a temptation. His master refused leave, and the friends of his family interfered with objections. There was but one resource: Carlo put two shirts in his pocket, and hurried to hide himself in the boat. It made sail, and he was on his way to Chiozza. The light-hearted rambling life of strolling comedians was alluring beyond measure to a mirthful lad, who loved plays better than any thing in the world. The company consisted of twelve, besides scene-shifters, mechanists, and prompters; there were eight men servants, and four women, two nurses, a quantity of children, dogs, cats, apes, parrots, birds, pigeons, and a lamb. The prima donna was ugly, clever, and cross; the suicidical drowning of her cat diversified the time; and, after a prosperous and merry voyage, the whole cargo, with the exception of poor puss, arrived safe at Chiozza. / The signora Goldoni received her son with a mixture of gladness and scolding, which evinced no violent disapprobation of his truant disposition; but he himself began to regret it, and to reflect seriously on the consequences, when he read a letter just received from his father. Business had taken Goldoni from Modena to Pavia. The governor of Pavia was named the marchese di Goldoni-Vidoni. On hearing of the arrival of a namesake in his town, he sent for him, and invited him to dinner. The governor belonged to one of the best families of Cremona; but he considered that Cremona and Modena were not far distant from each other, and he had the whim of finding out and assisting a poor relation: he promised to get a presentation for Carlo to a college of the university of Pavia, and the father gladly consented to accept it.a He set out to seek his son with this news, and found him sooner than he expected, and was by no means pleased at a scrape which promised little for his future steadiness; but Carlo was penitent, and Goldoni loved actors, and was acquainted with several of this very company in question: so, good easy man! he forgave the runaway, and accompanied him to thank the companions of his voyage. Goldoni’s fame as a physician had spread to Chiozza, and he found it worth his while to establish himself, and to enter upon practice there: while waiting for the presentation for the university of Pavia, he resolved to initiate his son in the rudiments of a profession which he intended him hereafter to pursue. He did not put him to the more difficult part of the medical science; but made him accompany him in his visits to his patients, as the easiest mode of giving him a superficial knowledge. Carlo did not like this plan, though he was forced to submit. But a Mary Shelley briefly summarises Giulio Goldoni’s letter of 17 March 1721, given in Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 44–5.

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passive obedience of will does not conquer the mind: with all his gaiety, the youth was subject to fits of hypochondria and low spirits, and under the paternal discipline he lost his appetite, and grew thin and serious. His mother easily extracted / from him the cause of his dejection, and sought to bring a remedy. She represented to her husband, that the patronage of the marchese Goldoni could be of no possible service to their son in a medical career; while, on the contrary, if they brought him up to the bar, a senator of Milan could without difficulty open to him the road of fortune. She advised his going to study under an uncle at Venice, proposing to accompany him herself, and to stay with him till his removal to Pavia. Goldoni resisted for a long time, but at last he became aware that her representations were reasonable: poor Carlo listened to the discussion with tearful eyes and a beating heart; and his indisposition vanished as soon as his father’s consent was given. Four days after, he and his mother set out for Venice. They were kindly received by signor Paolo Indric, who had married his father’s sister; and Carlo found his home with him perfectly delightful. The study of law was infinitely to be preferred to his father’s medical initiation at Chiozza; he fulfilled his duties with exactitude, and his uncle was satisfied with him.a Meanwhile he enjoyed his residence at Venice. “Oh! la triste ville que Vénice!” Madame de Genlis exclaimed, on entering the sea-paved city.b Scarcely any but a French person would echo her exclamation; and we, who people the palaces and bridges with the shades of Othello, Desdemona, Pierre, and Belvidera,c find a peculiar charm in its strange and beautiful appearance. There is something charming to the imagination in the wide-spread lagunes, in the palaces rising from the waves, the sea that flows through the streets, and the sombrelooking but luxurious gondolas: no picture, no description, can convey an idea of Venice, that is, of the impression made by its singular aspect, and the modes and machinery of daily life – dissimilar to those of every other city in the world. The young Goldoni, as a native, yet returning to it after so long an absence, was enchanted by the novelty of all he saw. His stay, however, was short; the presentation to a College at / Pavia arrived: he was forced to quit Venice; and, after a hurried visit to Chiozza to join his father, they set out together. On arriving at Milan, several obstacles presented themselves to impede his entrance into the university, which, being under clerical jurisdiction, required a number of attestations and documents, with which the travellers were wholly unprovided, and which could only be obtained at Venice. Signora Goldoni hastened thither to get them, while the father and son enjoyed themselves at Milan, hospitably entertained by their kind and noble soi-distant relation; till, the a

Entire paragraph adapted from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 49–50. Stéphanie Félicité Ducrest de St-Albans, Countess of Genlis (1746–1830), French author; here citing her Mémoires (1825), III, p. 25 (see also MWSN, vol. 8, p. 282). c Othello and Desdemona, characters from Shakespeare’s Othello, the Moor of Venice (1604); Pierre and Belvidera, characters from Thomas Otway’s Venice Preserv’d (1682). b

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necessary papers having arrived, they pursued their way to Pavia, and Goldoni left his son at his college. The university of Pavia was on a more expensive and luxurious footing than is usual in Italy, and dissipation and liberty were the order of the day. The students were regarded in the town like officers in garrison: the men hated, and the women welcomed them; while the studies principally followed up were dancing, fencing, music, and games of hazard: the latter were prohibited, and, therefore, the more sought after. Carlo’s youth, gaiety, and Venetian dialect pleased generally; and he easily suffered himself to be seduced from study to pleasure. His success caused him to make many enemies among his fellow-students, augmented by the distinction derived from the kindness of the marchese Goldoni; still he passed two years happily enough, returning to Chiozza during the vacations, and spending his time between unforced studies and pleasant society. But misfortune was at hand to blight his happiness. The time approached when he was to take his degree; and this very moment was seized upon by his college enemies to ensure his disgrace. He had been admitted into the university at sixteen: the legal age was eighteen. He was a boy among men, and an easy prey. A serious quarrel arose between the inhabitants of Pavia and the students: four among the latter, who had conspired to / ruin poor Carlo, persuaded him to revenge himself and his comrades by a satire. The verses of which he was the author attacked and insulted many families: his four false friends dispersed them and betrayed him: the outcry was prodigious; and, despite every exertion made by his protectors, Goldoni was expelled.a The youth repented very bitterly at once his imprudence and the easiness of his disposition. Shame and regret overwhelmed him, and the idea of his parents’ reproaches filled him with terror. To escape these he meditated plans of flight, resolving to seek his fortunes at Rome. It appeared of slight import to him that he should go on foot without money or resources, so that he could fly from those who were justly offended. This idea was frustrated by the vigilance of those about him: he was sent back to his family under the especial care of the master of the boat, who never lost sight of him; and a good monk, who was a passenger with him, comforted him by his pious but kind admonitions. His mother’s affection and his father’s easiness of nature led them to pardon his fault, from which he had suffered severely enough. A few days after he accompanied his father to Friuli. Goldoni exercised his profession as physician at Udine, and Carlo studied the law under an eminent advocate; after a short time, the former proceeded to Gorizia, to the house of count Landieri, lieutenantgeneral of the army of the emperor Charles VI.b The count was ill, and having heard of the skill of Goldoni, sent for him. Carlo, left behind at Udine, got into several youthful scrapes, very little to his credit: he found himself deceived and a

Goldoni was expelled from Ghislieri College at the University of Pavia for the distribution of his poem Il Colosso (now lost). b Francesco Antonio di Landieri (1663–1729); Friuli, Udine, and Gorizia or Goritz are all in NE Italy.

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betrayed; and, fearing a dangerous termination, he hurried away, and found his father at Vispack, where count Landieri had a mansion. They remained there for some months, till the count was convalescent, hospitably entertained, and very happy. A dramatic puppet-show was got up, which exercised the theatrical talents of Carlo; and afterwards he made a tour to Laubeck, Gratz, and Trieste, with the count’s secretary.a On his / return to Vispack, he and his father set off on their journey home, the latter having happily effected the cure of his patient, who rewarded him handsomely for his trouble. “We arrived at Chiozza,” said Goldoni, “and were received as a fond mother receives a son, and a wife a beloved husband, after a long absence. I was delighted to see again a virtuous mother who was tenderly attached to me. After having been deceived and betrayed, I needed the consolation of being loved. This, indeed, was another species of attachment, but, until I felt a virtuous and engrossing passion, my mother’s love formed my greatest happiness.” Soon after his arrival at Chiozza, his father received a letter from a cousin at Modena, to inform him that the duke of that state had revived an ancient decree, which forbade the possessor of any landed property within it, to absent himself without an express permission from the sovereign, which it was very expensive to obtain. This relation added, that his best course would be to send his son to Modena, which would satisfy the law, and he might there pursue his legal studies. The advice was followed, and the youth sent to Modena.b He went by water; and the master of the boat was a very religious man: each evening he invited the passengers to join him in prayers. When Goldoni arrived at Modena, this man, whose name was Bastia, asked him where he meant to lodge, and, learning that he had his lodgings to seek, asked him to select his house as his place of abode; and, with the assent of his cousin, who had been the cause of his journey, Goldoni agreed to the proposal. He found that the family of Bastia was equally devout with himself; father, sons, and daughters, all were given up to pious exercises. No great amusement could be derived from their society; but, as they were respectable people, and lived in concord, Goldoni was satisfied and happy under their roof. He grew as religiously inclined as themselves, while, as is often the case in youth, this sentiment was accompanied by feelings of despondency and even terror. One day he happened / to pass through the public square while an unfortunate churchman was doing public penance for his conduct towards a female penitent. The sight struck him in the most painful manner: he brought it home to his own heart; he thought of his past life, his expulsion from college, his adventures in Friuli: the world seemed beset with multiplied dangers, and there was no refuge from them, except in total retirement. He wrote to his parents to express a part of these feelings, and to declare his resolve of entering the order of Capuchin monks. His parents acted on this occasion with prudence: they were both, especially his mother, pious, but without bigotry. They wrote in a b

A tour through the Austrian provinces of the north-east Italian peninsula. Paragraph and quotation above following Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 87–9.

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answer, that he should do exactly as he pleased, but in the mean time entreated him to return to them without delay. He immediately obeyed: he was received with caresses, and no opposition was made to his project. His father proposed to take him to Venice, and he refused with that boldness which the fancy of acting in immediate obedience to God, alone inspires; but, on being told that he was to be introduced to the guardian of the Capuchins, he consented. They went to Venice, visited their relations and friends, dining with one and supping with another: he was even tricked into going to the theatre. His low spirits and ascetic vocation vanished insensibly, and he returned to Chiozza cured of every wish to shut himself up in a cloister. It became matter of anxiety to know what to do with him. His brother, an adventurous, gallant youth, had entered the army, and was in garrison.a But Carlo was nothing; the plaything of fortune, all the expense gone to on his account had been of no avail; the only resource seemed to be to obtain an employment under government; and, at the moment when it appeared impossible to succeed in so doing, one presented itself to them. The republic of Venice governed the towns under their dominion through an officer called a podestà, who had under him a chancellor, or criminal judge, who was assisted in his duties by a vice-chancellor, or, as he was / called, a coadjutor; and where there was much to do, this officer also had an assistant. These places were more or less lucrative, but were always desirable, since they included the privilege of dining at the governor’s table, and making one of his society. The father of Goldoni was intimately acquainted with the governor of Chiozza, and with the judge, and through their means Carlo was employed to assist the coadjutor. Goldoni was not of a noble and enterprising disposition, but he possessed great integrity, and that habit of scrupulously examining his own motives, and those of others, which makes a part of the nature of one whose bent it was to enter into and describe character. On this occasion he was earnest to do his duty, and interested to observe the variety of human action and motive, which presented themselves to his enquiry in the exercise of his office as assistant to the criminal judge. He acquitted himself to the satisfaction of his superiors; and, when the governor of Chiozza was changed, and the chancellor was appointed to go to Feltri, the latter offered Goldoni the place of coadjutor, which was eagerly accepted. Feltri is at a distance of 180 miles from Venice, high up among the mountains, whose snows besiege it during the winter, and block up the streets and houses. Goldoni found plenty of amusement here, for there was a company of comedians; and he also fell in love. He assures us that this was his first passion, and a sincere one; but the future writer of comedies had not that tenderness and passion of soul which creates a profound and engrossing attachment.b He made parties of pleasure for the lovely girl, who returned his affection, and got up a tragedy for her a b

Giampaolo Goldoni (b. 1709), the poet’s younger brother. Following Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 97.

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amusement, which did not amuse her at all; for, too bashful to act herself, with all the delicacy of love, she was pained at witnessing her lover’s familiar conduct with other women. “Poor girl!” exclaims Goldoni, with naïveté; “she loved me tenderly and sincerely, and I loved her with all my heart; and I may say that she was the first person for whom I felt / a sincere attachment. She was desirous of marrying me; and would have become my wife, but for some considerations which prevented my proposing for her.”a These considerations were a notion he formed that her beauty was of a delicate, evanescent species, and that she would soon fade and become old, while he remained in the pride of youth. Such was the force of his first passion, that it was at once overcome by selfish foresight, and the habit, innate in him, of dissecting the materials of life, despoiling them of their sunny gloss, and handling the most frail, yet precious, among them with a roughness that iron and rock could not have resisted. This dry, analytical spirit is very apparent in his comedies: he dignifies it with the name of morality and honour; but its root is often in coldness and tameness of feeling and fancy. On his return from Feltri his father had accepted a medical situation at Bagnacavallo, a town of Romagna, near Ravenna. Carlo joined him; but, after a short time, the elder Goldoni fell ill of a malignant fever, and died in the month of March, 1731, when his son was four and twenty years of age. He was sincerely lamented by his wife and son, who wept together over their loss. As soon as the funeral was over, Goldoni accompanied the widow to Venice, and established her with her sister at the house of a relation. She was most anxious to have her son resident with her, and her persuasions, and those of other friends, induced him to yield, and to enter on the profession of barrister at Venice. The profession of advocate at Venice was exceedingly honourable; the first men of the city practised it: but there were 240 registered barristers, and few among them rose to eminence; the rest spent their time in running after briefs. Goldoni, however, was of a sanguine disposition, and did not doubt that he should rank among the most celebrated pleaders at the bar. He calculated how much could be gained, and found that a barrister might make an income of 2000l. a year,b – a large fortune at Venice, which at that time, before it / fell under the Austrians, whose aim is to ruin it by the imposition of a vexatious taxation, was one of the cheapest places in the world.c It is true that the beginning of a forensic career is in all countries trying to the patience; and, while Goldoni indulged in castles in the air with regard to future eminence, he spent his time attending the courts without a brief, or in waiting for clients, who did not appear: still he might hope for better success a

Following Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 99; the young lady is identified as Angélique, and the tragedy was La cantatrice (The Singer) (1730). b Mary Shelley estimates from the Italian currency figures given in Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 110. c After the Napoleonic Wars, Lombardy and Venice were confirmed as provinces of Austria. Mary Shelley is remembering the heavily-taxed Venice in 1818. On her second visit to Venice in 1842 she found an improvement (MWSN, vol. 8, pp. 283–4).

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than the major part of his brethren of the robe, since, during the first six months of his being at the bar, he carried on and won a cause; but his destiny concurred with the genius still unformed and dormant within him to draw him another way. At the very moment of triumph on gaining his suit, and when he might fairly hope for an influx of clients, an incident occurred to destroy his prospects, causing him to form the resolution to quit Venice. He had fallen in love with a lady at Venice, who, though forty years of age, was as fair and beautiful as a girl. She was rich and unmarried: the affection was mutual, and he already looked forward to their union, when the attentions of a noble awakening the ambition of the lady, she jilted him for his patrician rival. This lady had a married sister with two daughters,a one deformed and the other ugly, but not without attraction; she had beautiful eyes, a laughing countenance, and graceful, fascinating manners. She had often deprived her beautiful aunt of lovers, and inspired her with jealousy. She tried to win Goldoni from her; and, on her tergiversation, vengeance induced him to make the niece an offer. Her mother entered into her plans, and the contract of marriage was drawn up and signed; but when the moment came to fulfil it, a variety of doubts presented themselves to Goldoni’s mind. He was himself in debt, and several years must pass before he could hope to make an income at the bar. The mother of his promised bride was wholly unable to fulfil the conditions of the marriage contract, and he found that he should be burdened with the expense of his wife’s family. He consulted his mother, and his own / sense of prudence: he had become very much in love but, in his light heart, every motive and impulse was stronger than the strongest affection: frightened at the prospect before him, he made a sudden determination; paid his debts, threw up his profession, and quitted Venice; leaving a letter for the unfortunate girl’s mother, attributing to her his sudden departure, and promising to return if she would fulfil the conditions of the contract. He received no answer.b Again he was thrown on the world, and all his prospects of future subsistence were centred in a tragedy, called “Amalassunta,”c which he had written in his leisure hours. It has been mentioned how, born amidst theatricals, his early pleasures had all been derived from plays. When he first went to Pavia, he had studied the ancient drama; and, finding that Italy had no theatre, he had already conceived the idea of bestowing one on her, on a more enlarged plan, more intricate as to plot, and more diversified as to character, than those of Plautus and Terence. In the course of his youth, to get up a play was his chief pleasure; and now, with “Amalassunta” in his pocket, he felt sure that his fortune would be made at Milan, at the theatre of which city he intended to offer it; and, with this expectation, his happy disposition caused him easily to forget prospects, friends, a b c

Identified only as Mademoiselle Mar— and her sister Madame St—. Following Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 118–19. Amalassunta (1733), based on the history of the 6th-century Ostrogothic queen.

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love, and disappointments, – all but his mother; while the pleasure of freedom easily consoled him for the loss of his bride. Poor and almost friendless, the first piece of good fortune that happened to him was finding at Bergamo the noble who had been governor at Chiozza when he was vice-chancellor. He presented himself at his palace, and was kindly received. The governor perceiving that he was depressed in spirits, enquired the cause; and Goldoni confessed that he was penniless: his kind protector offered him his purse and a home at his house. Goldoni contented himself with borrowing ten sequins, and, in lieu of the latter offer, asked for letters of introduction at Milan, which were instantly / given him. These served him in good stead in that capital. The Venetian resident received him kindly, asked the object of his journey, and, when Goldoni had recounted his adventure, offered to lend him money, which was declined. “Amalassunta” was the anchor of his hope, and he lost no time in seeking the actors and directors of the theatre. He paid a visit to the first ballerina, whom he had formerly known, and offered to read his opera to her circle of actors, and musicians, and theatrical patrons. His offer was accepted: he took the manuscript from his pocket, and commenced – “Amalassunta!” The chief actor, Caffariello, began to object, in the first place, to so long and ridiculous a name.a Every one joined in the laugh thus raised, except the poor author, who went on to read the list of dramatis personæ. New censure followed the too great number of persons introduced; and, when it was found that the opera commenced by a scene between the two principal actors, he was told that that would never do: the chief singers would never consent to begin during all the bustle of the first entrance of the audience. The criticisms multiplied as he went on, till a kind amateur, count Prata, took him by the hand, and, leading him into another room, asked him to read the opera to him alone. Poor Goldoni consented, and the whole piece was gone through. When finished, the count pointed out its defects, not with regard to plot and situation, but to operatic rules; how he had given airs of passion and interest to secondary personages, and curtailed the first of what they considered their just proportion. The count would have gone on to find more fault, but Goldoni begged him to take no more trouble, and took his leave. He returned, mortified and miserable, to his inn. His first impulse was to burn his unlucky opera. The waiter asked him if he would sup. “No,” he replied, “no supper, only a good fire.” While this was making, he looked over his poor “Amalassunta:” it appeared to him very beautiful, and worthy of a better fate: the actors were in fault, not / it. Yet, after all his pains, his hopes were fallen; and, in a fit of desperation, he cast it on the flaming brands, glad to see it burn, and busy in collecting all the fragments, that none might escape destruction. While thus employed, he began to recollect that no disaster which had yet happened to him, had ever a Gaetano Maiorano Caffarelli (1710–83), Italian male soprano; the ballerina is identified only as Madame Grossatesta. This paragraph is adapted and translated from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 124–6.

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caused him to go to bed supperless. He recalled the waiter, ordered his repast, ate it with a good appetite, and went to bed to sleep till morning. It is no wonder that love could exercise so little power over so well regulated an appetite! The next morning he was obliged to reflect seriously on his desperate situation, and he paid Signor Bartolini,a the Venetian resident, a visit, that he might consult with him. He asked for a private interview, and it was granted; and then he related the occurrences of the previous evening, the impertinent criticisms of the actors, and the decisive judgment passed by count Prata, and ended by declaring that he was totally at a loss what to do. Bartolini laughed at his recital, and asked to see the opera. “The opera?” cried Goldoni, “I have not got it!” – “Where is it, then?” – “I burnt it; and with it my hopes, my possessions, and my whole fortune.” The minister laughed still more at this dénouement, and ended by offering him the situation of gentleman in his palace, with a good suite of rooms. Goldoni now found that he had gained by his loss: without doubt, as he declares himself, he was a lucky man, and it was his own fault whenever he fell into misfortune. Yet he did this so frequently, that the best part of his luck was that cheerful buoyant disposition which never allowed him to be overwhelmed by adversity, and an integrity that always kept him from any dishonourable scrape. “Amalassunta” was burnt, but Goldoni’s predilection for theatricals continued as strong as ever. There arrived at Milan a singular man, named Buonafede Vitali,b who had talents and knowledge enough to practise as a regular physician, but who preferred strolling as a mountebank, under the name of the Anonymous. As a part of the paraphernalia of his trade, he had with him a company / of comedians. Goldoni sought out this man, who availed himself of his protection, to obtain leave for his company to act on the Milanese theatre. There were several good actors among them, but their representations were made on the old Italian plan. Goldoni was particularly scandalised by a travestie of the story of “Belisarius,”c given out as a tragedy; and, to prevent the future degradation of historical names and sentiments, he promised to write a tragedy on the subject, but was interrupted by events of greater moment. The king of Sardinia allying himself with France against the Austrians, in the war of 1733, he sent an army of 15,000 men, to which was added some French troops, to occupy Milan.d That city being too wide in circuit for defence, it was forced to receive the soldiers; who immediately entered on the siege of the citadel. On this event, the Venetian resident was ordered by his government to quit Milan, and to take up his abode at Crema: he had before quarrelled with his a Orazio Bartolini (1690–1765), Grand Chancellor of the Venetian republic after 1746. Quotation in this paragraph from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 127. b Buonafide Vitali (1686–1745), described in Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 127. c Belisarius, a loyal Roman general in the days of the Late Roman empire, whose patriotic service was met with the emperor’s ingratitude. According to legend, he was reduced to streetbeggary. d Charles Emmanuel III, King of Piedmont and Sardinia (b. 1701, rgn 1730–73), was allied with France and Spain during the War of the Polish Succession (1733–8).

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secretary, and he took this opportunity to dismiss him, and to install Goldoni in his place. He was now fully employed, and his situation was at once honourable and lucrative; but soon after he lost the good graces of the minister, though not from any fault of his own. His brother had quitted the Venetian service, and, seeking employment, visited him at Crema. He introduced him to the governor, who gave him the situation of gentleman of his chamber, formerly occupied by Goldoni; but both were violent and irritable, and they did not agree. The resident dismissed his gentleman, and no longer regarded Goldoni with the same favour as heretofore. They had a quarrel; Goldoni asked for his dismission, and set out for Modena, where his mother was residing. The country through which he passed on his way was the seat of war; robbers took occasion of the unsettled state of the country, and the roads were unsafe: Goldoni was the sufferer; the little carriage in which he travelled was attacked by five men, who robbed him of his money, watch, and effects, while he escaped across / the country, glad to preserve the clothes he had on. After running a long way, he came to an avenue of trees, by which flowed a rivulet. He drank of its waters in the hollow of his hand, and then, fatigued in body, but more composed in mind, he proceeded quietly along the avenue, till he encountered some peasants, to whom he related his misfortune, and who in return told him that there were a set of outlaws who took advantage of the war to attack not only travellers, but gentlemen’s seats and cottages; while a number of men of some wealth near, who had formed themselves into a company to purchase the spoils of war, became their accomplices by becoming the purchasers of the stolen goods. “Such,” exclaims Goldoni, “are the miseries of war, which fall alike upon friends and enemies, and ruin the innocent!” The sun was now declining, and the peasants offered Goldoni a part of their supper, of which, notwithstanding his disaster, he partook with appetite. They then guided him to a village, and recommended him to the care of the curate, who received him hospitably. To him he related his adventures, making his manuscript tragedy of “Belisarius,” then in his pocket, the principal hero of the tale. He was invited to read it. The curate, two abbés, and the servants of the house, were his audience; and they all applauded it with enthusiasm. The offers and kindness of these good simple-hearted people filled Goldoni with gratitude. Unwilling, however, to burden them with his maintenance, he hastened to take leave; the curate lent him his horse, and sent his servant with him to defray the expenses of the day’s journey to Brescia.a From Brescia, Goldoni proceeded to Verona. He was in a deplorable situation; he only possessed a few sequins, lent him by an adventurer whom he met by accident at Brescia; but with “Belisarius” in his pocket, he did not fear the enmity of fortune, and “Belisarius” did not prove so false a friend as “Amalassunta.” When at Verona, he went to the celebrated amphitheatre, a portion of which was a Belisario (1734); Mary Shelley adapts the account of Goldoni’s adventure from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, pp. 142–4.

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arranged as a theatre, and here a / drama was about to be performed. To his infinite joy, he discovered in the principal actor a man who had formed one in the companions of the mountebank at Milan, and for whom he had promised to write “Belisarius.”a He instantly went behind the scenes, and was welcomed with joy. He was on the moment installed poet to the company. “Belisarius” was read, approved, and the parts distributed. In the month of September they proceeded to Venice. Goldoni was presented to the proprietor of the theatre, who received him with kindness. On the 24th of November, 1734, he being then twenty-seven years of age, “Belisarius” was acted, and met with the most complete success. All actors in Italy are strollers, and looked upon with a good deal of contempt. Goldoni might have been expected to regret the exchange he had made from the honourable profession of an advocate, for that of poet to a theatre; but his light heart and easy temper were not to be afflicted by trifles of this nature, and the talent that perpetually impelled him to take interest in theatricals, prevented him from feeling degraded by his association with the professors of the art: and their existence and all its vicissitudes bear another aspect under a sunny sky, and amidst a laughter-loving people, unspoilt by pride. Goldoni had much of the spirit of Gil Blasb in his disposition, and possessed in his own person all the talent which belongs, not to the hero of that book, but its author. Several pieces, operas, and interludes of his were brought out; and in the spring he accompanied the actors to Padua and to Friuli, where, leaving them, he returned to Venice to see his mother, who had arrived there from Modena. His success as an author, and the talent he displayed, raised him in the estimation of his fellow-citizens. His relations crowded around him; and he repaid their kindness by relating his adventures to his old uncles and aunts, making those laugh, who had never laughed before. In September the actors returned to Venice, and he recommenced his labours, which were not all literary, but interspersed by those / occasioned by the jealousy of the actors, or rather of the actresses. After the winter season had passed, he consented to accompany the manager to Genoa and Florence, and was glad, without expense, to visit two of the most celebrated cities of Italy. He was delighted with the aspect of Genoa; and the first good fortune that happened to him, was to gain 200 crowns in the lottery; the second, to marry a girl, “who,” he tells us, “was beautiful, virtuous, and prudent, and who, after all he had suffered from the treachery of women, reconciled him to the sex.”c His acquaintance began in the true Italian style: he saw her at an opposite window, and, pleased with her appearance, saluted her. She curtsied, and hastily a

Identified as the actor Gaetano Casali. Alain-René Lesage (1668–1747), French picaresque novelist and author of Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane (History of Gil Blas) (1715–35), describing the social education of a young and spirited valet. Mary Shelley read this in 1818–19 (MWSJ, II, p. 658). c Maria Nicoletta Conio, whom Goldoni married in 1736; translated from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 166. b

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withdrew, nor again presenting herself at the window. His curiosity was thus excited; he made enquiries, and learnt that her father’s name was Conio; that he was a notary, with a large family and small fortune. He contrived to make acquaintance, and within a month asked permission to marry his daughter. The affair was soon concluded: he was married in July; and, omitting the promised visit to Florence, returned to Venice at the beginning of September. Hitherto Goldoni’s pieces had been rifaccimenti of old dramas. “Griselda,” “Don Giovanni,” and “Rinaldo di Mont’ Albano,” were melodramas or tragedies, written in the old style.a But at this time, finding that the company of actors at Venice, through various changes, had become one of great excellence, he began to think the time arrived when he might enter on the reform of the Italian theatre, which he had long meditated: he commenced writing comedies of character, which are the genuine source of the dramatic merit, following the example of Moliere, who had surpassed all ancient models, and even now stands alone, as the first comic writer in the world. “Was I wrong,” he asks, “in presuming to enter upon such an undertaking? for my natural bent leading me to write comedies, excellence in the art was the proper aim of my endeavours.”b / The old comedy in Italy was on a singular system: there were four masks on which all the farcical incidents turned. Pantaloon, a Venetian merchant, who was the father of the heroine; a garrulous, kind-hearted old gentleman. The doctor, a Bolognese, also an old man, whose learning was opposed to Pantaloon’s simplicity: and two Bergamese servants, Brighella and Harlequin. Brighella, a clever rogue; Harlequin, a greedy simpleton; his many-coloured clothes symbolising the poverty that forced a patched garment. The actors who filled these respective parts seldom played any others. It required ready wit and cleverness; for the plot only being sketched, and the scenes indicated, the dialogue was left to their own invention. Of course, no great refinement could be expected: practical tricks and broad jokes were sure to command the laughter and applause of the audience; while, there being in the Italian character something peculiarly adapted to extempore exercises of the intellect, and a vivacity that renders them good actors, many people regarded this rude but amusing effort at drama, as something at once so national and so genuine, as rendered it preferable to the studied productions of the closet. Goldoni, on the contrary, saw farce take place of comedy, and the whole action and conduct of the piece often sacrificed to the petulance of a favourite mask; while no real sentimental interest, nor any comic incident out of the common routine, could be introduced. He proceeded, however, slowly in the reform he meditated. At first writing only the more serious portions of his plays; then the parts of the masks themselves, and only after some time, and at intervals, dispensing with them altogether. Nor, at the time of which we are writing, did he a

Griselda (1735/1775), Don Giovanni (1736/1754), Rinaldo di Mont’ Albano (1736/1754). Jean-Baptiste Poquelin Molière (1622–73); see vol. 3, ‘Molière’; adapted from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 170. b

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bring out any of his best dramas; though those which he did produce were eminently successful. To add to the respectability, and, as he hoped, to the emoluments of his situation, the relations of his wife obtained for him the Genoese consulship at Venice. This office, however, turned out more honourable than / lucrative: no salary attended it, and the fees did not amount to more than 100 crowns a year. To do the republic he served honour, he had taken a better house and increased his number of servants, and found himself considerably embarrassed. To add to these annoyances, his income from Modena failed him; and he came to a resolution to make a journey, with the triple object of bringing out a comedy with a part for a favourite actress at Bologna, to solicit a salary at Genoa, and to look after his possessions at Modena: the first object failed before he set out, through the sudden death of the actress, while an unexpected disaster rendered the two latter even more imperative than before. His brother, who was out of employ, introduced to him a Ragusana of agreeable and gentlemanly manners. He asserted that he was sent on the secret service of raising a regiment of 2000 men for his state. He showed his commission as colonel, offered a company to Goldoni’s brother, and the office of auditor, or judge, to the author. Goldoni, always easy-tempered and credulous, though a little frightened by the danger incurred if the Venetian state should come to suspect these proceedings, was soon talked over, and, on an alleged emergency, lent the man a large sum of money. The fellow was an adventurer: he ran off with the money, and left Goldoni so disagreeably implicated by his tricks, that he judged that his only resource was to quit Venice on the instant. The Ragusan had disappeared on the 15th of September, and on the 18th of the same month Goldoni and his wife embarked for Bologna. Their journey was full of “many accidents of flood and field.”b The melancholy and thoughtfulness occasioned by his disaster vanished under the influence of his happy temperament; and his wife was even better skilled than he in that best philosophy which makes light of worldly misfortunes. On their arrival at Bologna, he was surrounded by the directors of theatres, who asked for comedies. He gave them three, and wrote another on the subject of the Ragusan swindler, in which he / comforted himself, and dissipated the rest of his regrets, by representing to the life all the actors in that too real drama. This task concluded, he was about to proceed to Modena, when he heard that the duke was absent at the Spanish camp at Rimini, and that his best chance of pursuing his claims was to accompany Ferramonti, a celebrated pantaloon, to the latter town; where, in default of justice being done him by his sovereign, he might have a further resource in the company of actors to which this comedian belonged. This latter staff turned out the stoutest of the two: the duke changed the conversation when Goldoni mentioned his claims on the ducal bank; but as long as the carnival lasted, he supplied the actors a b

A citizen of Ragusa, on the Dalmatian coast. Othello, I. iii. 35: ‘moving accidents by flood and field’.

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with dramas, and lived a comfortable life at Rimini. At length it became necessary to depart for Genoa. The armies which then occupied the country rendered it impossible to get horses; and he and some other travellers agreed to embark for Pesaro. The sea was high, the passengers suffered: weary of their sea voyage, they disembarked half way, at Cattolica, and, leaving their effects to the care of servants, proceeded in a cart to Pesaro. A new misfortune here awaited him. The Spanish army had changed quarters, and were replaced by their enemies, the Austrians. The soldiers entered Cattolica, and seized on the boat, the servants, and the effects of the unlucky passengers. All was lost: trunks and band-boxes, dresses and jewels, were the spoil of the ravagers: even the signora Goldoni was moved by so overwhelming a calamity: but some remedy was to be found. Goldoni resolved to apply in person to the Austrian officers for the restitution of his property; and his wife, with great cheerfulness, prepared to accompany him. Pesaro is ten miles distant from Cattolica: with great difficulty they hired a carriage to take them. The vetturino was very averse to the job, but showed no signs of discontent. When three miles from Pesaro, the pair alighted to walk a short distance; and the cunning fellow, seizing the opportunity, turned his horses’ heads, and gallopped / back to Pesaro, leaving them in the middle of the road. No house, no living being was to be seen; the inhabitants had fled on the arrival of the armies. Signora Goldoni began to cry. “Courage!” said the husband; “it is but six miles to Cattolica: we are young and strong; it will not do to turn back; let us walk on.” The journey was not, however, an easy one; the road was crossed by several torrents, and the bridges were broken. Goldoni carried his wife over the swollen streams; but they had been obliged to make a circuit in search of a ford, and found themselves fatigued beyond measure. At length they arrived at the first advanced post of the Austrians. Goldoni presented the passport with which he came provided, and they were conducted to the commanding officer. The colonel at first took them for two wandering pedestrians; but, reading the passport, he made them sit down, and, looking kindly on them, said: “What, are you signor Goldoni?” – “Alas! Yes,” replied the other. “Author of ‘Belisarius?’” – “I am indeed.” – “And this lady is the signora Goldoni?” – “She is the last good I possess in the world.” – “I hear you came on foot.” – “Alas! sir, you heard the truth.” Goldoni now explained the nature of his expedition, and the officer reassured him: he restored his luggage, and liberated his servant, and, happy in the recovery of their property, Goldoni and his wife returned to Rimini.a After spending some weeks happily in this town, he set out on a tour through Tuscany, meaning to proceed afterwards to Genoa. He visited Florence, Siena, Volterra, and then arrived at Pisa. While walking about to see the “lions”b of this town, he passed by a palace, and, perceiving that a great concourse of people were a b

Adapted from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 189. Chief sights; in Pisa these would be the Duomo, the Campo Santo and the Leaning Tower.

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entering its gates, he looked through, and saw a large court, and the company all seated in a circle round. He asked a servant in livery, who waited, what the occasion was of so large an assembly. “That assembly,” replied the man, “is a colony of the Arcadians of Rome, called the Alphean colony; that is, the colony of Alpheus, a celebrated river of Greece, which flows near the ancient Pisa of / Aulis.” Goldoni asked if he might make one of the audience, and the servant ushered him to a seat. After a variety of pieces of poetry had been read, he sent the servant round to ask if a stranger might be permitted to recite; and, on being answered in the affirmative, he repeated an old sonnet of his, which, with a little alteration, seemed extemporised à propos for the occasion. The Pisans, charmed at once by the compliment and the talent of the stranger, crowded round him. He made many acquaintances, was invited to their houses, and their cordial kindness seemed at one time to change the whole tenour of his life for ever.a For, invited and pressed by them, and promised protection and patronage, he became a pleader once again, and for three years practised at the Pisan bar. Briefs flowed in, clients were numerous, all were satisfied, and Goldoni, content with his lot, abjured the theatre. He was too well known to be without temptations to break his resolution: actors wrote to him for plays, and he tried to refuse, and then, yielding to the desire, he wrote pieces for them in hours borrowed from sleep, and gave his days entire to his profession. Still law and the drama contended for him, and his heart was with the latter, though he tried to turn his back on her, and to devote himself to her rival. But he lost the game. A manager, named Mendebac, arrived at Pisa with a company.b Goldoni went to see the representations. They acted his comedy of “La Donna di Garbo,” which he considered his best piece: he had written it for a favourite actress; but she died, and he had never seen it acted. The wife of the manager was young, beautiful, and a good performer, and she took the part of the Donna di Garbo. It is difficult exactly to translate, in one word, this expression: as used by the Tuscans it means, the worthy woman – the woman whose conduct is upright and estimable. The heroine of the piece, however, deserves more the name of the cunning than the worthy; and her chief merit consists in her success. Rosaura is the daughter of a lace-maker of Pavia; and her mother’s house being / frequented by many of the students and professors of the university, she acquires a good deal of the scholastic pedantry of the schools. She is seduced by a student, who deserts her; on which, for the sake of revenge, she gets herself introduced as a servant into the house of his father, where, by pleasing every body, and adapting herself to their humours, and by great display of learning, she hopes to force her lover into a marriage, and succeeds. This is by no a The episode is drawn from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 198. Pisa, the Italian city, traced its legendary origins to a foundation by colonists from an ancient and vanished town of Pisa of Elis in the Peloponnesus, on the river Alpheus (J. Lemprière, A Classical Dictionary, 11th edn (London: T. Cadell, 1820)). b Gerolamo Mendebac, Italian theatre director who staged Goldoni’s La Donna di Garbo (The Courteous Woman) at Pisa in 1743.

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means one of the best of Goldoni’s comedies, but it pleased on the stage; and on this occasion the principal part being filled up by the wife of the manager, who was a clever actress, it met with the greatest approbation. Goldoni, warmed by success, enticed by the offers of the manager, and drawn on by the instinctive bent of his disposition, suddenly resolved to leave Pisa and the profession which he was pursuing with so much advantage, and returning to Venice, to enter again on the task of writing comedies for its theatre. Such a determination was sufficiently strange and imprudent; but Goldoni’s love for his art was such, that he never regretted the sacrifice he made; on the contrary, being now wholly devoted to the drama, his enthusiasm rose, and, filled with projects for its reform, he worked with an ardour, which was rewarded by success, and which inspired his best pieces. It is, perhaps, difficult for a person who has never visited Italy to enter with zest into all the merits of Goldoni. His perfect fidelity to nature, the ease of his dialogue, and the dramatic effect of his pieces, can only be entirely appreciated in the representation. The best of them have often a slight plot, but the interest is kept alive by the variety of the dialogue. It was only slowly, however, that he proceeded to the reform of the Italian comedy; the substitution of natural incident for violent and forced situations, and the higher properties of comedy for the mere burlesque of farce. Obliged to bring out his plays in quick succession, they are, of course, unequal, and did not meet always with the same approbation. Unfortunately, his first season ended with a / piece which had no success. The company for which he wrote, had to contend with others, longer established in the city; and, at the end of the carnival, these circumstances combined to afford a dreary prospect for the following year. At this moment Goldoni stepped forward in the most singular manner, to the assistance of the manager. He publicly promised sixteen new comedies for the next season; and the audience, wondering and anxious, instantly engaged all the boxes. His enemies ridiculed, his friends trembled for him; but he felt secure that he could fulfil his engagement, although at the moment he had not conceived the plot or plan of one of the promised sixteen. This certainly was a great stretch of invention and mental labour. Out of the sixteen, for he completed the whole number, there were not more than three or four mediocre ones, and some were among his best. The “Donne Puntigliose,” or Punctilious Ladies, is exceedingly amusing.a A Sicilian trader’s wife from the country, desires to be received among the noble ladies of Palermo: she contrives to get herself invited to small parties, where there are many men, and no lady except the mistress of the house; but finds it impossible to get admitted to their ceremonious assemblies. At last, an old countess, high-born, but poor, promises to give a ball, to which she shall be invited, on certain conditions, to which the low-born lady readily consents, though they draw rather largely on her purse. But to her consternation, as soon as she enters the ball-room, every woman flies as if a

Le Donne Puntigliose (The Punctilious Women) (1750/1753).

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she brought infection with her, and leaves her alone with her hostess. The punctilious scruples of those who try to make use of her without derogating from their own dignity, and who are ever ready to receive, but never to confer favours, form a very amusing picture of manners. “Pamela” was among the most successful of these pieces. Richardson’s novel of “Pamela” is a great favourite with the Italians; and Goldoni was often asked to write a drama on the subject. As the Venetian laws are severe against the children of a / mésalliance, he considers the catastrophe of the novel as not inculcating a recommendable line of conduct. He, therefore, transformed Gaffer Andrews into a Scottish lord of the rebellion of ’45, and gave Pamela good blood to render her marriage with her lover a commendable act on his part.a This comedy had the greatest success. “The Donna Prudente” was equally a favourite.b The story is founded on a jealous husband, afraid of ridicule, who is tortured by the attentions of the cavaliere servente of his wife, yet who dares not encounter the laughter that would ensue if he forbade the service. The prudent lady exerts herself with success to get rid of her cavaliere without its being supposed that her conduct arises from her husband’s jealousy. The last of his sixteen was a purely Venetian subject, written almost entirely in the Venetian dialect: it is called “I Pettegollezzi,” or The Gossipings,c and turns on the misfortunes brought on the heroine through the gossip of her female acquaintances. It was brought on the last day of carnival. “The concourse,” Goldoni writes, “was so immense, that the price of the boxes was tripled and quadrupled; and the applause was so tumultuous, that those who passed near the theatre were uncertain whether the sound was that of mere plaudits, or of a general revolt. I remained tranquil in my box, surrounded by my friends, who cried for joy. When all was over, a crowd of people came for me, forced me to accompany them, and carried, or rather dragged, me to the Ridotto,d and overwhelmed me with compliments, from which I would fain have escaped. I was too tired to support all this ceremony; and, besides, not knowing whence all this enthusiasm sprang, I was angry that the piece just represented should be more extolled than many others which were of greater merit. By degrees I discovered the true motive of the general acclamation: it celebrated the triumph of my fulfilled engagement.”e

a

Samuel Richardson (1689–1761). His Pamela, or, Virtue Rewarded (1740) was first translated into Italian in 1744–5 and adapted by Goldoni as La Pamela (1750). The Italian version of Pamela which Mary Shelley read in 1818 is likely to have been the novel, since she read the work in question over several days (MSWJ, I, p. 204). In Richardson, Pamela Andrews, a beautiful and virtuous servant-girl, is the daughter of poor but honest parents; resisting the advances of her rakish master, she becomes his wife. ‘The ’45’ is the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, which aimed to restore the Stuart monarchy. b La Dama Prudente (The Prudent Lady) (1751/1754). c I pettegolezzi delle donne (The Gossip of Women) (1751/1753). d Il ridotto, state-controlled casino of 18th-century Venice, located in the private foyer of theatre houses; used generally to designate gaming rooms in Italy. e Translated from Mémoires de Goldoni, I, p. 236.

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Goldoni was now forty-three years of age. His invention had not yet fallen off, but he tried his strength too much. An illness was the consequence of this extraordinary / exertion, and he felt the effects of it all his life after; yet during the ensuing season he brought out scarcely a smaller number, and, as he proceeded, attained a yet purer style of comedy; and he became the censor of the manners, and satirist of the follies, of his country. The peculiar system of what is called service, paid by gentlemen to the ladies of their choice, all over Italy, would have presented an ample field both for ridicule and reprehension, could he have ventured on it openly; but he was obliged to treat it with the same reserve, when bringing it on the stage, as is used when it is spoken of in society; and he could attack only the ridicule,a not the real evils of the system. This comedy; called the “Villeggiatura,” which turns on this subject, is particularly amusing; but it can scarcely be called an attack upon it. An Italian gentleman, returned lately from Paris, offers to serve a lady in the French manner: he is not to perform those thousand services required of the cavaliere servente, nor to attend on her, nor to be of any use or amusement to her: they are to be friends secretly; and, to preserve their friendship more sacredly, they must abstain from nearly all intercourse with each other. The lady, accustomed to be constantly waited upon, and to find in her cavaliere a resource against the ennui of solitude, is at a loss to understand the good that is to result from a negative of all the ordinary uses of friendship. The “Smanie della Villeggiatura” attacks another of the foibles of the Venetians.b It is their custom, each autumn, to spend several weeks at their country seats; but, instead of this being a period of economy and retirement, it was the fashion to invite their friends, and to transport with them the dissipation of the city. Besides this, it being necessary, as a mark of fashion, to retire to a villa, those who were poor, and did not possess one, fancied themselves obliged to hire a house, and to go beyond their wealthier neighbours in the number of their guests and the splendour of their entertainments: nor can any idea be formed out of the country of the sort of fanaticism with which this custom was pursued; / even to the bringing ruin on those who imagined themselves forced to so unnecessary an expense. Goldoni wrote three comedies on this subject: the first consisted in describing the preparations for the villeggiatura, or visit to the country. It has for its subject the difficulties of a a poor proud family, who were bent on following the general example; the thousand obstacles that rendered it almost impracticable; and the envy with which they view and vie with the preparations of their wealthier acquaintance. At length they depart triumphant, resolving to forget their debts and difficulties until their return. The second comedy consists of the adventures in the country; where, in the midst of gambling, pleasure, and apparent enjoyment, a thousand annoyances distract, and jealousy and envy prevent, all real happiness. The third comedy, of the return from the country, shows the unfortua b

i.e. absurdity; see OED, ‘ridicule’, sb. 1. Le Smanie per la villeggiatura (Longing for the Country) (1761/1773).

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nate lovers of rural pleasures overwhelmed by debt; surrounded by a thousand difficulties, sprung up while there; and saved only, when on the verge of ruin, by a kind and prudent friend who assists them, on their promise never to undertake a villeggiatura again. These plays are without the masks, and give a perfect representation of Italian conversation and manners. As he wished to criticise the Venetians, he did not venture to place the scene at Venice; but the audience easily brought home to themselves the faults and follies of the Tuscans or Neapolitans. In thus making a detail of some of the best of his plays, it is impossible to do more than to indicate those which appear the best worth reading. The “Vedova Scaltra,” or The Gay Widow, was a great favourite in Italy. A rich widow, with four lovers from four different nations, seeks from each a proof of love, and gives her hand to the Italian, who, by his jealousy, evinces, she imagines, the sincerest testimony of the tender passion. The “Feudatario” has in it more of farce than he usually admits, and is peculiarly amusing; as well as the “Donna del Maneggio,” or Managing Lady, whose avaricious husband, after incurring a thousand ridiculous disasters, ends by / placing the disposal of his property in his wife’s hands. It would be too long and uninteresting to enter on even this brief notice of more; but we may mention the titles of some of his best, to guide any one who wishes to read only a portion of the vast quantity he wrote: among these may be named “Il Cavaliere e la Dama,” “Il vero Amico,” “La Moglie Saggia,” “L’Avanturiere Onorato,” “Moliere e Terenzio,” which he names himself as the favourite offspring of his pen.a He spent many years thus respectably and happily. He loved his wife and his domestic circle. The applause of a theatre perpetually ringing in his ears, he was gratified by the consciousness that he was reforming the national taste. Sometimes he was attacked for what he considered the chief merit of his dramas. The advocates of the old comedy condemned his new style as puerile and tame. He defended himself, and was satisfied that he obtained the victory. During the summer, when the theatres at Venice were closed, he visited the various cities of Italy; and his life was diversified, and his invention refreshed, by these occasional tours. He had reason to be dissatisfied with the manager, Mendebac, who had allured him from Pisa, as he not only was illiberal enough not to add to his salary on these extraordinary efforts, but appropriated the profits arising from the publication of his works. Goldoni was unwilling to enter into a lawsuit with him; he contented himself, therefore, by bringing out an edition of his play at Florence; and as soon as his five years’ engagement with Mendebac was over, he transferred himself to the theatre of San Luca, on terms at once more advantageous and honourable. a La Vedova scaltra (The Cunning Widow) (1748/1750); Il Feudatario (The Feudal Tenant) (1752/1753); La Donna del maneggio (The Woman of Intrigue) (1760/1765); Il Cavaliere e la dama (The Cavalier and the Lady) (1749/1752); Il Vero amica (The True Friend) (1750/1753); La Moglie saggia (The Wise Wife) (1752/1753); L’Avventuriere onorato (The Honest Adventurer) (1751/1753); Il Molière e Terenzio (Molière and Terence) (1751/1753), two plays.

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With some few reverses, attendant on an entire change of actors, and his ignorance of the peculiar abilities of the company, to which he was not accustomed, his career on this new stage was equally successful. He wrote several comedies in verse, which became peculiar favourites. This success was the occasion of his being invited to Rome during the carnival: but his dramas / did not succeed so well there. The actors, unaccustomed to his style, were unable to give them with any effect, and the Roman audience called out for Puncinello.a In 1760, he received an offer from the French court of an engagement for two years, on very advantageous terms. Goldoni hesitated a little about accepting it. A few years before, his brother had returned to Venice, a widower, with two children. Goldoni gave up to him all his property in Modena, and adopted the children, having none of his own. He made a good income in Italy; but he had no provision for old age: still he was unwilling to leave his native country – whose climate and people were dear to him – where he was honoured, loved, and applauded. He made some enquiries with regard to the possibility of getting a pension from the Venetian government; but this appearing a vain hope, he considered it right to close with the offer of the king of France. He hesitated the more before taking this step, as, although the engagement in question was but for two years, he felt that, once in Paris, and acquiring an honourable maintenance, it was probable that he should never see Italy again. During the carnival of 1761, the last pieces he wrote for the Venetian theatre were represented: one, the last acted, was a sort of allegorical leave-taking, which was so understood by the audience; and the acclamations and adieus of the public moved him to tears. He left Venice in April 1761, accompanied by his wife. His mother was dead; his niece he placed in a convent, under the superintendence of a respectable family at Venice; his nephew was soon to follow him. As he passed through Italy, on his way to France, he was received at the various towns with distinction and kindness. He spent some little time at Genoa, with his wife’s relations, and then they proceeded by slow stages to Paris. Goldoni’s débût as an author in the French capital was not a happy one. The Italian comedians there were not accustomed to regular comedies, which they were to / learn by heart, but to the old style of their native farce, where the plot and arrangement of the scenes were all that was written, and they filled up the dialogue themselves. Goldoni wrote two or three pieces for them on this plan without success. His stay in Paris was, however, decided by the post of Italian master to the daughters of Louis XV. being bestowed on him.b He knew so little of French, that he gained as much knowledge from the princesses as he imparted to them. His salary was very slender, but it was increased in the sequel; and his nephew also was provided for by the post of Italian teacher in the military school. a

The clown of Neapolitan commedia dell’arte or the puppet, probably the former, here. While Louis XV, King of France (1710–74) had eight daughters, only the princesses Adélaïde, Sophie, Victoire and Louise were educated at court. b

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Goldoni was charmed by the French actors; and his ambition was excited to write a comedy to be represented by the excellent comedians who then flourished. His desire was fulfilled to the utmost. He brought out “Le Bourru Bienfaisant,”a into which he endeavoured to instil the spirit of French dialogue and plot with great success; so that Voltaire praises it as the best French comedy written since Molière. He wrote another on the same plan; but it fell to the ground, and he at last desisted from adding to the immense number of pieces of which he is the author. He lived tranquilly and content with his moderate means. His niece was married at Venice; his nephew settled happily at Paris. The revolution did not, fortunately, disturb the repose of his last years. The National Convention confirmed his pension to him, and continued it to his widow after his death. Goldoni died in the year 1792, at the age of eighty-five. No man was ever more born for the career which he pursued. His heart was excellent, and his disposition gay. He never allowed himself to be cast down by adversity, and met the attacks of his enemies with good humour, or such replies as caused the laugh to be on his side. He is numbered by his countrymen as among the best of their authors, – an opinion confirmed by all those sufficiently cognisant with the Italian language and manners to enter into the spirit of his compositions. /

a Le Bourru bienfaisant (The Surly Benefactor) (1771). His other French comedy was L’avare fastueux (The Ostentatious Miser).

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ALFIERI. 1749–1803. THE Italian poets of the early ages were eminently distinguished for their patriotism. The haughty spirit of Dante burst forth into indignant denunciations against the oppressors of his country; the gentler, but not less fervent, Petrarch was never weary of adjuring its rulers to bestow upon it the blessings of justice and peace; and the latter years of Boccaccio’s life were ennobled by his public services, and his earnest endeavours to implant a love and reverence for literature in the minds of his countrymen. The pages of Roman history and the writings of Roman poets made them proud of the country which had given them birth, and which added to its moral grandeur, of having been once the sovereign and civiliser of the world, – the natural affection inspired by its being, from its fertility, the diversity of its woods, lakes, and mountains, and surrounding sea, the most beautiful country upon earth. The national spirit died away in after times. The devastating wars carried on in the Peninsula by France and the emperor, the rise of minor principalities, and the struggles of rival states, so excited the passions and absorbed the interests of the Italians, that they became incapable of enlarged views for the good of their country. The depressing influence of courtly servitude checked the free spirit of the writers; Ariosto and Tasso were both conspicuous for personal independence of character; but they did not extend their love of liberty to any exertions for the redemption of Italy. A darker day was at hand. The Peninsula, divided and weakened, became a mere province. A Spanish viceroy / reigned over Naples, and the northern portion was controlled by France and Austria. The Italians were taught to take pride in the virtues of slaves; in submission, patience, and repose. The prosperity of the country was gone, its trade destroyed, its armies annihilated. No scope was given to generous ambition; no career offered, by entering on which a man might exercise the peculiar privilege of the free – that of instructing their fellow countrymen: to be inoffensive to the ruling powers was the aim of all. The love of money – not the love of gain, for to gain was impossible, but mere parsimony, arising from the necessity of regarding the domestic expenditure as the only business of life – engrossed the fathers of families; the women were uneducated and degraded, and though they preserved, as is often the case in a depraved state of society, a nature more generous, artless, and kindly than the other sex, yet these virtuous feelings found no scope for their development, except in the passion of love. While the law of primogeniture interested not only the large class DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-24

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of younger sons, but even the heads of families, who wished to prevent their children from marrying, to establish a system of society, which, beginning by subverting the best principles of morality, ended by destroying all social happiness. While the higher orders were thus occupied by money-saving and intrigue, the lower orders were tamed by hard labour, and rendered submissive by the priests. The writers were the servants of princes: they administered to the pleasures of their countrymen, without uttering one word that could call them from their state of debasement, or inspire a love of the active and disinterested virtues. Full of talent as the Italians are, and formed by nature for the noblest scenes of action, doubtless “many a village Hampden”a was born and died in obscurity and inaction; and yet this expression gives rise to a false notion. The peasants of Italy have no education, and, although infinitely superior in talent, perhaps, to any other peasantry in the world, are incapable of that / generalisation of ideas which produces patriotism. But, among the better sort of gentry, – men of simple habits and strong good sense, among the men of science and the professors at the universities, – there were individuals who mourned over the ruin of Italy. These men did not so much dwell on the ancient greatness of Rome, as on the achievements of their countrymen during the middle ages. Literature had been revived by them; the arts had flourished among them: they were proud of the past, but they despaired of the present. The voice of liberty was silent. The Italians hated and despised their masters, but never dreamed of rebelling against them. Tuscany was slothful under a mild sway, whose tyranny was never felt, except by the few who believed that they were not merely fruges consumere nati,b and were bitten with a noble mania for benefiting their race. Piedmont was ruled by a prince, who, by cultivating in his subjects, not a martial, but a military spirit (a very different thing), gave his idle nobles something to do. Lombardy was crushed by foreign bayonets.c The voice of liberty was silent, when the French revolution awoke the world, and the hope of freedom spoke audibly in the hearts of all; and, afterwards, when the victories of Napoleon crushed this hope, they could not impose a silence for ever broken. Its language is now felt and understood from one end of the country to the other, and the day must come when the oppressors will be unable to oppose the veto of mere physical force to the overpowering influence of moral courage. It was while Italy yet reposed submissive and mute, that a poet was born, who dedicated all the powers of his mind to the awakening his countrymen from their a From Thomas Gray (1716–71), ‘Elegy written in a Country Church Yard’ (1751), ll. 57–8: ‘Some Village-Hampden that with dauntless breast / The little tyrant of his fields withstood’. b ‘Born to consume the fruits of the earth’ (Horace, Epistles, I. ii. l. 27); used here to designate idle youths belonging to the leisured class. The ‘mild sway’ refers to the enlightened despotism of the Austrian Habsburg Grand Dukes of Tuscany, Francis I (1708–65) and Pietro Leopoldo II (1747–92). c Piedmont, ruled (with Sardinia) in the 18th century by the princes of the House of Savoy, who had first established control of the region in 1032. Alfieri’s youth was spent during the reign of Charles Emmanuel III. From 1748–96 Lombardy was ruled by the Austrian Habsburgs.

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lethargy – to strengthening their enervated minds, and spreading such knowledge and such sentiments abroad among them, as would at once reveal their degraded state, and give them energy to aspire to a better. Vittorio Alfieri was born at Asti, in Piedmont, on / the 17th of January, 1749. His parents were noble, wealthy, and respected. To these three circumstances Alfieri attributes many of the prosperous circumstances that attended his literary career. “Since I was born noble,” he says, “I could attack the nobility without being accused of envy; since I was rich, I was independent and incorruptible; and the respectability of my parents prevented my ever being ashamed of my rank.”a His father was named Antonio Alfieri, and his mother was Monica Maillard de Tournon, whose family, originally from Savoy, had long been established at Turin. His father was a man of blameless life: he had never entered on any public office, and was without a spark of that ambition which might have led him to seek distinction at court. He was fifty-five when he married, and his wife, though very young, was already a widow. Their eldest child was a daughter. Two years after, to the infinite joy of his father, Vittorio was born. He was put out to nurse, at a village called Rovigliasco, two miles from Asti; but such was the tenderness of his father, that he went on foot each day to see the child. This was a strong mark of affection, and testified also his simple and unostentatious disposition: for the Italian nobility usually love repose beyond all things, and their greatest pride is never to go on foot.b This solicitude unfortunately cost him his life: he caught cold on occasion of one of his visits, and died after a few days’ illness, leaving his wife about to give birth to another son, who, however, died in his infancy. She was an amiable and excellent woman, and still young when her second husband died; so that she was induced to marry a third time. Her husband was a cadet, of another branch of the Alfieri family; but, by the death of his elder brother, he in process of time inherited the wealth of his family, and became very rich. This marriage proved a very fortunate one. The cavaliere Giacinto was handsome and amiable; the couple grew old together in happiness; and the lady, as / she advanced in years, gained the love and respect of all by her piety and works of charity and kindness. On the marriage of his mother, Vittorio and his sister went to live in their father-in-law’s house, who proved himself a kind parent to the orphans. Although his health was not robust, Alfieri’s childhood was little interrupted by sickness; and his first grief was experienced at the age of seven, when his sister Julia was sent to a convent for her education. Although he was, at first; permitted to see a

Taken from the opening paragraph of the Vita di Vittorio Alfieri da Asti Scritta da Esso, which is divided into four ‘Epochs’: I. ‘Childhood’, II. ‘Adolescence’, III. ‘Youth’, and IV. ‘Manhood’. Mary Shelley offers a distillation rather than an exact translation but is faithful to general sense and tone. b The comment on the Italian nobility is Mary Shelley’s own, with the remaining details of this paragraph and much of this life generally extracted from Charles Lloyd’s Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Vittorio Alfieri (1821).

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her every day, yet he felt, on her removal from the parental roof, that violence of emotion and boiling of the blood which was apt to seize on him, in after life, when forced to separate from any one to whom he was warmly attached. Thus his sensibility developed itself early; and sensibility and pride, both exalted into passions rather than feelings, were always the prominent traits of his disposition, and which at last, from the excessive influence they exercised over him, generated that gloomy melancholy to which he was a victim. Alfieri remained at home, under the tutelage of a worthy priest, named Don Ivaldi, with whose assistance he began to learn the rudiments of Latin. His disposition was, for the most part, taciturn and placid: now and then he became loquacious and gay in the extreme, and, at other times, the melancholy already nascent in his heart, filled him with strange and passionate thoughts.a He was obstinate when treated unkindly, but readily yielded to affection; and, above all, he was susceptible, to a painful degree, of the sense of shame. When, as a punishment for childish faults, any sort of public penance was imposed on him, he endured such transports of agony as affected his health for weeks.b At the age of nine, his uncle, the cavaliere Pellegrino Alfieri, who was his guardian, returned from a tour in France and England, and visited Asti, on his way to Turin. He found his nephew happy under the domestic roof, but learning little or nothing; accordingly, / he thought this a very bad state of things, and insisted that he should be placed at the public school at Turin, where ignorance, rather than knowledge, was taught, but where, as he would be neglected and enslaved, it was to be supposed that his education would prosper better than under the indulgent care of a fond mother. She was obliged to consent, and parted from her son with reluctance and tears. The boy’s grief at the moment of separation was vehement; but it was quickly dissipated by the delight of travelling post, and the pleasure he took in bribing the postilions to go at their utmost speed. He was accompanied by a servant only; and, while the old man slept, the little fellow sat proud and gay in the carriage, as it whirled past village and town in quick succession. When arrived at Turin, his uncle received him kindly. He was at first depressed by the change of scene, and missed the caresses of his loving mother; but soon he became so joyous, and even riotous, that the cavaliere Pellegrino hastened to place him at the academy: and here he was, at the age of nine, torn from the domestic circle to which he was accustomed, at a distance from all his friends, isolated and abandoned. The only species of education, such as it was, entered upon at the academy, regarded their literary studies: the feelings were left to form themselves; lessons of morality and the duties of life making no part of the instruction afforded the pupils.c a

Among these were sentimental feelings for the young male Carmelite novices in the nearby convent and a sudden impulse to experiment with eating hemlock (Vita, Ep. I, ch. 3). b The most mortifying was being sent to Mass wearing a nightcap (Vita, Ep. I, ch. 4). c Vita, Ep. I, chs 2 and 5.

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“The academy,” Alfieri tells us, “was a large, handsome quadrangular building, with a large court in the middle; two sides of the square were occupied by the students, the other two by the king’s theatre and royal archives. The side occupied by us, who were called of the second and third apartment, was opposite the latter; that occupied by the students of the first apartment being opposite to the king’s theatre. The upper gallery on our side was called the third apartment, and was devoted to the younger boys and lower schools. The gallery on the ground floor was called the second, and occupied by the pupils rather / more advanced in age: a portion of these studied at the university, another edifice adjoining to the academy; the rest received their education in the military college. Every gallery contained at least four chambers, each occupied by eleven youths, over which an assistant, or usher, presided, – a poor fellow, whose only payment consisted in being boarded and lodged free of expense, while he studied theology or law, at the university; or, if he were not a poor student, he was an old and ignorant priest. A third portion of the side destined to the first apartment was occupied by the king’s pages, to the number of twenty or twenty-five, who were totally separated from us of the second, at the opposite angle of the court, and close to the galleries of the archives. We, the younger pupils, could not have been worse placed. On one side, was a theatre which we were only permitted to visit about five or six times during the carnival; on the other, the pages who attended on the court, and who, continually hunting and riding, appeared to enjoy much freer and happier lives than the poor imprisoned boys; besides these, we overlooked the proceedings of the first class, which was composed almost entirely of foreigners, Russian and German, with a large proportion of English; – this class was restrained by no rule except that of being in by midnight; and their apartment was a mere lodging house to them, instead of being a place of education.”a Alfieri was placed in the third apartment: he had the luxury of a servant to attend on him; but the fellow, unchecked by superior authority, became a sort of petty tyrant over his young master: in all other respects, he was on an equality with the rest of his comrades. The basis of the system of education consisted in strict imprisonment, little sleep, and unwholesome food. To this was added a certain degree of parrot knowledge of the Latin language: the boys were taught to construe Cornelius Nepos;b but so little pains were taken, or, rather, so little power was there in their instructors to enlarge their stores of real knowledge, that Alfieri / tells us, that not one of them knew who the men were whose lives they read; nor what the country, government, or times were in which they lived, nor even what thing government was. The boy made progress, however, in what he was taught: his emulation was excited, and his memory was cultivated; but, on the other hand, he grew sickly a

A fairly faithful rendering of an extract from Vita, Ep. II, ch. 1. Alfieri attended the Regia Academy at Turin. b Cornelius Nepos (c. 100–25 BC), Roman historian and intimate of Catullus and of Cicero; his Latin is relatively easy.

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and stunted in growth, the effects of bad food and too little sleep. He had only his drunken, his dissipated servant to attend on him when he was ill; who often, on such occasions, left him half the day alone, which increased the constitutional melancholy of his disposition. His pleasures were few; and the want of all affectionate treatment blighted his life. It seems strange to us that his mother did not visit him, and that he never went home for a vacation: but such were the customs of the country, and he was brought up in conformity with them.a The spirit of emulation, caused him, in some degree, to distinguish himself, and he advanced to higher classes and attended lectures on philosophy, humanity, and mathematics; but such was the style in which they were taught, that, when he had gone through six books of Euclid,b he was unable to demonstrate the fourth proposition; and, though he studied a whole year under the famous Beccaria,c he did not comprehend a word of what he was taught. This is the less extraordinary, since, speaking the patois of Piedmont, Italian was as a foreign language; and, though he contrived to obtain a copy of Ariosto, he was unable to understand a word of it. His teachers were, for the most part, equally ignorant; so that while his time was devoted to Latin, his native language was a sealed book to him. He had a few relations at Turin, and when he became really ill, they interfered that he should have more sleep and better food; but he continued a puny and ailing boy. Some few pleasures diversified his life. His uncle found that the education of his sister Julia was entirely neglected at Asti, and she was removed to a convent at Turin. She was fifteen – in love – and divided from the object of her affections. Her brother became her / confidant: he visited her twice a week, and tried to inspire her with constancy and resolution; but youthful spirits were of more avail than the lessons of romance, and, in short time, she was consoled. Another pleasure he enjoyed was, when a relation took him, on one occasion, to the opera buffa, sung by the best comic singers of Italy. The opera was the “Mercante di Malmantile.”d The spirit and vivacity of the music made a profound impression on him, leaving, as it were, a trail of harmony in his ears and heart, so that for many weeks after he remained immersed in an excessive, but not painful, melancholy. During this time he abhorred and nauseated his usual studies, while a world of fantastic images crowded his mind; and had he known how, he would have composed verses, and have expressed the most lively emotions, had not all language in which to express them been denied to him, through the ignorance of his teachers. This was the first time that music exercised so great an influence over him, and it remained long impressed upon his memory. At all times he was excessively a

Mary Shelley’s inference from Alfieri’s silence on these matters. Euclid (c. 33–275 BC); Euclid’s Geometry was the standard school textbook. Cesare, Marchese di Beccaria Bonesana (1738–94), social theorist, renowned for his work On Crimes and Punishments (1764), in which he questioned the value of capital punishment. Alfieri attended his physics classes. d Opera buffa or comic opera; Il Mercato di Malmantile by Domenico Cimarosa (1749–1801). b c

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susceptible to the impressions made by harmony, and he found that vocal music, especially female voices, possessed a peculiar power to disturb and agitate his mind. Nothing, he tells us, awakened in him more violent or various emotions; and almost all his tragedies were conceived while in the act of listening to music, or a few hours after. One other pleasure that he enjoyed during this period, was spending a fortnight with his uncle at Cuneo.a This little journey did his health good, and occasioned him infinite delight. It was here that he wrote his first sonnet, addressed to a lady admired by his uncle, and who pleased him. As he knew nothing of Italian, or, as it is called, Tuscan, this sonnet must have been very bad. It pleased the lady; but his uncle, who was a soldier, and of an austere disposition, and who, though imbued with sufficient knowledge of history and government, despised poetry, ridiculed the boyish effusion, and put all thought of writing another out of his head. / At the age of fourteen, the circumstances of his life were considerably altered. His guardian uncle died. By the Piedmontese laws, children of fourteen are considered, to a certain degree, of age, and are allowed the entire disposal of their incomes; while a trustee is appointed to prevent their alienating any part of the principal or real property. Alfieri was thus raised at once to independence; and, to add to his comfort, his servant, who had tyrannised over him, and who, unwatched, and unchecked, had fallen into the worst vices, was dismissed. Alfieri parted from him with regret, despite his ill-treatment, and showed the kindliness of his heart by visiting him twice a week, and giving him what money he could spare. He tells us that he can ill account for his attachment to one who had shown so little kindness to him: he could not attribute it to generosity on his part; but partly to habit, and partly to the talents of the man, who, besides being singularly sagacious, was accustomed to tell him long adventures and tales full of imagination and interest. The first fruit he reaped from the death of his uncle was being permitted to attend the riding school, which had been before denied. He was then of diminutive stature and weak of frame, and little able to control his horse; but perseverance, and a great desire of success, supplied every other defect. To this noble exercise he owed the good health, robustness, and increase of stature, that he soon acquired. The next great event that followed was, his being removed from the second to the first apartment of his college. In the second, the students were mere boys, and they were kept in strict discipline; in the first, entire freedom and idleness was the order of the day. He made his entrance on the 8th of May, 1763. His comrades were almost all foreigners, many were French, a still greater number were English. An excellent table was served in the best style, and all breathed luxury, comfort, and freedom. Much amusement, a great deal of sleep and of riding, gave Alfieri renewed health and spirits, / He spent his money on horses or dress. His trustee quarrelled with him for his extravagance, but that did not alter the a

Cuneo, town in NW Piedmont, where his uncle (Pellegrino Alfieri) was governor.

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state of things. With liberty and money be acquired friends and companions in every amusement and enterprise. “Yet,” he says, “in the midst of this busy vortex, being little more than fourteen, I was not nearly so unreasonable as I might have been. From time to time, I felt a silent impulse within me to apply to study, and a good deal of shame for my ignorance, concerning the extent of which I never deceived myself, nor others. But, grounded in no one study, undirected by any, not really acquainted with a single language, I knew not how nor to what to apply myself. I read French romances, and conversed with foreigners, and forgot the little Italian I had before contrived to pick up from my Ariosto. At one time I took it into my head to immerse myself in the thirty-six volumes of Fleury’s Ecclesiastical History, making extracts in French; but soon I threw it aside, and took to romances and the ‘Arabian Nights.’”a Riding, and horses, and fine clothes were his passions. He and his friends went out in troops, leaping over every obstacle, fording rivers, and breaking down the unfortunate animals they rode, till at last no one would lett them any. But these active exercises invigorated Alfieri’s health, strengthened his frame, and filled him with spirit and resolution; preparing his mind to support, and even to make good use of, the physical and moral liberty he afterwards acquired. The youth of the first apartment were perfectly free, but they were all young men: Alfieri was as a boy among them, being only fifteen; and it was considered right that his servant should attend him constantly, and act as a check upon him. The man who had replaced his former tyrant was a foolish, good-humoured fellow, who easily yielded to bribery and persuasion, and let his young master do as he pleased. But this did not satisfy the youth’s pride; he resolved to be on an equality with his comrades, and, without saying a word to his / valet, or to any one, went out alone. He was reproved by the governor, but repeated his offence immediately. On this he was put under arrest for a few days; but no sooner was his prison door opened, than, in open defiance, he went out again unaccompanied; and although, on the renewal of his offence, the term of his imprisonment was prolonged, it was without avail. At length he declared that his arrest must be perpetual, since as soon as he was set at liberty he should exercise the same privilege, being resolved not in any way to be on a different footing from his comrades; that the governor might remove him from the first, and replace him in the second apartment, but that he insisted upon being put in possession of all the rights of his companions. On this he was kept confined for more than three months; nor would he make any request to be liberated, but, indignant and stubborn, had died rather than have yielded. “I slept nearly all day,” he tells us; “towards evening I got up from my bed, and, having a mattrass placed near the fireplace, I stretched myself upon it on the ground. Not choosing to receive the usual college dinner, I caused food to be brought into my room, and cooked pollenta and similar things a Taken from Vita, Ep. II, ch. 7, but Alfieri does not credit Ariosto with teaching him Italian; Claude Fleury (1640–1725), lawyer, historian, and associate of Fénelon (see French Lives I, vol. 3). His Histoire ecclésiastique, completed after his death, was acclaimed for its orthodoxy.

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at my fire. I never dressed myself, nor allowed my hair to be touched, and became an absolute savage. Though I was not allowed to quit my room, my friends were permitted to visit me; but I was sullen and silent, and lay like a lifeless body, not replying to any thing that was said; and thus I continued for hours, with my eyes fixed on the ground, and full of tears, though I never suffered one to escape from them.”a This obstinacy must have annoyed his masters considerably, and they were, no doubt, glad to make use of the first fair occasion for restoring him to liberty. The marriage of his sister gave them a pretext, of which they availed themselves.b Julia married count Giacinto di Cumiano on the 1st of May, 1764: the wedding took place at the beautiful village of Cumiano, ten miles from Turin. Alfieri enjoyed the spring season and his / newly recovered liberty with intense delight, and, on his return to college, was admitted to all the privileges of the class of students to which he belonged. The control over his income being now almost entirely in his own hands, he launched out into a variety of expenses, the first of which was the purchase of a horse, a fiery but delicate animal, which he loved so passionately, that he could never after call him to mind without emotion: if it was ill, he could neither eat nor sleep. The delicacy of this beloved horse was the occasion of his buying another; and after that he bought carriage horses, and cab and saddle horses, till he had a stud of eight, to the great dissatisfaction of his trustee; but, as he could set his reprehensions at nought, he gave no ear to them, but plunged into every kind of expense, principally in dress, competing in extravagance with the English members of the university. In the midst of this vanity, the ingenuousness of his disposition manifested itself. He made display among the rich foreigners, who were his associates; but, when he was visited by his poorer friends and countrymen, who, though of noble birth, were yet straitened in means, he was accustomed to change his dress, to put on modest attire, and even to hide his finery, that he might not appear to possess any superiority over them: this delicacy of feeling extended itself to other parts of his conduct, and showed the genuine urbanity and benevolence of his disposition. In the autumn of 1765, he made a short journey to Genoa with his trustee: this was the first time that he had left Piedmont; and here, for the first time, he saw the sea, the aspect of which transported him with admiration, and so exalted his imagination, that he says, if he had understood any language, or had had any poetry before him, he should certainly have composed verses. During this journey, to his infinite delight, he visited his native town, and his mother, whom, strange to say, he had not seen for seven years. There seems something incomprehensible in a state of society that should admit / of the propriety, or, rather, enforce the necessity, of a boy of nine being separated from all maternal care, and left to struggle as he might, during the precarious season of childhood and of adolesa

Vita, Ep. II, ch. 8. Mary Shelley’s comment. Alfieri represents his liberation as due to his brother-in-law’s intervention; Vita, Ep. I, ch. 9. b

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cence, without a parent’s eye to watch over his well-being, and administer to his health and happiness. On his return to Turin, he was not a little proud among his countrymen of his journey to Genoa; but among the English, German, Polish and Russian students he felt the utmost rage and shame to think that they had seen countries so much more distant. This uneasy sense of inferiority inspired him with a passion for travelling, and made him resolve to visit the various lands of which his comrades were natives. In the first impulse of expectant manhood, he had petitioned to be allowed to enter the army. As he grew older he began to find that his liberty was dearer to him than any military parade; but, as he did not withdraw his request, he found himself admitted, in 1766, as ensign into the provincial regiment of Asti. He had chosen this, as the duties attendant on it were slight, it being only required to assemble for review for a few days twice a year: however, this necessity annoyed him, especially as it forced him to quit the university, where he would have been well pleased to remain; but there was no help, and he left college, after an abode of nearly eight years. He took a small apartment in the same house with his sister, and spent all he could in horses and all sorts of luxuries, as well as in dinners given to his friends. A dislike of military discipline, and a love of travelling, made him soon after ask a year’s leave of absence; and he set out for Rome and Naples under the care of an English Catholic, who was about to make that tour, as tutor to two young Flemish gentlemen. It was with great difficulty that he obtained the necessary permission; the king was averse to the nobles leaving the country, and it was only by a thousand petty artifices and intrigues that at last he succeeded in his wishes. Agitated by an inexplicable disquietude of mind, ignorant / of all with regard to literature and the arts, that could make travelling interesting, Alfieri had at this time but one pleasure in a journey, which was, going along the high road with the greatest possible speed. His companions were as little awake to rational inquiry as himself; and the only one among them, he tells us, who had common sense, was his valet, who also acted as courier, – a man named Elia,a who served him for many years with the greatest fidelity. The first city at which the party stopped was Milan. They went to see the curiosities, and visited the Ambrosian library. The treasures of the collection were wasted upon Alfieri: when an autograph of Petrarch was shown him (perhaps the Virgil on whose cover the poet has recorded his passionate sorrow on the death of Laura),b he, barbarian like, pushed it away, saying, it was nothing to him. This act did not arise from mere indifference; but partly from a grudge he felt against Petrarch, arising from his not being able to understand his poetry; and shame for his own ignorance took the guise of contempt of another’s genius. On visiting Florence, the only object that called a

Francesco Elia (b. 1730), valet and companion of Alfieri. See Alberto Bigatti, Francesco Elia (Geneva, 1968). b Ambrosian Library, Milan; public library established 1605 by Cardinal Federigo Borromeo; see ‘Petrarch’, p. 37.

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forth any emotion was the sight of Michael Angelo’s tomb;a when the recollection of the fame which had been acquired by this master of his art filled him with ideas that he could not define; and the thought rose in his mind, that those men only were truly great, who left some enduring monument of genius behind them. But these notions were vague and transitory; he lived only for the present hour, even while that afforded no one object to occupy or please him. On leaving Florence, he hurried through Pisa and Siena;b but such is the magic of the name, that the approach to Rome made his heart palpitate, and his torpid soul warmed into something like enthusiasm. He was charmed by the magnificent aspect which the eternal city presents as it is entered by the Porta del Popolo; and scarcely had he alighted at the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, than he hurried off to behold the wonders of the place.c Ignorance narrows the intellect, and takes the / living colours from the imagination. Alfieri, after all, regarded coldly those objects which render Rome a city of absolute enchantment. He was best pleased with St. Peter’s. At each successive visit, the solemn vastness of the mighty aisles of the cathedral made a deeper impression; the splendour of the architecture, the sublime stillness of its incense-breathing atmosphere, and the soft twilight that reigns beneath its dome, kindled his soul to something like poetic inspiration.d But even these feelings could only for a few moments appease the restlessness that pursued him, and he hurried away from Rome with all the impatience of one ill at ease in himself. At Naples he grew still more disturbed and melancholy: music, which he loved, only tended to increase his gloom; and his reserve prevented him from forming any intimacies. All day he drove from place to place, in those droll little Neapolitan calesine, which go at such a prodigious rate under the guidance of their Lazaroni drivers,e – “Not,” he says, “that I wished to visit remarkable objects, for I had no curiosity nor knowledge about them, but merely for the sake of being on the road: I was never satiated of rapid motion, but a moment’s quiescence filled me with annoyance.” .... “And thus I lived, a riddle to myself, believing that I had capacity for nothing; feeling no decided impulse or emotion, except a continual melancholy; never finding peace nor quiet, yet not knowing what I desired; blindly obeying my nature, although I neither studied nor comprea Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475–1564), artist, entombed in the Church of Santa Croce in Florence. b It was at Siena that Alfieri was struck by the strength, charm and concision of the Tuscan spoken by even the humblest inhabitants (Vita, Ep. III. ch. 1). c Porta del Popolo, ‘Gate of the People’, the main northern entrance to Rome, through which the Shelleys also entered in 1818. Piazza di Spagna, at the foot of the 18th-century monumental Scalinata di Spagna (Spanish Steps). d S. Pietro, Vatican cathedral and spiritual centre of the Roman Catholic Church. Mary Shelley heightens Alfieri’s spare account (Vita, Ep. III, ch. 1) of the emotional impression made on him with sympathetic details drawn from her own experience in 1819; she personally found the Coliseum and the Pantheon more impressive. e Calesine: light carriages; lazaroni (lazzarini): low-class Neapolitan rogues. They are not mentioned in Alfieri but are a piece of local colour introduced by Mary Shelley from her memories of Naples in 1818; see also MWSN, vol. 4, p. 5 and MWSL, I, p. 78.

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hended it. Many years afterwards I perceived that my unhappiness proceeded from the want, nay the necessity, which I have, to have at once my heart occupied by some worthy object, and my mind by some ennobling pursuit; for, whenever either of these two fail me, I remain incapable of the other, satiated and weary, and beyond all things miserable.”a In the midst of this disturbed and unprofitable state, he nourished the ardent desire to travel on and on, beyond the mountainous boundaries of his country, uncontrolled and alone. For this purpose he applied to the / Sardinian minister; and, representing how correct his conduct was, and how capable he showed himself of managing his own affairs, he besought him to obtain leave from their sovereign, that he might detach himself from the tutor, and proceed alone. To his great joy, his request was complied with; and, with infinite delight, he left Naples for Rome, eager to make use of his entire independence, and to find himself solitary and lord of himself, on the high road, more than three hundred miles distant from his native Piedmont. How little does mere freedom of will satisfy the mind, when not ministered to and filled by thoughts that go beyond the present moment. The aimless uneasiness of Alfieri was not to be dissipated by the mere ability of satisfying his craving for locomotion. He obtained leave of absence for another year, and permission to visit France and England: but the same spirit accompanied him of melancholy and ennui; and all objects were stale and unprofitable to his languid senses. Motive was absent; and his ardent feelings, left to prey on themselves, produced tears and regret but no power of finding a means of exercising them with advantage and happiness. If his ignorance was ever brought home to him, he was rendered uncomfortable, but felt no wish to improve. He tells us that, at Rome, he was accustomed to visit each day the count of Rivera, minister of Sardinia, – a worthy old man, who showed him every kindness, and gave him the best advice.b One morning he found the count occupied in reading the sixth book of the Æneid; and when Alfieri entered, he signed to him to approach, and began to recite the beautiful lamentation for Marcellus.c Six years before, Alfieri had translated, and known by heart, the greater part of Virgil; but he had now forgotten it, and felt thoroughly ashamed, but with little courage to amend; so that the result of this scene was only that he sullenly ruminated over his disgrace, and never went near the count again. The desire of some sort of interest drove him into a fit of avarice. He was slenderly provided with means for / his ultramontane journey; and he resolved to save all he could in Italy, that he might not be restricted when among foreigners. He followed up his system of parsimony with his usual ardour, and carried it to an excess which became its cure, since he got weary of the privations and annoyances he thus brought on himself. a

Quotations from Vita, Ep. III, ch. 2. Vita, Ep. III. ch. 3; the count is not further identified. c Marcus Claudius Marcellus (42–23 BC), nephew of Octavian Augustus Caesar (63 AD 12); his untimely death is lamented in Virgil’s Aeneid, VI. 860–6. b

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From Rome he proceeded to Venice, passing through Ferrara without a thought of Ariosto or Tasso;a and Padua, without visiting either living professors, or the tomb of the illustrious dead in the neighbourhood. What was Petrarch to him? he again asked himself; he wrote in an unknown tongue, of which, after all, he felt ashamed of being ignorant. He was pleased with Venice, and was diverted by its amusements; yet the spring season brought his usual annual fit of melancholy, and he spent many days brooding over he knew not what, and weeping he knew not why. Spurred on by restlessness, he hurried away from Venice: he passed solitarily and ennuied through the beautiful cities of Lombardy, seldom presenting letters of recommendation, and always keeping out of the way of acquaintances: proud and shy, he hated new faces; and besides, his desire of travelling made him avoid the ties of friendship and even of love, though once or twice the smiles of beauty almost softened his heart. All his desire was to hasten to France, and to enjoy the delights he there promised himself. He was destined to be disappointed; for his ill-regulated imagination always exaggerated the pains and pleasures of the future, while it did not possess the better power of exalting and adorning the objects which in anticipation had appeared so desirable, and which in possession grew contemptible and barren. One of the singularities of Alfieri’s character was the extravagant hatred of France which he cherished all his life. He attributed this, in the first place, to a vehement childish dislike of his French dancing-master. Still he read nothing but French books, French was the language he commonly spoke, and he, left Italy in eager anticipation of the pleasures of Paris. But Alfieri / did not know his own nature; nor was he aware that he could find happiness through the medium of his passions and intellect only, while amusement and even dissipation had the effect of wearying and disgusting him. The circumstance of his first entrance into Paris sufficed to cloud his stay; nay, the feelings of his whole life were influenced by the painful impression then made. It was the month of August, in Italy so sunshiny and festal; a drizzling rain, accompanied by a chilling temperature of air, impressed him most disagreeably; the streets, houses, and people were all mean, dirty, and impertinent in his eyes; his illusions vanished, and, but for a sense of shame, he would on the instant have quitted the city he had come so far to visit. The lapse of a quarter of a century did not erase the profound traces of disgust and aversion that were then trenched in his mind. At the time, the principal effect of his disappointment was a little to diminish his passion for travelling; and to find that, beyond the Alps, he learned to appreciate the beauties of the divine country he had been so eager to quit. a Ariosto and Tasso were both court poets at Ferrara during the Estense renaissance. Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso was written to glorify his Este patron, Alfonso I, Duke of Ferrara (rgn 1505–34); Tasso’s mental illness led to his extended imprisonment (1579–86) at the hospital of Santa Anna and to his banishment from Ferrara in 1586 by Alfonso II (rgn. 1559–97). The Shelleys, by contrast, were intensely aware of the literary associations of Ferrara and Arquà with Ariosto, Tasso and Petrarch during their 1818 travels; cf. MWSJ, I, p. 235; PBSL, II, pp. 46–7.

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He delayed his departure from Paris till January, and then hurried to London, which delighted as much as Paris had disgusted him; and he thus gives evidence of a fact of which many English, who have travelled, must be aware – that there is something in Italy and the Italians, in the rural beauty of the country, and in the unpretending but highly gifted natives, more congenial to our taste, than in the peculiar habits and manners of the French. Industrya does here, in beautifying the landscape, what nature does beyond the Alps; while in France, there is a discomfort and a desolation apparent in the midst of its civilisation and plenty, which is singularly disagreeable. In this country, the roads, the inns, the horses, the women, all charmed Alfieri; the appearance of general competence, the activity of life, and the cleanliness and comfort of the houses, diminutive as they struck him to be, made an agreeable impression, which each successive visit renewed. / Yet he led a strange life – avoiding society, although in the midst of it. He had been accompanied from Paris by a friend; and he amused himself, each morning, by driving him about town, and acting the coachman for him at night, sitting on the box for hours, and taking pride in his dexterity in extricating his carriage amidst the difficulties and confusion attendant on the vast multitude of equipages that throng round places of amusement during the London season. This did for a little while; then, in obedience to his wandering propensity, he made a tour to Portsmouth, Bristol, and Oxford. He was pleased with all he saw; and began to entertain a wish to settle in a country whose aspect was so agreeable, where the manners were simple, the women modest and beautiful, the laws equitable, and the men free. The enthusiasm he felt, made him disregard the melancholy generated by the gloomy climate, and the ruinous expense of living. He observes, and with justice, that Italy and England are the only countries in which it is desirable to live: the former, because there nature vindicates her rights, and rises triumphant over the evils produced by the governments; the latter, because art conquers nature, and transforms a rude ungenial land into a paradise of comfort and laughing abundance.b In June, he left England for Holland; and at the Hague for the first time became really in love, and at the same time his heart opened itself to friendship. The lady whom he admired, and who returned his affection, was unfortunately a married woman, but an Italian education and habits prevented any scruples of conscience from interrupting the felicity he enjoyed. His friend was Don José d’Alcunha, Portuguese minister in Holland.c Alfieri describes him as clever and original, with a cultivated understanding and firm unbending character: with tact and efficacy the Portuguese awoke in his new friend shame for his idle, aimless a

Farming is meant by ‘industry’ in this instance. Vita, Ep. III. chs 5–6, 8; Alfieri early travels included France (1767), England and Holland (1768). c Vita, Ep. III. ch. 6; Don José d’Acunha is credited with first introducing Alfieri to the works of Machiavelli. Discussion of Alfieri’s adulterous love affair and his attempted suicide, so prominent in the Vita, are conspicuously absent from Mary Shelley’s summary. b

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life. It was a curious circumstance, he tells us, that he never felt a strong desire for mental improvement, except at / such periods as when he was passionately in love, and his time so employed that he could bestow none of it on literature. In process of time, when he became worthily attached, he may have perceived in this, the beneficent action of the passions in our nature, when their objects are what they ought to be – ennobling and permanent. After a period of great happiness, he was forced to separate from the lady to whom he was attached, – she being obliged to join her husband, who had gone to Switzerland; and Alfieri suffered the mildest of the punishments that result from loving one to whom you cannot consecrate your life. But though a separation, attended neither by disastrous incident nor infidelity, is the gentlest penance for such an error, it visited the young Italian in no gentle manner. It was a natural wish, as any one will acknowledge who has attended to his own sensations, on first being subjected to passionate sorrow, that which he formed – for being bled: prevented by his friend and a faithful servant from allowing this bleeding to be fatal, his grief became gloomy and taciturn; Holland grew hateful to him; and he returned to Italy with the utmost speed – never resting till he found himself at Cumiano, in his sister’s villa, after a three weeks’ journey, during which time he saw nothing and said nothing, communicating only by signs with his faithful servant, Elia, who never lost sight of him, and bore with exemplary patience his caprices and heedless tyranny. This state of melancholy regret augmented his love of solitude, and engendered, moreover, a desire to study: he passed the winter at Turin, in his sister’s house, seeing absolutely no society, and spending his time in reading. He turned over the pages of Voltaire, Rousseau, Helvetius, and Montesquieu; but his chief delight was derived from the perusal of Plutarch’s lives.a His mind was strongly excited by the heroic virtues of the great men of whom he read, and tears of mingled admiration and indignation gushed from his eyes. He felt the misfortune it was to be a native of Piedmont; and to / have been born in a country, and at a time, when no scope was afforded for word or action, scarcely any for thought and feeling. In the spring of 1769 he set out on another and a longer tour. He had been disappointed in a matrimonial project, proposed to him by his brother-in-law. The young lady was rich and beautiful, but she preferred a handsome young courtier to a man already remarkable for the eccentricity of his conduct and the sombreness of his disposition: for Alfieri, withdrawn from the common routine of society by his passionate and earnest nature, could but awkwardly and reluctantly fulfil the thousand minute duties which an Italian is accustomed to pay to his lady; nor, on this occasion, did love inspire him with that devotion of heart which might a

Voltaire (1694–1778), Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–88), Claude Adrien Helvétius (1715–71) and Charles de Secondat, baron de Montesquieu (1689–1755), prominent figures of the European Enlightenment. Plutarch (c. AD 50–125), Greco-Roman historian and author of Parallel Lives (c. AD 99).

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have proved acceptable in lieu of petty attentions. He was now twenty, and, according to the laws of his country, of age – so that his entire fortune was at his disposal: this consisted of an income of 2500 sequins, or about 1200l. a year, and a large sum of ready money; and, to augment the value of his possessions, he had acquired the habits of rational economy, which sprang from the scantiness of the allowance which his prudent trustee had made him. Thus he set out with “money in his purse,”a and no love in his heart, except the tender recollection of his halfextinguished Flemish flame; and if with a head not much fuller of ideas, yet with a thousand sentiments awakened, which afforded matter for thought. As he drove along, he read Montaigne,b or reflected on what he read – a little galled by finding that he could not construe the Latin quotations, and still more so by being obliged to skip the Italian ones. Vienna and Berlin were hastily visited, and seen without pleasure: he had beheld the results of liberty in England, and he had read of them in Plutarch, and his natural sense of independence made him revolt from the military despotisms of the north. Instinctive good sense served him better than the philosophy of Voltaire, and he recognised the / cloven foot of arbitrary power in the barrack capital of the philosopher of Sans Souçi.c He hurried away from these mockeries of liberalism, and found more pleasure in the simplicity of the Swedes: the contrast which barren nature afforded, in these frozen regions, to the luxuriance and glory of Italy interested and pleased him; the velocity of his sledge, as he proceeded through the silent pine forests, and over the ice-covered lakes, fostered an agreeable melancholy; and he describes his spring journey from Sweden to St. Petersburgh with a vividness and beauty which it would spoil to abridge.d Embarking at the first breaking up of the frost on the Gulf of Bothnia, his boat had to struggle through the floating ice; and the novelty of his situation was a source of amusement. “This is the country of Europe,” he says, “most agreeable to me, from its savage rudeness; fantastic, gloomy, and even sublime, ideas are created in the mind by the vast, undefinable silence that reigns there, making you feel as if transported away from the globe.”e St. Petersburgh disappointed him; nor would he see the empress Catherine, whom he regarded as the murderess of her husband, and whose conduct – having failed in her promise of bestowing a constitution on her subjects – was unredeemed, in his eyes, by any mitigating circumstances.f

a

Adapted from Othello, I. iii. 281. Michel de Montaigne (1533–92), French philosopher and essayist; see French Lives I. c Frederick the Great of Prussia, known as the philosopher of Sans Souci, after his palatial residence in Potsdam and his philosophising with Voltaire, to whom he had been patron. d 1769–70 Alfieri travelled through Sweden, Denmark, and Russia; Mary Shelley must have been reminded of her mother’s travels through the region, described in Wollstonecraft’s A Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark (1796). e Vita, Ep. III, ch. 9. f Catherine II, (‘the Great’) (1729–96) became empress of Russia upon the deposition of her husband, Peter III, in 1762. Her responsibility for his murder is unproven. b

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From Russia he traversed Germany to Holland, and again visited England. His time, during his second visit to this country, was engrossed by an attachment for a lady of rank, who proved herself not only unworthy of the affection of the husband whom she betrayed, but the lover to whom she was false. The more violent passions of Alfieri were all roused to their utmost vehemence by the various chances of this adventure, which was attended by all those hairbreadth escapes, menacing dangers, and final ruin and misery, which usually wait upon intrigue in England. First it was love, accompanied by the “sin and fear” which attends on mystery and deceit;a then separation came to drive him to despair. The London season over, the / lady went to her country house near Windsor; and Alfieri could only visit her clandestinely, on such nights when her husband was absent in London.b His impatience and agony during the periods of separation were only appeased by excessive exercise: he rode about all day, performing such feats of horsemanship as endangered his life. Leaping a five-barred gate, with his thoughts wandering to his lady, instead of being fixed on his bridle-hand, his horse fell on him, and dislocated his shoulder; but that did not prevent a visit to Windsor on the following evening, the last that he was destined to make. The servants observed and watched him, and the husband of the lady had intelligence of her infidelity; “and here,” he writes, “it is impossible not to laugh at the contrast between English and Italian jealousy, so different are the passions in different characters, in another climate, and, above all, under other laws. Every Italian would now expect to hear of blows, poison, stabs, or, at least, of the imprisonment of the lady, under such violent provocation: nothing of all this happened, though the English husband adored his wife after his manner.” It was much according to the present customs, that the English husband, besides instituting legal proceedings against his wife and her lover, called out the latter. The duel was, however, a very harmless proceeding: Alfieri could not fence, and his adversary was satisfied by merely drawing blood by a scratch in the arm, carefully abstaining from inflicting the wound or death which he had it in his power to bestow. A far deeper and more painful wound was reserved for the Italian, when he learned how grossly the lady had deceived him. A groom of her husband had formerly been her lover: he still lived in the house; and, fearing that his lord would risk his life in an encounter with Alfieri, he hastened to inform him that the lady was totally unworthy such a chivalrous encounter. All these disgraceful circumstances came out on the trial. Alfieri, maddened and enraged, was yet unable, at first, to separate from his / treacherous mistress. They travelled together in England, he furious a ‘Great is their love who love in sin and fear’; Byron, Heaven and Earth, A Mystery, I. i. l. 67, composed 1821 and first published in The Liberal, II (1823). The phrase is also quoted in Lodore (MWSN, vol. 6, p. 198). Some of Byron’s dramas, such as Sardanapalus, are strongly influenced by Alfieri. b Penelope, Lady Ligonier (née Pitt), wife of an Irish peer, Edward Earl Ligonier. The affair was a celebrated scandal and is recounted by Alfieri in Vita, Ep. III, chs 10–11. Mary Shelley also wrote to Gabriele Rossetti in April 1835 requesting personal recollections of Alfieri (MWSL, II, pp. 240–2), and he may have provided unpublished details of the affair.

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at his own weakness, and perpetually struggling to vanquish it; till, seizing on a moment when shame and indignation were stronger than love, he left her at Rochester, on her way to France with a relative, and returned to London. In after times, the chief impression left on his mind from this adventure was, a feeling of mixed respect and gratitude towards her husband, who spared both his life and his purse, neither killing him, nor demanding damages: the first the English noble, apparently, had at his mercy; but it is unlikely, under all the circumstances, that the latter should have been awarded him, to any great extent.a After tempests like these, it was long before the impetuous and sensitive soul of Alfieri settled into any thing like calm: paroxysms of rage, love, grief, and despair succeeded one to the other, and his only relief was derived from locomotion. He left London, and after visiting his friend Alcunha at the Hague, he hurried on to Paris; he traversed France, and entered Spain, struggling with the passion that warred within him, and devoured by the gloomiest melancholy. At Barcelona he bought two Spanish horses, and with these resolved to proceed on his journey to Madrid. His carriage went on first, under the care of the servants and muleteers; and he followed, chiefly on foot, his beautiful Andalusian trotting beside him with the docility of a dog. This mixture of idleness and change – of solitude and independence – soothed his disturbed mind. He was given up to endless reverie, now engrossed by melancholy and moral trains of thought; now possessed by images wild, terrible, or gay. He knew no language, and could express nothing that he felt – all was confused and vague, and mingled with violent transports of grief and despair. He spoke to no one; and his taciturn, self-devouring misery irritated him almost to madness. His faithful servant, Elia, who followed him during all his journeys, had nearly become the victim to an explosion of the pent-up volcano. In combing the count’s long / tresses, – which it was the fashion then to wear, – he accidentally pulled one hair; and Alfieri, starting up like lightning, hurled a candlestick at his head, which struck him on the temple and inflicted a wound. Elia’s Italian nature was roused, and he flew on his master. Other people interfered, and no more harm was done. Alfieri told his servant that he might kill him if he chose: he deserved it, and would take no precautions against his vengeance; and he praises his own courage in thus exposing himself, and the magnanimity of the man for not rising in the night and murdering him as he slept. The whole scene is inexplicable to our northern imaginations, and borders on the excesses of savage nature. “It would be difficult for any one,” says Alfieri, “to understand the mixture of ferociousness and generosity on both sides, who has not had experience of the manners and hot blood of the Piedmontese.”b a Under English law until 1857, a husband was entitled to sue not only for divorce but also for damages against his wife’s lover. This was called ‘bringing an action of criminal conversation’ (‘crim. con.’). However, that the wife in this case had shared her favours with the groom would, as Mary Shelley dryly implies, have diminished her ‘worth’ in a court of law. See Elaine Jordan, ‘Criminal Conversation: Mary Wollstonecraft’s The Wrongs of Woman’, Women’s Writing, 4. 2 (1997), 221–34. b Vita, Ep. III, ch. 12.

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After a journey through Spain and Portugal more savage, wild, and solitary than was even his wont, Alfieri returned to Turin; and here he seemed to be in greater danger than he had ever been of losing all the exaltation of character and feeling that clung to him despite his excesses, his ignorance, and the total absence of all mental culture. He took a magnificent house, and fitted it up with luxury and taste. He had a circle of friends, who formed themselves into a society, with laws and regulations. One of their amusements was a sort of literary budget, to which the various members contributed writings for the recreation of the general society. Alfieri wrote several papers, which obtained a good deal of applause: he had a turn for satire, and that is always a popular style of writing in a coterie. These compositions were all in French. A worse degradation than this sort of vegetative dissipation awaited the count: he became a cavaliere servente. The lady was of rank, a good deal older than himself, but of extraordinary beauty.a She was noted for her gallantries; and Alfieri, who was not in love, her style of beauty even not being exactly to his taste, was / drawn in, at first, by mere idleness, and a belief in the excessive attachment she bore him. Soon a most vehement passion engrossed him. Friends, diversions, even horses, were neglected; from eight in the morning till twelve at night he was continually with her – discontented with his servitude, but unable to stay away. It is difficult to understand, and impossible to sympathise with, the sort of frensy he describes. He did not esteem the lady, and he despised himself for the humiliating state to which he was reduced. The situation of a cavaliere servente is, we are told by high English authority in such matters, “no sinecure.”b To be constantly in attendance is its chief duty. A cavaliere sits with his lady, drives with her, walks with her, goes to assemblies and the opera with her: he follows her like her shadow, and no matrimonial exigence can equal the total abnegation of all independent occupation to which the cavaliere must submit. The lady, indeed, may equally become weary; but an Italian woman is used to this excess of indolence. Her life is monotonous, her passage from one amusement to the other invariable, sameness forming the essence of her existence: nothing animates it except love, scandal, or quarrelling: these, and the natural vivacity of southern blood, which can diversify the indolence which would otherwise mantle over and incrust every faculty. But all this was torture to the fiery spirit of the count, who, born for better things, struggled with his fetters, and roared like a lion in the toils. His slavery lasted for two years. At one time, the nervous irritation produced a violent and inexplicable malady, which the wits of Turin declared he had invented exclusively for himself. He was unable for several days to swallow a Alfieri’s involvement was with the wife of the Marquis Turinetti di Priè; his drama Cleopatra (1774) was suggested by a tapestry in her palazzo. b Byron, Beppo (1818), describes a cavaliere servente as a ‘supernumerary slave, who stays / Close to the lady as a part of dress, / Her word the only law which he obeys. / His is no sinecure, as you may guess’ (ll. 313–18). Mary Shelley slyly invokes Byron as a ‘high English authority’ on the strength of his experience as cavaliere servente to Teresa Guiccioli.

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aliment in any shape; and the convulsions brought on by any attempt to force it on him almost deprived him of life. At another time, he acquired resolution enough to scheme a journey to Milan, and actually set out; but scarcely had he passed the gates of Turin than his heart failed him, and he returned, burning with indignation against himself, to resume his chains. His friends saw / and pitied his miserable state, and their compassion aggravated his sufferings, while it did not enable him to rise above the enthralment. Day after day, month after month, he formed new resolves to extricate himself, and for a long time in vain. At length, in the February of 1775, being now twenty-six years of age, he, in desperation, came to a determination to break off the disgraceful intercourse. His old remedy of change of place had proved of no avail, so he resolved to remain on the same spot; to shut himself up in his own house, which was opposite that of the lady, but to receive no letters, hear no messages, and to be induced by no failing of the heart ever to behold her more. In token of his fixed purpose, he cut off his long hair, and sent it to a friend, as a proof that he could not present himself in society so shorn and disfigured. And now a better day dawned on the tempest of passion that darkened his soul. In Lisbon he had been acquainted with the abate Caluso,a a man of learning and talent, who had, in some degree, awakened in him a desire for knowledge, while, with the utmost forbearance and kindness, he tried to lighten the shame inspired by every glimmering light that displayed his excessive ignorance. They had passed many long evenings together, and Alfieri preferred his instructive but unpretending conversation to the gaieties of society; and here he felt an awakening of that dormant power of composition which afterwards was to expand into worthy and perennial fruit. In Turin, also, he was acquainted with several literati; and now, a voluntary prisoner, and passing many long hours in entire solitude, unaware and almost unsought, a true, strong, and enduring love of knowledge sprang up within him, never after to be weakened or destroyed. The first token of the spirit of composition, was a sonnet in commemoration of the freedom he had acquired. Some years before, in Paris he had bought a collection of Italian poets, and by reading them had gained a slight knowledge of versification, / and of his native language; yet so ludicrously imperfect was this, that, when he showed his sonnet to a literary man, the first advice he received was to learn to spell. Orthography, grammar, and rhythm were alike defective in his production. He was not discouraged. This same friend, father Paciaudi, had given him the “Cleopatra” of cardinal Delfino.b Alfieri fancied that he could write a better tragedy himself; and a

Tommaso Valperga Caluso (1737–1815), one of the poet’s close friends; see Vittorio Alfieri, Degli studi e delle virtu di Tommaso Valperga di Caluso; cenni storici (1815). There is no obvious connection between his name and Mary Shelley’s Valperga, though the fictional Countess of Valperga shares many of his good qualities. b Paolo Maria Paciaudi (1710–85) and Cardinal Giovanni Delfino (1617–99). Le Tragedie di Giovanni Delfino, senatore veneziano, poi patriarca d’Aquileja, e cardinale di Santa Chiesa (1733) included La Cleopatra. See also Vita, Ep. III. ch. 15.

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he began one on the same subject. He consulted his friends upon it, and tried to gain some instruction as to style and poetic laws, of which, hitherto, he had remained in profound ignorance. His house became a sort of academy; while he, desirous of learning, but proud and indocile, wearied himself and all around him by his alternate fits of industry and despondency. At length, a tragedy and a farce were the result of his endeavours, and both were acted on the same nights, at the theatre of Turin, with applause, on two consecutive evenings, and were given out for a third representation. But Alfieri by this time began to discover the entire want of merit of these productions: which prove, as we may judge from the passages he has preserved, that ideas and feelings are of no avail in composition, where there is a total absence of style, and an absolute incapacity of finding language in which to clothe the naked and unformed conceptions of the brain. On the third night, therefore, Alfieri prevented the representation; and on the same night he was seized by so vehement and burning a wish to deserve the applause of an audience, that, he tells us, no fever of love had ever assailed him with similar impetuosity. “And thus,” he says, “at the age of seven and twenty, I entered into the difficult engagement with the public and myself to become a writer of tragedies; and these were the props I had to sustain me in my undertaking, – a resolved, obstinate, and untamed spirit; a heart boiling over with all sorts of emotions, among which predominated the transports of love, and a profound and indignant abhorrence of every species of / tyranny; a very slight recollection of the French tragedies I had seen acted, having read and studied none; an entire ignorance of the rules of the drama; and a total incapacity to command the language of which I made use; – all this was surrounded by a husk, not so much of presumption, as of petulance, and an impetuosity of character which stood in the way of my ever, except with reluctance, acknowledging, investigating, or giving ear to truth.”a The first thing he found he had to do, was to apply himself to a spelling-book and grammar: this necessity was not admitted without a struggle; but the ardour of his enthusiasm enabled him to triumph over these petty but perplexing and irritating obstacles; and he gave himself up to the study of language with a mixture of impatience and perseverance that kept his mind in a perpetual tumult. He was under the necessity of driving away all French words and forms of speech from his mind, and of imbuing his thoughts in the idiom of Tuscany, – a work of unspeakable labour, uniting the studies of a man with those of a child, and sufficient to have overcome the resolution of any temper less ardent and ambitious than his own. After all, it must be acknowledged that it was to a great degree an insuperable difficulty; and, though overcome, in appearance, by Alfieri, yet in composition he had always two labours, – that of giving birth to ideas, and that of examining with the attention and scepticism of a foreigner the words in which he clothed them. This, perhaps, is the cause, that although, in process of time, his a

Mary Shelley translates faithfully the opening passage of Vita, Ep. IV. ch. 1.

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prose style became unexceptionable, and that of his tragedies full of fire and strength, his lyrics are such lamentable failures. For nearly a year he was given up to the ungrateful task of clearing away the rubbish of another language, and placing the foundation stones of a pure and classic Italian. He retired to a village near Turin, that his attention might not be called off; and there, with a literary friend, he laboured at all that nauseates / a schoolboy, with the still greater disgust of mere verbal difficulties which is felt by a man. After a year of much industry, he began to be aware that he should never attain his object as long as he merely translated himself from the French, which had become the language of his thoughts; and he resolved to pass six months in Tuscany, to learn, to hear, speak, think, and feel Tuscan only. In this journey he sought the acquaintance of the first literary men, and exerted himself strenuously to acquire the knowledge of which he was so deficient. He never deceived himself by fancying his deficiencies were less than they were. He was born endowed with genius; uncultivated and empty of all knowledge as his mind was, yet it was filled with thought and feeling, and, during his solitary journeys and long incommunicative days of reverie, he had studied his own character. At one time he had kept a journal, in which he put down not only his actions, but their motives, investigating his moral nature in its inmost recesses. This was an exercise of mind which, joined to his natural talent, peculiarly adapted him to developement of feeling and motive, which is the essence of the tragic art; and it was towards this species composition that, from the first, he felt himself irresistibly impelled. He had now fully entered on his dramatic enterprise. Several months before, he had written his tragedies of “Philip” and “Polinices,”a in French prose, which with unwearied industry, he put into Italian verse three or four several times; endeavouring to form a rhythm adapted to dialogue, and to concentrate and simplify his style as much as possible. While studying Italian, he had also applied himself to re-learning Latin; and the tragedies of Seneca suggested other subjects. “Antigone,” “Agamemnon,” “Orestes,” and “Don Garzia,” were all conceived, and in part written, while he was indefatigable in the labour, it cannot so well be said of polishing his language, as of modelling and remodelling / it, as his greater use of Tuscan, and his critical taste suggested. He had now an aim in life, from the pursuit of which he never deviated, but followed it up with incredible enthusiasm and perseverance. His labours were great in literature, yet confined chiefly to the formation of style; and he translated Sallust, and other Latin authors, for the sake of improving in force and conciseness.b He did not continue in one place: after a few months spent at Florence, he returned to Turin, recalled by the love of his friends and his stud: but during the a

Filippo (1783), on the tyrant Philip II of Spain 1592–9; and Polinices (1783), inspired by Alfieri’s reading of Statius’s Thebaid. b Caius Sallustius Crispus (86–34 BC); elsewhere (Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 4) Alfieri expresses admiration for Sallust’s concision.

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following spring he obtained the necessary permission of the king to quit Piedmont and return to Tuscany, for the purpose of imbibing at the purest source that energetic and concise language, which he considered yielded in elegance and force of expression to no other in the world. As the city where the purest Tuscan is spoken, Alfieri visited Siena, and spent the summer there. He there formed an intimacy which served to encourage him in his laborious pursuits; for he tells us he was never capable of arduous and sustained undertakings, except when the feelings of his heart were exercised by an intercourse of friendship or love. Francesco Goria was of ignoble birth, and his ostensible pursuits were those of traffic, which he pursued more for the sake of pleasing his family than for gain. In the obscurity of his warehouse he occupied himself with classical literature, and nurtured an admirable and delicate taste for the fine arts. Extreme philanthropy formed the essence of his character, and a warm-hearted sympathy, that led him to forgive and love all mankind. The idle and opulent nobles of the city could not, by their worthlessness, excite his hatred or contempt. With Tacitusb in his hand, and the pure love of liberty in his heart, how could he hate the victims of tyranny? he might exclaim, with a poet of modern days, whose political principles were equally derived from the sensibility of his heart,– / “I hate thy want of love and truth: How should I then hate thee?”c

Self-knowledge deracinated pride in himself, and contempt for others; and thus, humbly occupied in his shop, he could extend forbearance to all, except the primal causes of the degradation of his countrymen; while his only happiness was derived from books, and his chief grief from comparing himself and his times with the men and times of which he read. There is a simplicity in Italian manners that renders the friendship between count Alfieri and Gori, the mercer, by no means extraordinary. To the sympathy produced by an agreement in opinions was added the respect which Alfieri felt for the virtuous qualities of his unpretending friend. Their talk was of the ancient glory of their country, and of the literary ambition of Alfieri. In the course of conversation, Gori suggested the conspiracy of the Pazzi as a good subject for a tragedy. Alfieri was ignorant of the history of the republic of Florence, and had never heard of the Pazzi.d Gori placed the Florentine annals of Machiavelli in his hands. Machiavelli (whatever his motives were for writing “The Prince’) was an enthusiastic republican. He tells us in his letters, that while writing the history, a

Francesco Gori Gandellini (d. 1784), friend and correspondent of the poet; Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 4. b Tacitus’s Annales, which the Shelleys both read in 1816 and 1817 (MWSJ, II, pp. 97–9). c P. B. Shelley, ‘Lines to a Critic’, ll. 15–16; first published in The Liberal, III (1823), pp. 187–8. d Pazzi conspiracy, see ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’. The next two sentences, which repeat a central idea of ‘Machiavelli’, were presumably added for those who had not read Italian Lives I.

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he delighted himself by exposing the conduct of the princes who had ruined Italy: his spirit of freedom found an echo in Alfieri’s heart, and so sharpened his hatred of despotism, and his love of liberty, that, throwing aside his tragedies, he wrote a treatise on tyranny, – a work of eloquence, but rather a juvenile ebullition of feeling, than an argumentative essay. On the advance of winter, Alfieri transferred himself to Florence; and here an event happened that altered the colour of his future life, through the influence of a constant attachment, which, accompanied by esteem for the good qualities and talents of its object, remained fixed in his heart to the end of his life. Louisa de Stolberg, countess of Albany,a was at that time twenty-five years of age, beautiful and full of / talent. Her rank and wealth gave her a distinguished place in society. She was the wife of the last of the Stuarts who made pretensions to the throne of England, who unfortunately disgraced his illustrious house, and even the private station to which he was reduced, by habits the most deplorable. Alfieri now regarded his future prospects as fixed: he had long determined never to marry, considering that, under the despotic government to which he was a subject, the ties of husband and father would add weight to the chains imposed upon him: attached for life to a woman whom he esteemed worthy of him, and beyond all things ambitious of distinguishing himself as an author and a defender of the cause of liberty, he began to put into execution the schemes which had long presented themselves to his imagination, for acquiring entire personal freedom. The nobles of Piedmont were in a peculiarly enslaved state: they could not quit the territories of their sovereign except by especial leave, granted for a limited time; nor could they publish any writings in a foreign country, without the licence of their native prince, under penalty of a fine, and even imprisonment, “if” (so the law was expressed) “it was necessary to make a public example.”b These shackles were intolerable to a man of independent mind, bent upon giving testimony of his abhorrence of despotic rule: but few men would have freed themselves at the cost that Alfieri paid. He came to a resolve to make a donation of the whole of his property to his sister Julia, reserving to himself only the annual income of 1400 sequins, or about 600l. a year, the half of his actual receipt.c To execute this design, the king’s permission was necessary, who readily gave it, “being,” says Alfieri, “as willing to get rid of me as I was to emancipate myself from his authority.”d

a Louisa von Stolberg-Gedern, Countess of Albany (1753–1824), wife of Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender (1720–88). Known as ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’, Stuart claimed the right to the English throne through his direct lineal descent from James II (1633–1701); in an effort to assert this right, he led the Scottish Jacobite rebellion of 1745. b Mary Shelley translates from Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 6. c The translation of the sum into English pounds is Mary Shelley’s, who had to deal with a variety of currencies when in Italy. She might have seen a partial parallel in the circumstances of P. B. Shelley, who in 1815 renounced his interest in a large part of his inheritance in return for an independency of £1000 a year. d Translated from Vita, Ep. IV. ch. 6.

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The transfer, however, was not completed without a good deal of annoyance; and Alfieri was irritated, at one time, into making a declaration, that, if his brother-in-law would not receive the donation, he must the / count’s abandonment of his whole property; and that he would resign his claim to every possession rather than be fettered by the laws attendant upon keeping it. In the exaltation of his imagination, he almost imagined that this latter offer would be acted on; and, finding himself reduced to merely a few thousand sequins of ready money, he fell into his second fit of avarice, selling his horses, and all his superfluous plate, furniture, and even dress, renouncing the Sardinian uniform, to which he had adhered, from boyish vanity, even after quitting the service. He spent a good deal of money in books; but this was his sole expense; while his abstemiousness of living, directed by economy, became of the most rigid kind. Thus, even in extremes, resolved never to marry, resolved to be an author, he completed sacrifices, which a thousand circumstances might afterwards have caused him to regret, but which, he assures us, he never for a moment repented. He did not confide the secret of this change in his affairs to the countess until it was past recal; for, as their ultimate effect was to render their union more stable and permanent, he felt that she might consider it right, as a mark of her disinterestedness, to oppose them. When all was over, her blame was of no avail, and she forgave the mystery he had practised. These various annoyances, joined to the perturbations of love, and the ardour of his literary application, occasioned an illness from which he only recovered when the season of summer brought that healthiness of feeling, that lightness of spirit, and that energy for composition, which summer and its heats always imparted to his constitution.a During this summer, Alfieri, as he tells us, “in a frantic delirium of a love of freedom,” wrote his tragedy of the “Pazzi,” and that of “Mary Stuart” (Mary Queen of Scots); the latter at the request of the countess of Albany. During the following year he completed these and made the first sketch of “Rosmunda,” “Ottavia,” and “Timoleon.”b Since his tragedies have become so numerous, and many of his best are written, it will be as well to / glance over them, and to give some account of his progress and success in an art to which he devoted his life and fortune. Energy and conciseness are the distinguishing marks of Alfieri’s dramas. Wishing to bring the whole action of the piece into one focus, he rejected altogether the confidantes of the French theatre, so that his dramatis personæ are limited to the principals themselves. The preservation of the unities of time and place also contributed to curtail all excrescences; so that his tragedies are short, and all bear upon one point only, which he considered the essence of unity of action. Thus, in a Again a possible glance at P. B. Shelley, whom Mary Shelley in her ‘Note on the Cenci’ remembers as having been stimulated to work by the heat of the summer of 1819. b Translated from Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 7, describing the summer of 1778; Alfieri’s La Congiura de’ Pazzi (Conspiracy of the Pazzi), Maria Stuarda, Rosmunda, Ottavia and Timoleone, all published in 1783.

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the “Merope,” there are but four interlocutors, the queen and her son, his fosterfather, and the tyrant.a Instead, therefore, as is the case in the French dramas, of the action being carried on by a perpetual talk about it, at once tedious and unnatural, the interest is always at its height between the parties themselves; and it is singular, in the “Merope” in particular, with what talent and success he keeps the action in perpetual progress, and the passions developed by such slender means. It was the turn of Alfieri’s character to consider it a duty in an author rather to conquer difficulties than to acquire facilities. He would read no other tragedians, for fear of imitating them, and abstained from a perusal of the great master of the art, Shakespeare, from the same mistaken notion. Genius need not fear to be imitative; but genius, unaided by cultivation, and by a study of what has gone before, can never surpass what is already written: it were as if a scientific man were to refuse to be initiated in the discoveries of science, that he might pursue his labours in a new and original path. Thus he might, we will say, re-invent gunpowder and printing, but never a new law and a new power. To use a more homely illustration, it were as if an agriculturist refused to manure the ground, and was bent on forcing the native soil, to produce by labour what would arise with greater fertility and ease if aided by / extraneous nutriment. It is a law of mechanics, never to waste power, but to proportionate on all occasions the means to the end. If, instead of refusing to read the finest dramatic works, Alfieri had studied in them the genius and essence of the art, he might, instead of simply restricting his invention to the bald and inconclusive expedient of contracting the personages of his drama, have invented some original method of combining the simplicity of design consequent on an observance of the unities, with a more natural and inforced arrangement of plot, and with a greater variety and truth of character. The great distinction between Shakespeare and almost every other dramatic writer arises from his development and variety of character: all his personages are individuals. In other authors, we have a lover, an ambitious man, a tyrant, or a victim of tyranny; but in Shakespeare it is not the passion that makes the man, but the peculiar character of the person that gives reality and life to the passion. Thus Richard III. and Macbeth are both ambitious; but how differently do their respective dispositions modulate their conduct and feelings! The cruel, remorseless Richard can never, in a single line he utters, be mistaken for the weak, vacillating usurper, whose cruelties result from the necessities of his situation, and not from inborn ferocity of character. Juliet, Imogen, and Rosalind, are alike girls in love; but how variously do they display their sentiments! the ardent Italian, the fond, devoted wife, and the sprightly, spirited daughter of an exiled prince, are all individuals characterised by distinctive marks; so that a painter would give to each a physiognomy utterly dissimilar the one from the other. If Alfieri had read Shakespeare, he might have discovered and appreciated this incomparable mark a

Merope (1783), on the subject of Merope’s defiance of the tyrant Polyphontes.

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of his excellence; and his knowledge of the human heart would have led him to imitate a model which, if succeeded in, could not, from its very nature, bear any resemblance to mere plagiarism. He himself felt that one tyrant should not quite resemble another, nor one lover be but the mirror of another: / but so it is with him, with few exceptions – situation, not character, forms the interest of his pieces. Besides this, Alfieri was not an imaginative poet: his sonnets and longer poems are failures; his tragedies are vacant of ideal imagery; his sensible objects are never animated by a soul infused into them by the speaker; his daggers and poisons, and all the other tragic paraphernalia, are the mere things themselves – the poet’s eye never gives “to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.”a His inventive powers consisted in being able to conceive situations of passion and interest, and giving to his personages feelings and language at once natural, powerful, and pathetic. His mode of writing his tragedies shows, indeed, how spontaneous was his conception of the action of a piece, how mechanical the effort by which he clothed it in verse. He was accustomed to throw off the design of the intended action in a sketch of a few pages, and then to lay it by: after an interval, he read this sketch, and, if it pleased him, he arranged the plot into acts, and scenes, and speeches, putting down every idea that presented itself, and the whole in prose; and again he put aside his labour for future consideration. If, on reading it over, he felt his imagination warmed and excited, and the ideas renew themselves in his mind vividly and forcibly, then he completed his work by verifying it. This is not the routine which a genuine poet follows: something of the improvisatore’s art is inherent in him, and he writes “in numbers, for the numbers come.”b “Philip” was the first of Alfieri’s tragedies: it was originally written in French prose; and he was so well pleased with its conduct, that he was never weary of composing and recomposing it in Italian verse, till he was satisfied that the language was equal in vigour to the ideas it expressed. The subject of “Philip” is the death of don Carlos, prince of Spain;c and the contrast of character in the three principal persons is finely conceived and well executed. There is the obdurate, / deceitful, cruel tyrant. His son, educated near him, in perpetual fear and suspicion, is never his dupe: he sees through all his subterfuges, and perceives the snares laid for him in his pretended mercies; and love, while it causes him to expose himself to his father’s vengeance, only renders him doubly watchful and cautious. Isabella, on the contrary, a daughter of France, at the same time that, from feminine delicacy, she is more restrained in her feelings, yet is unsuspicious, unguarded, and ready to give credit to the professions of those around. Her heart a Midsummer Night’s Dream, V. i. 16–17; Mary Shelley is probably thinking as well of Macbeth’s imaginary dagger in this passage. b Alexander Pope (1688–1744), Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, ‘I lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came’, l. 128. c On the subject of Don Carlos, Prince of Spain (1545–68), who was imprisoned in 1568 by his tyrannical father, Phillip II. Although idealised as a liberal spirit by Alfieri and later by Schiller and Verdi, the historical Don Carlos was homicidally mad.

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opens itself readily to hope; while that of her lover is impassive to every delusion, and he regards with terror and grief the peril to which, in her generous trustingness of nature, she heedlessly exposes herself. As the genius of Alfieri led him to depict the passions in their simplest though most energetic form, unaccompanied by the influence of manners, the metaphysical subtleties of Shakespeare, or the wild, but deeply interesting intricacy of plot of Calderona and our old dramatists, so classical subjects were treated by him with peculiar felicity. “Agamemnon” and “Orestes” are among his best dramas: the dignity and tenderness of Electra, the remorse and struggles of Clytemnestra, and the haughty, rash disposition of Orestes, have more of truth, of nature, and grace than is to be found among any modern tragedies on similar subjects: but this very simplicity becomes, to a certain degree, baldness in modern subjects; and though the conspiracy of the “Pazzi” was written, he says, with a delirous enthusiasm for liberty, there is a want of development and relief that renders it more like the sketch of a tragedy, than one filled out in all its parts. “Virginia,” equally pregnant with the spirit of liberty, has more grace and more pathos.b While the mind of Alfieri was thus fully occupied by the composition of his dramas, he was happy in the enjoyment of the friendship and love of the persons dearest to him in the world. He was the amico di / casa of the countess of Albany; that is, he spent his evenings in her society, and attended her in mornings during her visits and excursions: he kept up a constant correspondence with Gori, at Siena; and the abbate Caluso, the friend who had first awakened his desire for literary composition, many years before, at Lisbon, and to whom he was warmly attached, came from Turin, and spent a whole year at Florence, that he might enjoy his society. But the tranquil course of happiness is seldom allowed to human beings, especially when they feel and acknowledge their perfect well-being, and repose content on the accomplishment of their desires. The conduct of the unfortunate prince, who was the countess of Albany’s husband, poisoned every enjoyment, and, at last, forced his wife to separate herself from him. Given up to the most degrading vice, – in his drunken fits his ferocity and madness endangered her life, and she lived night and day, haunted by the terror inspired by his outrages. Alfieri exerted himself to obtain permission from the government for their separation; and, that being obtained, she retired to a convent in Florence, and afterwards, under the sanction of the pope, she removed to another convent at Rome. Alfieri found that thus he had succeeded in saving the life of his friend; but the separation necessary to prevent any injurious opinions being formed as to the motives of his interference, was a cruel reward for his exertions. Florence grew hateful to him in her absence; he became incapable of every occupation, and his a

Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–81), Spanish dramatist and court poet; scenes from El Mágico prodigioso (1637) were translated by P. B. Shelley (1824). See vol. 2, Spanish Lives. b Virginia (1777), on the subject of a Roman father who kills his daughter to preserve her chastity from lustful magistrates.

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whole thoughts were bent on contriving their re-union: it was matter of difficulty, but not insuperable to his earnest endeavours. After some months, the pope allowed her to quit her convent, and to take up her abode in the palace of cardinal York;a and Alfieri, having already quitted Florence and spent some time at Naples, ventured at last to fix himself at Rome also, having, as he tells us, paid court, made visits, and employed a thousand servile and humiliating arts, from which his nature revolted, to obtain the sufferance of the pope for his / residence in the same city as the countess. No honours, no glory, no worldly advantage, could have induced him to submit to what he considered the excess of meanness and degradation; love alone exalted the debasement in his eyes. Now again he was happy: he lived at the villa Strozzi, near the baths of Dioclesian.b He spent the long mornings in study, never leaving his house except to ride over the solitary and uncultivated country around Rome, whose immense and lonely expanse invited him to reverie and poetic composition. He spent the evenings with the countess, retiring at eleven to his tranquil home, which, divided from all others, rural though in the city, and surrounded by objects of antique grandeur and natural beauty, was an abode such as Rome only in the world can afford, and peculiarly adapted to the noble poet’s temper, character, and occupations. His imagination received its happiest inspirations during this period. Besides continual labour on his former compositions, he wrote the tragedies of “Merope” and “Saul,” both conceived and executed with a fervour of inspiration that allowed him no pause between the various operations into which he divided the composition of a tragedy. The “Merope” was written in a sort of indignant burst, to prove that the tragedy of Maffei on the subject, could be easily surpassed.c The “Saul” emanated from reading the Bible, in the study of which he at that time occupied himself, and which awoke in him a desire to write several dramas on scriptural subjects; had it not been that, fond of forming resolutions and of adopting voluntary chains, since he cast away and abhorred all others, he had determined to limit his tragedies to twelve. The “Saul” and “Merope” caused him to exceed this number by two; but he would not be allured to go beyond. The “Saul” is, there can be little question, the chef-d’œuvre of Alfieri: character forms the basis of the interest, and the situations are deeply pathetic. Saul, in some degree, reminds the reader of king Lear. The / Hebrew king is not, like Shakespeare’s dethroned monarch, thrust from his state, and turned out by his children, a victim to the pitiless elements, and, more bitter still, the sense of a Her brother-in-law, Henry Benedict Maria Clement Stuart, Cardinal Duke of York (1725– 1807), claimant to the English throne as Henry IX. b Baths of Diocletian (c. 306), Roman public baths, now site of S. Maria degli Angeli, designed by Michelangelo. The Shelleys visited the site in November 1818 (MWSJ, I, p. 238). The Strozzis were a prominent Florentine family. c Scipione Maffei (1675–1755), polymath and playwright. Maffei’s portrait in the engraved title-page vignette suggests that he might have been intended to play a major part in Italian Lives at some point before Mary Shelley became a Lardner author.

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undeserved injury from those whose duty it was to foster and shelter him. The children of Saul, and his son-in-law David, surround him with protestations of duty and a heartfelt wish to soothe him by their affection and care; but he is struck by God; prosperity has departed from his house, victory from his banner; and his vacillating reason discerns rebellion and dethronement in the very submissions of those around him. He struggles with the sense of ill-fortune, and the sad consciousness of the occasional aberrations of his intellect; now lamenting the days of his prosperous youth, now melted to tenderness by the caresses of his children; and again, seized upon by suspicion, envy, and pride, he wildly and madly casts from him every support and hope, to find himself, in the end, alone, defeated, lost; till in a transport of shame and despair, he ends a life so tarnished and abhorrent. “Saul” is the best of Alfieri’s tragedies; and, if we were called upon to point out his best scene, we should select the second act of that play. Alfieri felt proud and happy when he had completed his fourteen tragedies. “That month of October,” he writes, “was memorable to me, since I enjoyed a repose no less delicious than necessary, after so much labour: full to the brim of vainglory, I breathed no word of my achievements to any but myself, and, with a sort of veiled moderation, to her I loved; who, through her affection for me, probably, seemed well inclined to believe that I was capable of being a great man, and always encouraged me to do all I could to become one.”a His works, also, were becoming known. A few of the nobility of Rome formed themselves into a company, and acted his “Antigone,” in which he took the part of Creon: the representation was crowned with success.b He was, besides, in the habit of reading his tragedies in society, partly for the / sake of the mute criticism displayed by the attention and interest they excited in his audience; and, under the superintendence of his friend Gori, four among his dramas were printed at Siena. But this very celebrity was the cause of the disaster that hung over his head, and, by drawing attention to him, engendered enmity and disturbance. His familiar intercourse with the countess, and the daily habit of his life, in forming a part of the society she gathered around her, began to excite censure: this roused at once his fears and indignation. His mode of life was in strict accordance with the notions of propriety, as they rule manners in Italy. Injurious and to be deprecated as the system of society is, no individual thinks, when he follows the example of the whole of his countrymen, that he should be selected as an object for blame. However, in a moral and religious view, the so-named friendship of the countess and Alfieri was blameable, yet they scrupulously attended to the rules of decorum, which form the whole of an Italian’s conscience, generally speaking, and believed that they had every right to be happy in each other. As we have said in another place, we are not inclined to bestow vehement blame on individual conduct, resulting from a system of manners which has endured for ages, while that system a b

Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 9. Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 10.

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itself merits the utmost abhorrence, and, we are happy to be able to say, is in progress of being extirpated in Italy: until it is, there can be no hope of moral regeneration, or for the happiness and improvement of its inhabitants. However, it must be remembered that though, especially in those days, no one would have been so unreasonable or barbarous as to prevent a lady from having a cavaliere servente, yet the peculiar cavaliere she selects is usually forbidden; and as much misery is often produced by an interference in the lady’s choice as by a total prohibition to be allowed a friend at all. In the present instance, the husband of the countess complained to his brother, the priests of the holy city were / roused to a perception of the scandal, and the pope induced to consider it right to interfere. Alfieri found only one mode of mitigating the violence of the menaced storm, which was to meet it: he voluntarily quitted Rome, and, to prevent any actual measures of prohibition and banishment, went into voluntary exile. Affections and habits which had subsisted so long could not be thus rudely torn up without intense suffering. After several years of happiness, Alfieri found himself cast from the shelter he had selected, wherein to place his warm and sensitive heart, upon solitude, uncertainty, and bitter regret. Poetry and composition became distasteful to him; he could not even enjoy his friend Gori’s society, whom he visited immediately upon quitting Rome: he was ashamed to annoy him by his melancholy, and his restlessness and desire for travel returned. He visited Venice, and wandered for some time in Lombardy, and then again returned to Siena, to attend to the printing of six other tragedies, although he had become indifferent even to the lately engrossing desire of fame; and then he suddenly resolved to visit England, for the sole purpose of buying horses. He had long put himself on short allowance with regard to these favourite animals; but, having saved a large sum of ready money, during several years, at first of parsimony, and then of economy, he determined to spend it on the purchase and maintenance of a number of English horses of the best breed. A journey thus undertaken, with but one object, was executed with a mixture of impetuosity and persevering patience characteristic of Alfieri. He went to England; he bought his horses, fourteen in number, to equal that of his tragedies; he transported them safely across the straits of Dover, conducted them with unwearied care through France, and led them across Mont Cenisa with a success – they being injured neither in wind or limb – on which he for the moment prided himself scarcely less than on his dramatic labours. On his return to Italy, he remained a few weeks / at Turin; and the king showed a disposition to employ him under government. His minister sounded the count: but he refused to entertain any proposition on the subject; for, although he acknowledges that the sovereigns of the house of Savoy were not tyrannically inclined, but showed every inclination to benefit their subjects, his uncompromisa

Mont Cenis or Moncenisio, pass in the Savoy Alps, separating France and Italy, located near Turin.

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ing, and even fierce, spirit of independence spurned every shackle, and he felt to breathe more freely when he had quitted the territories of Piedmont. The countess of Albany was now on her way to Badena for the summer. She passed northwards along the shores of the Adriatic, while Alfieri proceeded south, by Modena and Pistoia, to Siena. He had resisted the temptation of crossing the narrow portion of Italy between them, and obtaining a brief interview; but when she had arrived at Baden, and he at Siena, this fortitude gave way, and he suddenly left his horses, and his friend Gori, and posted with all haste to Alsatia,b there for three months to enjoy her society. During the two years of absence which he had endured, Alfieri had forgotten poetry, study, glory, and his tragedies. But the countess’s presence awoke every dormant energy, and scarcely had he arrived, before he conceived and wrote “Agis,” “Sofonisba,” and “Mirra.”c The last deserves to be particularly mentioned as one of the best of his dramas, particularly as he overcomes difficulties of the most appalling description. “I had never thought,” he says, “either of Myrrha or Biblis as subjects for the drama. But, in reading Ovid’s “Metamorphoses,” I hit upon the affecting and divinely eloquent speech of Myrrha to her nurse, which caused me to burst into tears, and, like a flash of lightning, awoke in me the idea of a tragedy. It appeared to me that a most original and pathetic piece might be written, if the author could contrive that the spectator should discover by degrees the horrible struggles of the burning but pure heart of the more miserable than guilty Myrrha, without her betraying the half, nor scarcely / owning to herself so criminal a passion. My idea was, that she should do in my tragedy what Ovid describes her as relating, but do it in silence.”d There is something touchingly beautiful in the first description of Myrrha, in a scene between her mother and her nurse. She is described as so gentle, docile, soft, and pliable of nature – so fearful of doing wrong – so sweetly earnest to please her parents – and now to be labouring under a melancholy so dark and gloomy, as to deface her beauty, and bow her in appearance to the grave. As the action is developed, the notion that she is under a supernatural curse adds to the awe and pity of the reader; but, at last, it must be confessed, her violence and frenzy pass the bounds of modest nature, and the passion she nurtures fails in exciting our sympathy. This is the fault of the subject; inequality of age adding to the unnatural incest. To shed any interest over such an attachment, the dramatist ought to adorn the father with such youthful attributes as would be by no means contrary to probability: but then a worse evil would ensue; and the more possible such

a

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criminal passion becomes, the more violently does the mind revolt from dwelling on it.a While at Baden, Alfieri received the afflicting intelligence of the unexpected death of his friend Gori. This misfortune disturbed his enjoyment of the last days of his visit, which of themselves were sad, from the approximation of so painful and bitter a separation. With reluctance and grief he left the countess and returned to Siena; but his sorrow was too acute to admit of a prolonged stay in a town where he had enjoyed the company of a friend lost for ever. He removed to Pisa; while the countess took up her abode at Bologna. The Apennines only divided them, but he dared not cross them. The gossip of the small Italian towns is unconceivably eager and pertinacious;b and it was necessary for her future liberty to guard their conduct from all remark. Early in the following spring, the countess departed for Paris, resolving to fix herself / in France, where she had friends, relations, and resources. In the month of August she again visited Baden, and Alfieri joined her. Again his mind was vivified and warmed by happiness, and again two tragedies were the result of the inspiration. The subjects were the Brutus of the monarchy of Rome and the Brutus who died at Philippi.c In the first he displays great force and energy; but the second, we must be permitted to say, is a complete failure. To make a perfect equality of sacrifice between the two heroes, as Lucius Junius Brutus caused his sons to be decapitated, so he makes his descendant, Marcus, assassinate his parent. The idea that Cæsar was the father of Brutus is so totally devoid of foundation, and so little in consonance with the simple majesty of the character of the patriot, that it deteriorates from the interest of the drama, and, instead of exalting him, the discovery, the resolution he declares nevertheless to persist in the assassination, the sympathy and admiration he gains, is all so feeble, so puerile, and so false, that it is astonishing that Alfieri did not detect his mistake. To us, who possess the most admirable portrait ever drawn of magnanimous and single-minded virtue in Shakspeare’s delineation of the character of Brutus, this failure becomes more glaring, and gives further proof of the Italian poet’s error in not studying the pages of the greatest writer the world ever produced. After some months spent at Colmar, the countess returned to Paris; while Alfieri remained at the former place, writing letters and sonnets, mourning over his separation, and correcting his tragedies. He passed two or three years at this place, the countess joining him during the summers. In that of 1787, he had a a In Matilda, which has a loose relationship to Alfieri’s Mirra, Mary Shelley had done precisely this and had, by giving the character of the father youthful traits that a daughter could admire, increased the objectionableness of the story, by her own criteria. b Perhaps recalling the gossip to which she, P. B. Shelley, Byron and the Guicciolis had been subjected in Pisa. c Distinguishing between Lucius Junius Brutus (fl. 510 BC), founder of the Roman Republic, who executed his own sons for their treasonous part in a plot with the rival Tarquin family, and his descendant Marcus Junius Brutus (85–42 BC), assassin of Julius Caesar. In Alfieri’s titles, they are nominated Bruto Primo and Bruto Secondo.

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most dangerous illness. His friend, the abbate Caluso, came from Turin to visit him; and but for this illness, he had been perfectly happy. On the approach of winter that year, he accompanied the countess back to Paris, and established himself there. The death of her husband restored her to liberty; but a number of circumstances / led them to continue for some time in France. Whether they were married now, is a secret that never has been revealed;a but their union was acknowledged, and it was understood that their constant, inviolable attachment had received from time a sanction which prevented any blame from being cast on it by their relations and friends. Alfieri mourned over the necessity that brought him back to his abjured Gallicisms; but he was somewhat consoled, during a three years’ residence in Paris, by superintending and bringing out an edition of his tragedies, on which he bestowed the last labours of correction with regard to style, and brought the language as near to his standard of perfection as he was capable of attaining. The disagreeable and, to his sensitive temperament, irritating task of correcting the press, seems to have exercised an injurious influence over his temper and genius.b According to his own account, it dried up his brain, quenched the fire of youthful enthusiasm, and prevented his ever again writing with equal vigour and felicity. After terminating the correction of his tragedies, he fortunately betook himself to writing the memoirs of his life, which are the groundwork from which the present pages are taken. It is written unaffectedly, and with great frankness and self-knowledge; the style is unstudied, and the egotism of feeling which produced it imparts extreme interest to the details. After bringing down the history of his life till the year 1790, when he was forty-one years of age, he still felt an utter inability to any high flight in literature, and he occupied himself in translating the “Æneid” and the Comedies of Terence. He had long enthusiastically admired the versification of Virgil, and tried to model his own upon it, adapting it, at the same time, to dramatic dialogue.c This circumstance is curious, since no style can be so opposite; the mellifluous, dignified, and graceful flow of the Latin poet being a contrast to the rough and concise energy of the modern Italian. This observation regards, however, only his tragedies; less / praise must be bestowed on his other productions in verse; his translation of the “Æneid” is feeble in the extreme; his longer original poems are devoid of even secondary merit; and his love sonnets are, to say all in a word, the very antipodes of his immortal master, Petrarch. Alfieri is a great tragedian: it is impossible to read his best dramas without being carried away by the eloquence and passion of the dialogue, and deeply interested by the situations of struggle or peril in which his personages are placed. The a They never were married. Mary Shelley enquired directly about the matter in a letter written to Gabriele Rossetti in Apr. 1835 (MWSL, II, pp. 240–1). She indicated that, if they had not been married, she would say nothing but if they had been married she would publish the fact. b A remark perhaps relevant to the many small errors in Mary Shelley’s printed works. c Vita, Ep. IV, ch. 22. The Latin translations were published in the Opere di Vittorio Alfieri (1805).

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rapidity of the action, and the earnestness and life with which every scene is instinct, renders it impossible to close the volume till the catastrophe ends all. Alfieri was also an excellent prose writer: his treatise on “Princes and Literature”a is full of power; the style is correct, flowing, yet simple, and without meretricious ornament. The pure spirit of independence burns like a holy lamp throughout, and gives a charm to every sentiment and expression. But never was line so distinctly drawn between the poetry of circumstance, so to speak, and ideal poetry: In all the pages of Alfieri there is not one imaginative image; and we feel this most in his lyrics, since ideality is the soul of lyric poetry. He seems never to have been conscious of this defect. He would readily have admitted that Dante and Petrarch were superior to him in genius; but he seems unaware that they possessed a quality of which not one glimmering ray is to be found in the whole course of the flood of rhymes to the composition of which he alludes frequently as being the overflowings of poetic inspiration. It is possible that Alfieri might have been a great novelist, had he ever turned his attention to that species of composition. Or had he continued to invent, instead of drying his brain up with the irksome task of correcting what he had already written, he might have bestowed on us tragedies finer than any we have of his, or, at least, several equal to the “Saul.” But, with all his philosophy and self-examination, he did not understand the texture and capabilities of his intellect. / To return to his life in Paris. The disquietude arising from the French revolution added to the irritable state of Alfieri’s mind. We all see the visible universe through a medium formed by our individual peculiarities; but it is curious to find the advocate of liberty lay most stress on his fear lest the tumults of Paris should interrupt the completion of Didot’s edition of his works.b Probably his intense abhorrence of the French prevented his fostering rational hopes for the ultimate advantages to be gained by the overthrow of the time-worn and corrupt monarchy of France, at the same time that it prevented his ever being blinded by any illusion as to the real character of the events passing around him. He prides himself on never having seen or conversed with any one of the revolutionary leaders, and on having always regarded the rise of a lawless democracy as the steppingstone to military despotism. From the first, he was eager to get away from these scenes of bloodshed and horror,c and in the spring of 1791 accompanied the countess of Albany to England. This country did not please her; and he, grown querulous and subject to the gout, was quickly disgusted by the climate, and a Del principe e delle lettere (1785–6), where Alfieri argues that it is the duty of the poet to oppose tyranny and that tyranny stifles original poetry. ‘Principe’ is used collectively, so Mary Shelley’s translation ‘Princes’ is not incorrect. b Didot, prestigious literary publishing house in Paris, led by Pierre Didot (1761–1853), which published a 6-volume edition of Alfieri’s Tragedie (1787–9); the first 3 volumes were revised and enlarged by the author. c A reference to sporadic violence during 1790–1; there was a massacre of civilians at Champ-de-Mars, 17 July 1791, but the bloodshed most commonly associated with the French Revolution (the Terror) lay in the future.

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annoyed by the peculiar habits of life of the English. A great portion of his and the countess’s fortune was in the French funds; and the fall of the assignats made it advisable for them to live in the country where they still bore a value.a This circumstance induced them to return to Paris; and, resolving to fix themselves there, they took a house, furnished it, and Alfieri collected a voluminous library: but the whirlwind that swept over unhappy France included them in its devastations. They became alarmed by the increase of lawless violence; and when, on the 10th of August, 1792, Louis XVI. was dragged from the Tuilleries and imprisoned in the Temple, they determined to fly from a city, where it appeared that no one of rank or wealth could remain in safety. The impetuosity of the poet’s character was of great advantage on this occasion. With infinite difficulty passports were obtained / for the countess and himself; and they fixed on the 20th of August for their departure. The impatience of Alfieri caused them to anticipate their journey, and they set out on the 18th. With a good deal of difficulty they passed the barrier of St. Denis, and hastened to a place of safety. Two days after, on the 20th, the municipality of Paris sent to arrest the countess: had she remained, she would have been thrown into prison, and, in all probability, have fallen a victim during the massacres of the 2d of September.b Not finding her, their income arising from the French funds was sequestrated, their furniture, horses, and books confiscated, and though foreigners, they were both declared emigrants. Alfieri chiefly lamented his library, and the edition of his works. Some years after, a French general, then at Turin, with a good deal of ostentation, offered to obtain the restoration of his books, a list of which he sent him. Alfieri had left about 1600 volumes: the list contained the names of 150 of the least valuable. He refused to avail himself of what he ironically calls a “French restitution;” and surely, if national contempt and hatred is ever pardonable, it was to be excused in an Italian, who saw his country over-run by soi-disant liberators, who displayed their friendly intentions by a thousand acts of plunder and arrogance. Burning with an unquenchable hatred for all things French, Alfieri returned to Florence with the countess of Albany, in which city he remained till his death. In the tranquillity of his position, his love of study awoke with renewed force. But whether it was that his fiery temperament burnt itself quickly out, or that the ardour of his studies, joined to ill health and intemperate abstemiousness, exhausted him, Alfieri appears to have grown prematurely old. The spirit of invention was dead within him; and nothing can be more deplorable than that which he mistook for such, under whose influence he wrote laughterless comediesc and toothless satires, the most dolorous and innoxious that can be imagined. a

Assignats, paper currency of Revolutionary France, legal tender from 1790–7. The September Massacres took place over 2–7 Sept. 1792. Some 1,500 political prisoners were butchered. c Alfieri wrote 19 satires between 1786 and 1793. From 1800–3 he composed six comedies: L’Uno (The One), I Pochi (The Few), and I Troppi (The Too Many), L’Antidoto (The Antidote), La Finestrina (The Little Widow) and Il Divorzio (The Divorce). The first three are on the dangers of despotism, oligarchy and democracy, respectively. b

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Still, though original invention was dead, / industry, perseverance, and fervour in the pursuit of learning were as warm as ever in his heart. He brought to a conclusion his translations of Terence, the “Æneid,” and Sallust: the latter is an excellent specimen of style; but his poetic translations are languid and unworthy.a As to the unlucky “Misogallo,” in which he accumulates, in prose and verse, the whole force of his detestation of the French, it remains a monument of how little men know themselves, and the mistakes to which genius is liable, when it exchanges the nobler pursuit of the good and beautiful, to soil itself by the pettier passions of our nature.b While thus employed, a more genial pursuit occupied him for a short period, which he calls waste of time, but which, by linking him in agreeable intercourse with his fellow creatures, and wearing away the rust produced by despondency and over-excited feelings, would have made his latter years happier; but Alfieri, ever bent on fighting with difficulties, and thwarting his natural tendencies, cast from him the medicine offered to his diseased mind. Some friends of his, possessed of histrionic talent, got up his tragedy of “Saul:”c Alfieri filled the part of the unfortunate king. Others of his plays were afterwards represented, in which he also acted; but he always preferred the part of Saul, which confirms our opinion, that it is, of all the characters he has pourtrayed, the best fitted for the stage, and the nearest approach to those unrivalled princes of the drama, the heroes of Shakspeare. After some months had been occupied by these representations, Alfieri gave them up, and devoted himself exclusively to study. He had many plans for composition: the chief of these were what he called tramelogedie, or tragic melodramas, only one of which, “Abel,” he found energy to write, and this is an entire failure. He entered on a new field, to which his genius was not adapted – the mingling of human beings and spirits, of the passions of the heart and the airy creations of our fancy; a species of composition which is to be found in / perfection in Calderon, and which Goethe, Byron, and Shelley have made familiar to us in modern times, and, according to their various capacities, adorned with the mystery, fire, and glowing imagery peculiar to eachd – But of this creative power, that peoples our world with beings not of it, though in it, – Alfieri was wholly destitute.

a

Published in Opere di Vittorio Alfieri (1805), the translations were completed by 1793. Mary Shelley follows Foscolo in asserting the relative merits of the translations. b Il Misogallo (The Anti-Gallican) (1798) nevertheless contains a line adapted by Mme de Staël’s Corinne and often applied to early 19th-century Italy: ‘Servi siam, sì, ma servi ognor frementi’ (‘We are slaves, yes, but perpetually restless slaves’); often cited from de Staël by Mary Shelley. c Saul (1784). d Examples of dramas by these writers that mingle human beings and spirits are, respectively, El Mágico Prodigioso, Faust, Heaven and Earth, and Prometheus Unbound. Alfieri’s Abele appeared posthumously.

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We have already remarked how entirely his writings are wanting in the more ideal attributes of imaginative poetry. At the age of forty-six he applied himself with desperate ardour to the study of the Greek language. Forty-six is no advanced age: how many men are in their prime at that epoch! but it was not so with Alfieri; his very memory failed him, but he persevered with his accustomed energy, battling with difficulties as if they had been opponents, inspired with a sense of opposition. Thus he read the most difficult authors, with the notes of the scholiasts, learning an infinite multitude of verses by heart, and acquiring, in the end, by dint of unwearied industry, a considerable knowledge of the language. His health was infirm and his quiet disturbed by the progress of the French armies.a They came, they said, to liberate Italy, and, under this pretence, destroyed its native governments, introduced their own crude institutions, and then, on pretence of the opposition their tyranny met, despoiling the Italians of their works of art, endeavouring even to supplant their divine language, and treating with contempt and insolence their peculiar manners and customs; so that any welcome given by the Italians to these pretended friends only showed more plainly their insulting pretensions and rapacity. When the French first appeared in Florence, Alfieri and the countess hurried away as if it had been visited by the plague. They established themselves at a villa in the environs, having removed all their property from their house in the city; and here they remained till the French were temporarily driven from Tuscany. On their second invasion, Alfieri had no time to retreat, and he satisfied his feelings of scorn and hatred by never / speaking to a Frenchman, or admitting the visits of the leaders of its armies. His melancholy increased with the irritation caused by political events, by unwearied study, and the physical weakness produced by his systematic abstinence. He was happy in the society of the countess of Albany, and that of his dear friend, the abbate Caluso: but many long hours he spent by himself in gloomy reverie. The bitterness and asperity of his mind was thus increased, and his dislike of society prevented the beneficial action of sympathy and mutual forbearance.b He considered himself, to a great degree, a disappointed man in his literary career, and was ignorant of the universal applause bestowed upon his tragedies. He divided his time with the most scrupulous exactitude, and his horses were still dear to him. Many hours were spent in the aisles of Santa Croce, or other churches of Florence, listening to the music, and absorbed in reverie. During the last years of his life, he was visited each spring by a fit of the gout, and each summer by a desire to employ himself upon original composition, to a French armies, referring to Napoleon Bonaparte’s First (1796–7) and Second (1800) Italian Campaigns. b Writing to Gabriele Rossetti in April 1835, Mary Shelley asked ‘whether Alfieri was really so melancholy and taciturn as Sir Hobhouse says in his work “Illustrations to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” [London: John Murray, 1818]’ (MWSL, II, pp. 240–1, Bennett’s translation). This characterisation seems not to have been refuted.

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which he devoted himself with an ardour which brought on, each autumn, a dangerous illness. His six unlucky comedies were the principal objects of these illfated labours; and his life was at last their sacrifice. A theorist in all things, he imagined that, as the gout proceeded from inflammation, it could be starved out of his frame; and he commenced a system of abstinence that deprived him of the nutriment necessary to support life.a The countess in vain implored him not to adhere to so senseless a plan: it has often happened that, by resisting the prescriptions of physicians, and the aid of medicine, a man has conquered inherent disease, and lived to an old age; but as soon as he begins to administer remedies to himself, and to act from theories, instead of from that long and arduous practice necessary to give the smallest insight into the delicate structure of our physical nature, he must become the victim: thus / it was with Alfieri; hard study and abstinence reduced his life to a mere flickering spark; he became a skeleton in appearance; each day he took less nourishment, and the weaker he grew, the more resolutely did he apply himself to study, as the sole solace of his worn-out and burthensome existence. In the month of October, 1803, he was attacked by gout in the stomach. The physicians wished, by means of blisters and sinapisms, to draw it to the extremities; but a childish dislike to the inconvenience which would ensue, and the impossibility of taking his daily walk, if these remedies were applied to his legs, caused him to refuse them. Opium was given instead, and his pain was moderated; but still he sat up; and his mind was rather excited than calmed by the narcotics administered: he remembered as in dreams, but with the utmost vividness, various incidents of his past life, or passages from his own writings and those of others; and these he repeated to the countess, who sat by him watching. No idea of approaching death seems to have entered his mind; and the priest, who came to offer the usual offices of the catholic religion to the dying, was sent away with an invitation to return on the morrow; whether because he believed that by that time he should be beyond such interference, or as a mere excuse for delay, cannot be told. As he grew weaker, he sent for the countess, and when she came he stretched out his hand, saying “Stringetemi la mano, cara amica; mi sento morire.” “Press my hand, dear friend; I am dying.” These were his last words. He died on the 8th of October, 1803, at the age of fifty-five.b He was buried in Santa Croce, and the countess of Albany erected a tomb to his memory, sculptured by Canova.c It is not one of his happiest efforts; but the inscription, which has been called pretending, appears to me simple and affectionate. “Louisa de Stolberg, countess of Albany, to Vittorio Alfieri,”d is surely no impertinent obtrusion of the name of his dearest friend; / and it may be remarked, that, while the countess has been censured for recording her name so promia This account of his last illness draws on a letter from Caluso to the Countess of Albany, printed as an appendix to Alfieri’s Opere postume di Vittorio Alfieri (1804). b Mary Shelley’s source is Ugo Foscolo, ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’ (1818). c Completed by the sculptor Antonio Canova (1757–1827) in 1810 and depicting a neoclassical female figure, representing Italy weeping for Alfieri. d A translation of part of the Latin transcription on the monument in Santa Croce.

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nently, Alfieri, in the epitaph he himself composed for her, makes it her chief praise that she was “quam unice dilexit,” – the only love of the poet.a This account of the life of a man who was endowed with the chief attribute of genius, – that of spontaneously forming and manifesting itself, despite every obstacle or adverse circumstance, – may be concluded by the quotation of the sonnet in which he describes his own person; a faithful translation of which, which we also append, appeared, some years ago, in “The Liberal.”b It may be quoted with the more propriety at the end of his life, since it was written when time had robbed him of the graces of youth; giving instead those characteristic marks stamped by the action of his disposition and pursuits. “Sublime specchio di veraci detti Mostrami in corpo e in anima qual sono, Capelli or radi in fronte, e rossi pretti; Lunga statura e capo a terra prono; Sottil persona su due stinchi schietti; Bianca pelle, occhi azzurri, aspetto buono, Giusto naso, bel labbro, e denti eletti, Pallido in volto più che un re sul trono. “Or duro, acerbo, ora pieghevol mite, Irato sempre e non maligno mai, La mente e il cor meco in perpetua lite, Per lo più mesto, e talor lieto assai, Or stimandomi Achille, ed or Tersite; Uom, se’ tu grande o vil? Muori, e il saprai.”* / * “Thou lofty mirror, Truth, let me be shown Such as I am, in body and in mind, Hair plainly red, retreating now behind; A stature tall, a stooping head and prone; A meagre body on two stilts of bone; Fair skin, blue eyes, good look, nose well design’d; A handsome mouth, teeth that are rare to find, And pale in face, more than a king on throne. “Now harsh and crabbed, mild and pleasant soon; Always irascible, no malignant foe; My head and heart and I never in tune; Sad for the most part, then in such a flow Of spirits, I feel now hero, now buffoon; Man, art thou great or vile? – die, and thou ’lt know.” a

The epitaph (which appears in a footnote to the Vita) went on to attest that he loved the Countess of Albany greatly and was devoted to her, as if to an earthly divinity: ‘A Victorio Alfieri […] ultra res omnes dilecta, et quasi mortale numen ab ipso constanter habita et observata’. b A cancelled passage in Valperga shows that Mary Shelley knew this sonnet as early as 1821. The text and its translation (by Leigh Hunt, who also translated many of Alfieri’s short epigrams) are taken from The Liberal, no 2 (1823), p. 399. The same number also contained Byron’s Heaven and Earth and Mary Shelley’s ‘A Tale of the Passions’.

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MONTI. 1754–1828. MONTI is, without question, the greatest Italian poet that has appeared since the golden days of its poetry: he alone emulates his predecessors in the higher flights of the imagination. It has been pronounced of Dryden, that if each of the princes of poetry surpassed him in their peculiar vein, yet his fire and originality give him a near place beside them. Thus Monti has not the sublimity of Dante, nor the tenderness of Petrarch; neither the inventive flow of Ariosto, nor Tasso’s epic conception and voluptuous grace: but he has a fervour, a power of imagery, an overflowing and redundance of ideal thought, that mark the genuine poet. He came to revive the languid and unnatural style that flourished under the reign of the Arcadians.a Some few real poets had sprung up in Italy in the interval between Ariosto and Monti: they are recorded in this volume. Chiabrera and Filicaja are the chief. These men found in the inspiration of their own minds the power that led them to adopt a style of their own, and to bestow originality – which, in one shape or another, is the vivifying soul of composition, – on their productions. Metastasio carried clearness and grace of expression to a great perfection, but he wanted strength and daring: Alfieri had not a trace of that sunshiny and rainbow-like (so to speak) colour-giving power of fancy, without which there is no real poetry. For the rest, the poets of those days were Arcadians; the very word seems to express volumes of inane affectation, and turgid, yet soulless, language. It is thus that a clever Italian critic of the present day speaks of them: – “To the hyperboles and conceits of the seicentisti, succeeded the follies and pastorals of the Arcadians. The subject / treated by these poets were restrained in narrow limits; they were all futile, trite, vulgar, or silly, – adulatory, or false. A new-married pair, a nun, – the new-born babe of some sovereign or noble, – the election of a cardinal, or a bishop, or even of an abbé – a funeral or a feigned love; such were the favourite themes of the Arcadians. Was a marriage in question, – Hymen was adjured to bring its chains to link two hearts; and a new Hercules or Achilles was prognosticated as the future result of the union. If a girl shut herself up in the cloister, the poets expatiated on her happiness; they described the heavenly bridegroom as descending and stretching out his hand to her, while the mischievous Cupid angrily threw away his golden quiver; a censurable mixture of sacred and profane imagery was thus introduced, and their ideas a

Arcadians, members of the Accademia degli Aracadia.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349751-25

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were steeped in two fountains, in contradiction one to the other, the Bible and mythology. The most shameless flattery blotted their pages, as they praised one another, and depicted themselves on the heights of Parnassus, – beside the waters of Hypocrene, – in the company of Apollo and the Muses; and the wonders of Orpheus and Amphion were renewed, to express the charms of each other’s verses.a No Arcadian dared imagine himself enamoured of a human being: she was no mortal woman, but a goddess, – a Venus sprung on the instant from the foam of the sea: lips, and eyes, and hair, had all their appropriate, still-repeated epithets: did their lady sigh, or did one word escape the paling of her ivory teeth, – tempests fled, the winds were stilled, and Jove was again tempted to transform himself into a bull for her sake.”*b Men can do strange things when they associate in companies, and keep each other in countenance by a wide-spread folly, that bars out the wholesome fear of ridicule. Thus, the Arcadians had colonies all over Italy. They gave feigned names to each other; they lauded, and celebrated, and crowned each other. Good sense and good taste were sacrificed in the emulation / each felt to transcend his rivals in a sonorous and turgid system of words, in which neither passion nor thought appeared.†c A new genius was wanted to trample on this overgrowth of vanity or folly, and to gift the tamed and chained language of Dante and Bojardo with wings and liberty. Such was the poet, the incidents of whose life we now proceed to detail. Vincenzo Monti was born in Romagna, on the 19th of February, 1754. His father’s simple, and even humble, but pretty and agreeable, house was situated among the vineyards and agricultural country which lies between Fusignano and the Alfonsine, in the Ravennese territory. The air is healthy and serene, the country fertile and diversified, and the style of life of his parents such as at once * Maffei; Storia della Litteratura Italiana. † Bonetti. a Hypocrene or Hippocrene, in Greek mythology the spring of the Muses at Mt Helicon; Orpheus and Amphion, both legendary Greek poets; Orpheus caused trees and animals to assemble to hear his songs, while Amphion built the walls of Thebes by playing his lyre. b Loosely translated and abridged from the 3rd enlarged edition of Giuseppe Maffei, Storia della letteratura italiana [. . . ] emendata e accresciuta colla storia dei primi trenta due anne del secolo xix (Italia [no further details of place of publication or publisher] 1834), pt 2, bk 6, ch. 2, pp. 757–9. Maffei is the ‘clever Italian critic’ referred to earlier. This publication, which has the appearance of a clandestine one, has many typographical errors. c From ‘Men can do strange things’ to ‘thought appeared’ is a loose paraphrase of a passage quoted in Maffei (p. 759) and cited by him as taken from ‘Frustra Lettera XIX’, i.e. La Frusta Letteraria (The Literary Whip) (1763–4) of Giuseppe Baretti (1719–89), the ‘Bonetti’ of Mary Shelley’s footnote, which is a mistranscription or misprint. La Frusta Letteraria was a polemical fortnightly founded and edited by Baretti. The Baretti passage includes italicised phrases taken from ‘Torti, Sermone sulla Poesia Cap. 1’, which are blended into Mary Shelley’s paraphrase without being differentiated from Baretti’s words; for instance, ‘in which neither passion nor thought appeared’ is Torti’s ‘muto di passione e di pensieri’.

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cultivated simplicity of taste and kindness of heart.a Nothing can be more primitive and patriarchal than the mode of life of the smaller landholders in Italy; and to this class Monti’s father belonged. The farm-house – or villa, as it is called, if a little better than a cottage – is situated amidst the ground they cultivate. The name of podere is given to these small farms, enclosed by hedges, within whose limits grapes, corn, vegetables, and fruits are all cultivated in a sort of picturesque confusion. The vines, trained on trellises, form covered walks; and the sound of the water-wheel is continually heard, and of the water trickling through the conduits that lead it to the various parts of the grounds. The Italian farmer works very hard, and the cottager still harder. He divides the produce of the land with his landlord, entertains few servants, and his habits are at once laborious and frugal. The parents of Monti were an excellent specimen of the virtues of this unpretending race. They are still remembered in the country by numbers of the poor whom they assisted and comforted. Their children were brought up to consider it a valuable privilege to bestow help upon those in want of the / necessaries of life, and Vincenzo in particular inherited from them a warm heart and a tenderness of feeling that caused him to be idolised in his domestic circle. Monti passed his early boyhood in this rural retirement. To the end of his life he remembered with fondness the days of his childhood, which were spent gaily amidst a large family of three brothers, older than himself, and five sisters. The reward for good behaviour among them was a permission to distribute charity among the indigent, – a sacred, soul-saving duty with catholics. The well-known benevolence of his parents drew numbers to their house, where portions of food were distributed to them. His mother never felt so happy as when thus engaged; and it is related of her that, when, a few years after, the family removed to Majano,b where their charitable habits were at first unknown, she complained in a sort of alarm that they were no longer visited by the poor. The same biographer relates a story of Vincenzo. On one occasion he was permitted to distribute the portions of food to mendicants, who entered at one door and went out at the other: some among them fancied that they could deceive the child, and returned twice; and he, with ingenuous shame, turned away, and gave to them twice witha Paragraph to this point extracted from biographical Notizie by the Milanese Paride Zajotti (Zaiotti), the ‘biographer’ alluded to subsequently. Monti addresses Zajotti affectionately in a surviving letter as ‘mio carissimo come figliolo’. References to Zajotti are taken from Notizie sulla vita e l'ingegno di Vincenzo Monti, con ritratto, 2nd edition (Milano: Nicolo Bettoni, 1829). Much of Zajotti also overlaps with the material in Notizie intorno alla vita […] del Cavaliere Vincenzo Monti scritte dal Conte Francesco Cassi (1828), which appeared in the last volume of the 8-volume edition of Opere del cavaliere Vincenzo Monti (Bologna: Stamperia delle muse, 1821–8), pp. 1–29, but it seems that Cassi derives from Zajotti rather than the other way round. The extended account of Italian peasantry is Mary Shelley’s; cf. ‘The English in Italy’ (1826) (MWSN, vol. 2, pp. 156–7). Subsequent references to Monti letters are taken from the fifth and final volume of the Opere inedite e rare di Vincenzo Monti (Milano: presso la Società degli Editori, 1832). b Majano, a town in Italy’s north-eastern Friuli-Venezia Giulia.

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out looking, that he might not be obliged to accuse them of their trick. “An anecdote,” continues his biographer, “perhaps scarcely worth relating, only that it describes the character, or rather, it may be said, the whole life of Monti, who, even in old age, frequently suffered himself voluntarily to be imposed upon.”a Were a philosophical analysis of Monti’s disposition to be attempted, it might be discovered how this sensitiveness to the shame of others, this sparing of their feelings in preference to the assertion of truth and honesty, makes a part of the same weakness that led him always to regard as a secondary consideration moral truths and political integrity, when put in competition with the happiness and welfare of his domestic circle. We call this sort of / sensibility weakness, because, though usually united to great private rectitude of character, it is incompatible with the heroism of the patriot and the martyr. For several years Monti had no instructors except his kind parents; but, soon after their removal to Majano, he was sent to the seminary of Faenza,b which enjoyed a good reputation for the solidity of its instruction; there he learnt early and well the Latin language. His first attempts in Latin verse were, however, so singularly infelicitous, that his master thought it necessary to put him into a lower class than that in which he had first been placed. The boy, roused to indignation, made no complaints, but secretly learned by heart the whole of the Æneid; and persevered so earnestly in conquering the difficulties, that his Latin verses soon became distinguished for a style and harmony that announced his poetic talent. His second trial was so different from the first, that his masters began to regard him as a sort of prodigy; and he himself entered with delight and ardour on the study of the Roman poets. The full force of his impetuous and fertile imagination was early awakened by them, and he began to exercise the art peculiar to his country of extemporising verses; but his master had the judgment to withdraw him from an exercise so pernicious to the strength and critical delicacy of poetry, and induced him to write with care and meditation. He was yet a boy when, under this tutelage, he composed a volume of elegies, several of which have been printed.c It is the usual custom among the smaller land-holders of Romagna to destine their youngest sons to the agricultural labours of their farms; and this was fixed as the career of Monti. He yielded to his father’s commands, but with reluctance. His mind was opened to the necessity of cultivation, and mere manual labour and low-thoughted cares were infinitely distasteful to him. His heart was with the a

Paragraph and the anecdote up to this point taken from Zajotti, pp. 2, 5. Faenza-Modigliana, Italian town in the vicinity of Ravenna; boasts a prominent seminary, at which Monti studied from 1766–71. See Francesco Lanzoni, Vincenzo Monti nel Seminario di Faenza (1928). c The paragraph draws on Zajotti, p. 6. Mary Shelley’s apparently diminished enthusiasm for the improvvisatore’s art evidently derives from Metastasio’s account of the dangers to poetic development that may accompany it. b

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Latin poets, from whom he could not separate himself; and his dislike to every occupation that was not intellectual grew to be insurmountable. / His father thought it necessary to reprove him; and a scene ensued similar to one recorded as having taken place, several centuries before, between Petrarch and his father. Vincenzo, moved by his parent’s reproof to a belief that his literary predilections were reprehensible, made a resolution to renounce them. He led his father into his chamber, and there, before him, threw his favourite authors into a large fire. The good man, touched by this act of docility, gave him twelve sequins; and the youth, unable to resist the temptation thus held out, hastened to the neighbouring fair of Luga, and spent the whole sum in buying over again the authors whose works he had left at home, still warm in the ashes of the fire into which he had thrown them. His father, seeing the inutility of combating with his inclinations, sent him to the university of Ferrara, wishing him to enter on the legal or medical profession. But, after a few vain attempts to apply himself to these studies, Monti gave up every other pursuit, and dedicated himself wholly to the cultivation of literature and poetry. He still continued to write in Latin, and always retained a predilection for this language, and later in life translated some of his own works into it. His first Italian poem was “The Prophecy of Jacob.”a It was, of course, inexact in versification, and unequal; but when Jacob prophesies the future glory of the Lion of Judah, the style rises into vigour, and even sublimity. At this time the “Visions” of Varino and the sonnets of Minzoni, two Ferrarese poets, fell into his hands.b They rose above the inanities of the Arcadians, and indicated to him the path he should pursue. Through reading them he was brought to the perusal of Dante, and his soul opened at once to the conception of all that Italian poetry contains of grand and beautiful. Henceforth Alighieri was his model and master, and he regarded at once with admiration and a sort of worship the elevated and godlike powers of this most inspired of poets. He wrote the “Vision of Ezekiel” in a sort of imitation of his favourite, in which he displayed that grandeur of / imagery and command of language which distinguish his compositions.c Cardinal Borghese was at that time legate at Ferrara.d Admiring the youth’s genius, he took him under his protection. On his return from his legation, he obtained the elder Monti’s consent to his son’s accompanying him to Rome. He was now eighteen. The first intimacy that he formed in the capital was with Ennio Quirino Visconti, a man of vast erudition;e and under his direction Monti extended his classical knowledge. It happened, while he was at Rome, that the a

‘La Profezia di Giacobbe’ (1771). Onofrio Minzoni Ferrarese (1734–1814); Varino has not been further identified. c Visione di Ezechiello (1776). The preceding paragraph draws extensively on Zajotti, pp. 7– 10, and the next from pp. 10–11. d Scipione Borghese (1734–82), appointed Cardinal in 1770; member of the influential Roman Borghese family. e Ennio Quirino Visconti (1751–1818), Italian antiquarian and statesman; Visconti served as consul in the Napoleonic Roman Republic of 1798 and sought refuge in France after its collapse. b

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Erme of Pericles and Aspasia were discovered, – one in excavations made in the villa of Cassius at Tivoli, the other at Civita Vecchia. Visconti wrote a treatise on these marbles, and invited his friend to celebrate them in a poem; and he wrote the “Prosopopea di Pericle,” which is preserved in the Vatican museum, written with great simplicity of style, and his usual easy flow, yet fervour, of language.a This was the first time that he appeared in the character of a poet at Rome; and it was followed by several other attempts. He thus attracted attention; but, having no fixed situation, after remaining some years in the capital, he was on the point of complying with his father’s frequent requests that he would return home, when a circumstance happened to change his plans. The Arcadians of the Bosco Parrasio celebrated the Quinquenalli of Pius VI. (1780, ætat. 26.);b when Monti recited some of his compositions, which attracted so much applause that the duke of Braschi, the pope’s nephew, sent for him the next day, and offered him the place of his secretary, which was at once accepted. Monti remained at Rome in the house of the prince, who treated him with all the kindness of friendship, and he enjoyed full leisure to pursue his literary studies. Yet it is, perhaps, matter of regret that Monti should have been thus employed. It is very difficult to make rules for the education of genius, when, on the one hand, care and want may fetter, and even crush, its loftiest aspirations; / or too much ease and leisure wean it from habits of industry, and foster the dissipation of thought and feeling which too frequently accompanies the poetic temperament. Monti’s muse had surely not been silent if he had remained in his father’s farm, surrounded by the luxuriant beauty of nature, and supported by conscious worth and independence. But no people need so much sympathy as poets. The interchange of thought and feeling, the fresh spirit of inquiry and invention, that springs from the collision or harmony of different minds, are with them a necessity and a passion. And though solitude is named the mother of all that is truly sublime, yet this solitude ought not to be that of desolation, but retirement to meditate on the stores heaped up in our intercourse with our fellow-creatures. Monti, among the uncultivated peasantry of Romagna, might have found his glowing enthusiasm grow cool from the absence of appreciation, and the want of sympathy and equal intercourse. Yet servitude at the court of Rome was no good moral school. To the years he spent in the service of the pope’s nephew, the habits of dependence, and his daily a Pericles (c. 500–429 BC) statesman under whose rule Athenian culture flourished and Aspasia (c. 460–410 BC), his consort, renowned for her intellect; Tivoli or Tibur, NE of Rome, site of several elaborate villas dating to the period of the late Roman Republic. Much of Tivoli was excavated during the 1780s; discoveries included numerous hermes (statuary busts); Cività Vecchia, the old port of Rome. The full name of the poem is ‘Prosopopea di Pericle alla santità di nostro signore Pio VI’ (pub. 1801). b Bosco Parrasio or Parrhasian Grove, also known as the Giardini dell’Arcadia, garden of the Milanese Belgioioso Palace and meeting place of the Arcadian Club. Giovanni Angelico Braschi (1717–99), elected Pius VI in 1775, celebrated the fifth anniversary of his pontificate in 1780. Monti entered the service of his nephew, Luigi Braschi-Onesti (1745–1816).

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intercourse with courtiers, may be attributed that want of political integrity, and ready worship of ruling powers, which was the great blot of Monti’s character. The genuine glow of real talent, the ambition natural to conscious genius, and the instinct of one, in whom invention and the power of expression were indigenous, to pour forth his ideas and sentiments, qualities which indefeasibly belonged to him, would, in almost any situation, have made Monti a writer. He might have been less refined in the farms of Romagna, but more useful as a moral and dignified asserter of truth and independence. Yet we must reflect that the germ of each man’s character is born with him, to be checked or fostered by education, but still there to colour the tide of thought and influence the motives of conduct. And as independence and strength of principle never displayed / themselves as a part of Monti’s character, temptation might have found him as willing a slave in the poverty of his farm as in the luxurious servitude of papal Rome. At Rome, at least, he continued to cultivate his poetic tastes. He produced several poems which kept alive his fame. On occasion of the marriage of his patron, the duke of Braschi, he wrote an ode entitled “Beauty of the Universe;” and he celebrated the journey of Pius VI. to the imperial court in a poem entitled the “Apostolic Pilgrim.”a But he aspired to signalise himself by some greater work, and long meditated writing a tragedy. As early as 1779 he writes to a friend, – “I am weary of writing verses on frivolous subjects. A tragic drama is the notion that most delights me. But how can I satisfy the craving I have to write a tragedy, since I am not able to tranquillise my mind, and am occupied by affairs which have no connection with poetry? An hundred times I have begun, and as often broken off.” And in another letter he expresses a feeling which has often entered the mind of any one deeply interested in carrying on some literary labour: – “I have a ravenous desire,” he says, “to write tragedies, which preys upon me. This is my madness; and I am in despair, because I fear to die before I finish one.”b His ambition was further excited by the emulation inspired by Alfieri. This great tragedian was now residing at Rome; and Monti was present when he read his “Virginia” in a society composed of the most celebrated literati of the day. Monti listened with transport, and, burning with a desire to rival this production, he instantly began his tragedy of “Aristodemo,” founded on a story he had read a few days before in Pausanias.c He was the more eager to accomplish his purpose, as he perceived the faults of Alfieri’s style, and hoped to avoid them. The fecundity of his imagination rendered it easy for him to rise above the baldness and unideal versification of his rival; so that it has been pronounced, / that a perfect a

‘La bellezza dell’universo’ (1781); ‘Il Pellegrino Apostolico’ (1782); the paragraph follows Zajotti to the point where Monti’s letters are quoted. b The paragraph up to ‘writing a tragedy’ sticks close to Zajotti, p. 11. The letter is of 5 Nov. 1779, to Aurelio Bertòla (Monti, Opere inedite, V, p. 4–6). c Aristodemo (1787). Pausanias (fl. AD 200) devotes each book of his 10-book History of Greece to a different region and includes many legends. The story of Aristodemus is found in the book of Messenia. He was one of the Greek historians read by P. B. Shelley.

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tragedy would be produced, were “the grandeur and penetration of Alfieri adorned by the style of Monti.”a “Aristodemo” was acted with the greatest success at Rome in 1787. Monti writes to a friend, – “My tragedy was represented yesterday evening at the theatre of Valle. I was not present; but when it was over, my house was inundated by my acquaintances, who seemed mad with delight. I ought not to mention this, but I write to a friend, and I assure you that every one agrees that so great a success and so much enthusiasm was never known at Rome before.”b And here it is impossible not to remark the different feelings of Alfieri and Monti. Alfieri entered upon his literary career when the more brilliant portion of the fire of youth was passing away. He had sufficient enthusiasm to animate him to mental labour, and to warm his imagination to the conception of fictitious situations, but not enough to foster the delusion of success. While he pretended stoicism and disdain, he was very sensitive to criticism; but when applause was afforded, he scanned the merits of his judges, was annoyed by the faults of the actors, and never reaped the just reward of his toils – the sense of triumph. While the more youthful Monti, early catching the spark of enthusiasm from his audience and his friends, enjoyed, to its full extent, the celebrity which a successful tragedy, more than any other species of literary composition, is able to confer. The genius of Monti, however, was not that of a tragedian: lyrical and imaginative rhapsodies, rather than the concatenation of a plot and the impersonation of human passion, were the native bent of his mind. The story of “Aristodemo” is eminently simple in its construction; the interest is entirely confined to the principal character, and there is almost no action to support the piece. Aristodemo had, to acquire the popular favour, and his election to the throne of Mycene, resolved to sacrifice his daughter, when some angry god required that the blood of a virgin should be shed on his altar. / To save the girl, her lover declares that she has yielded to him, and is about to be a mother. In his fury the father destroys her, and afterwards discovers that she is innocent. To add to his misfortunes he loses his only other child, a little girl of three years old, in a skirmish with the Spartans. Henceforth he is pursued by remorse; the spectacle of his murdered daughter for ever haunts him, and horror and despair darken his soul. The tragedy opens, fifteen years after these events, at the conclusion of a war with Sparta, with the discussion for a treaty of peace, when the prisoners on both sides are to be given up. Among those taken by Aristodemo is a girl, to whom he has attached himself with paternal fondness, and who devotes herself to mitigating his sufferings. She, of course, is discovered to be his long lost daughter; but this is not made known to him till the last scene, when the agonies of remorse, joined to sorrow at losing his last consolation, have driven him to destroy himself. The pure but warm attachment between him and his unknown child is delicately and sweetly a Cassi in Monti, Opere, VIII, p. 12, quoting a history of the theatre by Signorelli: ‘allo stile del Monti si congiunga la grandezza e la penetrazione dell’ Alfieri’. b Letter to Giambattista Bodoni, 17 [?January] 1787; Monti, Opere inedite, V, p. 18.

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described, while his passionate and remorseful ravings, though they rise to sublimity, shock us by going beyond ideal terrors into images palpably disagreeable. From this sketch it may be seen how deficient in action the piece is. Aristodemo comes before us to lament and to rave. Still, despite his woe, he is a hero and a king; and, when the interests of his country require it, he can dismiss his private griefs, and assert the majesty of the crown. His character is conceived in the truth and sublimity of tragic nature; and the interest that hovers over him, the dim but harrowing horrors of his spectral visions, the mingled remorse, terror, and love that tear his heart, and the poetry in which these overpowering passions are expressed, take absolutely from the languor which the want of action might otherwise impart. The success of “Aristodemo” induced Monti to write another drama. “Galeotto Manfredi” is, however, a failure.a It is founded on the passion of jealousy. In his preface the poet mentions that it is wanting in tragic dignity: / such is not of necessity the fault of his subject, but it decidedly is of his method of treating it, and there is no poetry to redeem it from the charge of mediocrity. He married, about this period, the daughter of the celebrated cavaliere Giovanni Pickler, who had died a short time before. It is a singular fact, that he made choice of his wife without having seen her, and not on account of her extraordinary beauty, of which he was ignorant, but from respect for the reputation of her father, and a wish to console his afflicted family; while she accepted him on account of her admiration for the author of “Aristodemo.”b And now we enter on a new epoch of Monti’s life, when he composed his most celebrated poem, and at the same time gave to his productions that political groundwork which, from his vacillation of principle, has not redounded to his honour. The French revolution was at its height; and the time-worn and absolute governments of every country of Europe were shaken, as by an earthquake, by the mere echo of the Parisian tocsin. The French, drunk with enthusiasm, were eager to call the whole world into a fraternity of liberty and equality; and many were the warm young hearts, long bowed down by the yoke of the continental systems of slavery, that beat responsive to the call. One of the persons sent by the French to spread their revolutionary tenets beyond the Alps was Hugh Basseville.c He was the son of a dyer at Abbeville; the talents he early displayed induced his father to wish him to pursue a more dignified career, and he educated him for the church, as the only profession then open to the lowly born. But Basseville studied theology only to find doubts as to his creed; he soon abandoned the clerical profession, and, going to Paris, gave himself up entirely to literature. He here fell in with two Americans, who engaged him as their companion, or tutor, in a journey they a

Galeotto Manfredi, Principe di Faenza (1788). This account of the marriage (1791) of Monti and Theresa Pickler follows Zajotti (p. 13) and also is very close to Cassi. c Nicolas Jean Hugou de Bassville (1753–93), French diplomat during the Revolution. The papacy was largely held to be responsible for his assassination. b

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made through Germany. At Berlin, Basseville became acquainted / with Mirabeau.a Leaving his Americans he visited Holland, and wrote a work on the Elements of Mythology, and a volume of amatory poems. When the revolution began, he attached himself to the royal, or rather constitutional, party, and instituted a journal which took that side. He wrote also a “History of the French Revolution,” dedicated to La Fayette, with whom he was intimately acquainted; and the views he developes are moderate and rational.b He was naturally eloquent, and his manners were agreeable, while he joined to these fascinating qualities the more solid ones of industry, intelligence, and boldness, so that he acquired the confidence and friendship of several of the Girondist leaders. General Demourierc named him secretary to the embassy at Naples; and while there he visited Rome, for the purpose of secretly propagating revolutionary doctrines. This imprudence cost him his life. On the night of the 13th of January, 1793, he was assailed by the populace, and received a stab, of which he died thirty-four hours after. In his last moments, it is said that he was induced to regard his conduct, in endeavouring to raise sedition against the pope, as criminal, and to have exclaimed several times that he died the victim of folly. Monti, who lived in the service of the pope’s nephew, and was thus attached to the papal court, and without that ardour for liberty which is so natural to many hearts, and which appears at once senseless and even wicked to those who do not feel independence of thought to be the greatest of human blessings, of course looked on the French revolution as a series of crimes, and saw no redeeming good in the madness that urged a whole nation to so terrific a mixture of heroism and guilt. He was acquainted with Basseville, and, hearing the recantations of his dying moments, celebrated at once the repentance of his friend, and the awful tragedy acted almost at the same moment (Louis XVI. was beheaded on the 19th of January, 1793), in a poem entitled the “Basvilliana.”d In this he feigns that the great enemy of mankind contended with the angel of God for the / soul of the murdered man. His death-bed remorse caused the good spirit to remain triumphant; but as the crime-tainted soul could not, according to the tenets of catholicism, be received at once into Paradise, the disembodied spirit of Basseville was condemned to visit once more the banks of the Seine, and to view the horrors there perpetrated, as the consequence of his guilty and impracticable theories. The imagination of Monti developed itself in the happiest manner in treating this a Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Count Mirabeau (1749–91), French Revolutionary leader and member of the States-General (see vol. 3, ‘Mirabeau’). b Elemens de Mythologie (1797) and Mémoires historiques, critiques et politiques sur la Révolution de France (1790); Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roche-Gilbert du Motier, marquis de Lafayette (1757–1834), French Revolutionary and American sympathiser. Mary Shelley met Lafayette in 1827 and wrote him a congratulatory letter in 1830 (MWSL, II, pp. 117–18). c Charles-François de Périer Dumouriez or Dumourier (1739–1823), Girondist General from 1792–3 whose defection to the Austrians in 1793 discredited his political party. d Composed like Dante’s Commedia in terza rima and published under the title In morte di Ugo Bass-Ville, seguita in Roma il di 14 gennajo 1793 (1793).

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theme; and the mingled emotions of horror and grief that pervade the poem take a shape at once sublime and pathetic. The soul of Basseville hovers over Paris at the moment that Louis XVI. loses his head by the guillotine. The imagery with which he adorns the scene is original and majestic. Four mighty shadows rush on the scaffold, and hover over the dying monarch; shadows of former regicides, who glory in the companionship of crime. Ravaillac, Ankerstrom, Damiens, and one (the executioner of our Charles I.) who veils his face with his hand, proudly assist in giving the fatal blow.a Louis dies, and before his beatified ghost Basseville prostrates himself; but his penance is not got over, and he is forced to view other scenes of greater bloodshed and more frightful violence; but as the poem enters upon these, it breaks off abruptly, and is left unfinished. The style of this poem does not resemble modern Italian poetry, but is modelled on that of Dante; so faithfully modelled, that many expressions, ideas, and even whole lines are, as it were, transfused, into Monti’s verses. It is a singular fact that no poet was ever a greater plagiarist than the author of the “Basvilliana;” but the verses of others, which he thus employs, are framed, as it were, so magnificently by original ones, and are placed with such propriety, and acknowledged with such frankness, that, as an English author observes, “so far from accusing him of plagiarism, we are agreeably surprised by the new aspect which he gives to beauties already familiar to every reader.”b And / thus transfusion expresses his imitations better than the word borrowing: for though the form of expression is the same, a new soul and a new sense – not better, certainly, but different from their former one – are breathed into them. In some sort Dante and Monti resembled each other in the cast of their ideas. They were both painters of the mind’s images. Dante was the more faithful, delicate, and heartfelt; but there is a shadowy grandeur joined to a perfection of taste and fire of sentiment in Monti, which renders his poetry highly fascinating and beautiful. The “Basvilliana” at once raised Monti’s reputation higher than that of any poet who had for centuries appeared in Italy; and he might have been considered the laureate of royalty, but that his character was not adorned by that sincere and exalted enthusiasm, without which no man can, with any success, advocate any cause which embraces the interests of human nature. The tide of French republicanism, checked a little in its first advances, now swelled by Bonaparte’s victories, overflowed the Alps and deluged Italy. The Austrians, defeated at Montenotte, Lodi, and Arcoli,c were driven from Lombardy: and the Italians hoped to exchange servitude to a foreign power for national a Jean-François Ravaillac assassinated Henri IV of France in 1610; Robert-François Damiens attempted the assassination of Louis XV of France in 1757; Charles I of England and Scotland was beheaded in 1649 by a masked executioner; Johan Jakob Anckarstrom (various spellings, including Ankarstrom and Ankastroom) (1762–92) assassinated King Gustavus III of Sweden on 15 March, 1792. He was ‘whipped for three days through the city’ before being executed on 29 April (Monti, Opere, I, p. 265). b Not traced. c Battles fought between Apr. and Nov. 1796, during Napoleon’s first Italian campaign.

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independence; forgetting that liberty, when given, may also be withdrawn, and that it is only by force that any real freedom can be acquired. While resistance was made to the French arms, the requisitions of the victor, and the seizure of the finest works of art, might have opened their eyes to the real views of their soidisant deliverers. Napoleon himself had but one idea with regard to liberty, which was a free scope to the exercise of his own will. When that was given him, he could be generous, magnificent, and useful; but when his measures were obstructed, no tyrant ever exceeded him in the combinations of a despotism which at once crushed a nation, and bore down with an iron hand every individual that composed it. Bonaparte’s ambition, however, could only be gratified in France, and the / conquest of Italy was but the stepping-stone to the French empire. Still, when all the north of the peninsula was subjected to him, when the pope had submitted to his terms, and the haughty queen of Naples had been induced to enter into a treaty with her sister’s destroyers, he could no longer with any grace refuse the shows of freedom so often promised. On the 3d of January, 1797, the Cisalpine republic was erected.a Monti had been before invited to accept a professor’s chair in the university of Pavia, which he had refused. In the month of February 1797, general Marmont was sent to Rome on occasion of the treaty of Tolentino, to carry letters from Bonaparte to the pope.b Monti became acquainted with him; being then in a bad state of health, and advised to change the air of Rome for that of Tuscany, he accepted Marmont’s invitation, who offered him a seat in his carriage, and proceeded to Florence. It may be imagined, that familiar intercourse with one of Napoleon’s generals was the foundation of Monti’s admiration for the French hero, and the cause of his opening his eyes to the good to be derived from adhering to the new order of things in his native country. At first he entertained the delusive hope that the blessing of liberty had really been conferred on Italy by the French arms, and that his countrymen would rise from chains and slavery to the enjoyment of national independence under national institutions; and yet the extravagant praise of Napoleon, which he indulges in, in all his poems written at this time, does not bear the marks of a sincere patriotism. Besides this, he had to struggle with many personal mortifications. The “Basvilliana” was not forgotten. French exactions and French assumptions had already alienated the minds of the noble born among the Italians. They feared the conqueror, but disdained the masquerade of liberty in which they were invited to play a part: thus the better classes shrunk from forming a part of the new governments, and the offices devolved upon men who had little to lose either in possessions or / character. a Marie Caroline, Queen of Naples (1752–1814), consort of Ferdinand IV and sister of the deposed and guillotined Marie Antoinette, Queen of France; the Neapolitan court was forced into exile by Bonaparte in 1798. The Cisalpine Republic (1797–1801) was established in northern Italy by Bonaparte and confirmed by the Treaty of Campo Formio (1797). b Auguste Frederic Louis Viesse de Marmont, Duke of Ragusa (1774–1852), French Field Marshal under Bonaparte. In the Treaty of Tolentino (19 Feb. 1797), Pius VI ceded to Bonaparte important Italian territories that later comprised part of the Cisalpine Republic.

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They regarded Monti with envy and aversion, and, instead of receiving him as a convert with open arms, his superior claims as a man of talent caused them to persecute him as an interloper and almost as a spy. The heads of the government, indeed, at first favoured him: he was invited to Milan, and elected central secretary of foreign affairs; but he was soon disturbed by persecutions. “My arrival,” he writes several years afterwards, “was hailed by the usual abuse of the republican journals, who censured the directory for employing an enemy of the republic. I loved liberty; but the object of my love was the freedom described in the writings of Cicero and Plutarch: that which was adored on the altars of Milan appeared to me a prostitute, and I refused to worship her. Hence my excommunication, – hence the public burning of the ‘Basvilliana.’ On this I was obliged to prostrate myself before the idol. I sang her virtues, and became a revolutionary poet: I grew insane with the rest, and my conversion procured me patronage and grace.”a It was not without a struggle that he stooped to these abject submissions, and several events first intervened. The hatred of the democrats, then the rulers of the Cisalpine republic, caused them to pass a law which decreed that no one should be permitted to hold any public employment who, since the year 1 of the French republic, had published any books tending to throw odium on democracy. Monti’s poem was the principal object of this law; and one of his adversaries exclaimed, “Let us get rid, not of the author of some foolish sonnet in praise of kings, but of those who, with powerful enthusiasm and Dantesque imagination, have inspired a hatred for democracy.”b This law being passed, Monti lost his situation. He had published other poems since the “Basvilliana;” but even these were not considered sufficiently democratic. The “Musogonia,” or Birth of the Muses,c is almost entirely mythological; but, in the concluding verses, he apostrophises Bonaparte. He implores him to be at / once the Alexander and Numa of Italy: he beseeches him to bestow laws upon her, and to unite her scattered members; and, with a noble voice, he calls upon the Italians to cultivate concord and unanimity. “Brothers!” he exclaims, “hear the voice of your brother! What do you hope from divided opinions and counsels? Ah, let there be in our country, in its danger, one mind, one courage, one soul, one life!”d The republicans perceived a hankering for royalty and tyranny in his dislike of their measures. The “Prometeo”e is a finer poem, or rather fragment, for but few of the cantos are written. The subject of it is the history of Prometheus; but we have only a a

Not traced. Not traced. c La Musogonia (1797). d Adapted from the final stanza of La Musogonia, ll. 617–22; Alexander and Numa: i.e. both empire builder and wise lawgiver, imitating Alexander III (‘the Great’), King of Macedonia (356–323 BC) and Numa Pompilius (715–673 BC), Roman king of the pre-Republican period. e ‘Prometeo’ (c. 1805); Prometheus and Epimetheus: in Greek mythology, brothers whose names signify ‘foresight’ and ‘hindsight’ respectively. The eccentric spelling ‘Epimetus’ is probably due to the dominant influence of the Italian ‘Epimeteo’. b

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small portion of it in the poem as it stands. It opens with the foolish act of Epimetus. Jupiter had sent to him a casket containing the various intellectual attributes and moral qualities, to be distributed among the new creation on earth. Epimetus begins by bestowing various qualities on animals, and is so prodigal of his gifts, that when he comes to man he finds the casket empty. On this, he has recourse to his wiser brother Prometheus, who reprimands him for his folly. This opening is the weaker part of the poem. Lyrical outbursts were more accordant to Monti’s genius. The appearance of Constancy before Prometheus is sublime, and the hero’s prophecy of the future state of man is full of fire and grandeur. It ends, however, by a prophecy of Napoleon, on whom is heaped every epithet that admiration or adulation could suggest. Jupiter gives him his lightning, which loses none of its terrors in the young hero’s hands. He shakes the bolts over Germany, and the Rhetian Alps resound with the hoofs of the Gallic cavalry. One after the other, Prometheus celebrates the glorious victories achieved in Italy, and hails with enthusiasm French Liberty, as the mother of heroes who shiver the chains that bound Ausonia, and wipe the tears from universal Europe – obstructed in its beneficent career only by the English robber.a Bonaparte must have exulted in the bitter and venomous abuse that / Monti never fails to heap upon England. He tells us, in the preface to this poem, that its scope is to bring into favour the neglected literature of Greece and Rome, and to merit well from a free country by speaking in the accents of freedom. There is something in the applause heaped on the conqueror that jars with our notions of real independence and patriotism. Monti, at this time, entertained the idea of returning to republicanised Rome. But his friends dissuaded him; and his reputation, and probably his adulation of the victor, caused him soon after to be named commissary of the province of the Rubicon.b But a poet makes a bad politician; and Monti’s integrity stood in the way of his success, and he was obliged to give up his office. He made many enemies, and, naturally timid and fearful for the welfare of his family, he was terrified into making a complete amende to the democrats of his country by writing odes, whose violent sentiments went beyond those of the most furious demagogues: and it is to these poems that he alludes when he speaks of the worship he was forced to pay to the mockery of liberty; and ever after he regretted his pusillanimity, and despised himself for his concessions. At the time they gained this point, his enemies were pacified; and the survivorship of the professor’s chair of belles lettres in Brera, then occupied by Parini,c was a England, under the Pitt government, continued to be at war with France in 1797 after Austria had temporarily made peace at Campo Formio. ‘Ausonia’ is the ancient name for Italy. b One of the divisions of the Cisalpine Republic, called after the historical river Rubicon; Julius Caesar famously crossed this boundary with his troops and marched towards Rome, thus beginning a civil war. c Giuseppe Parini (1729–99), Professor at the University of Brera, in Milan and an important figure in Italy’s literary Risorgimento. Palacio notes the apparently surprising absence of a Lardner ‘Life of Parini’ but observes that he was not then well known in Britain (Palacio, pp. 501–2).

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bestowed on him. But scarcely had he overcome the enmity of the friends of liberty and equality, than their star was eclipsed, and their reign came to an end. During the absence of Bonaparte in Egypt, Suvaroffa and the Austrians crossed the Alps, and the French were driven from Italy. Her republics vanished like a forgotten dream; and their partisans, Monti among them, were forced to follow the retreating army of France, and to take refuge beyond the Alps. Monti fell into a state of deplorable destitution. He had left his wife and young daughter in Italy, and he roamed alone and friendless among the mountains of Savoy. His sufferings during the brief period of his / exile were frightful. He wandered about, subsisting on the fruit he picked up under the trees. Often seated on the rugged banks of a torrent, he satisfied his hunger with roots and nuts, and wept as he thought of Italy and his ruined fortunes. The benevolence of his heart manifested itself in the midst of this adversity. It is related of him, that, as he was wandering one evening in a narrow lane, near Chamberi, a stranger accosted him and asked charity, relating that he had a sick mother and five children. Monti’s heart was moved: two sequins was all that he possessed in the world; he gave one of them to the suppliant. His health failed through the hardships that he endured; the labour of collecting his food became intolerable, and he forced himself to gather at one time sufficient for two days, so as to secure himself one of uninterrupted rest. His wife, who had remained to put their affairs in some order, now joined him. She found him stretched on a wretched bed, weak from inanition, but disdaining to apply to any one for relief in his need. She brought money with her, and proper food soon restored his strength; nor did he again fall into such an extremity of disaster, though it was long before the fickle goddess smiled upon him.b The minister, Mareschalchi,c invited him to Paris; and the new victories of Bonaparte in Italy, on his return from Egypt in the following year, revived his hopes of better times. Mareschalchi obtained that he should be employed to write a hymn and an ode in celebration of the victory of Marengo, which had driven the allies from Italy and restored it to the French.d He was to have been paid 1500 francs for these two poems, with the further reward of the professorship of Italian literature in the French university. But fortune was not weary of persecuting him; and this remuneration was withheld, on its being represented to government that Nevertheless, as Foscolo’s ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’ (1818) attests, Parini was one of the most highly regarded Italian authors of the previous century. John Cam Hobhouse and Madame de Staël both mention him; he was included in Stebbing. a Alexander Suvaroff or Suvarov (1729–1800), Russian general and head of Austro-Russian troops allied against Bonaparte under the Second Coalition. Bonaparte’s unsuccessful Egyptian campaign was conducted from 1798–9. b Paragraph adapted from Zajotti, pp. 15–16. c Ferdinand Mareschalchi (1764–1816), Bonaparte’s Minister of Foreign Affairs of Italy. d Decisive battle of Napoleon’s second Italian campaign, fought between France and Austria outside the town of Alessandria (Piedmont) on 14 June 1800. Monti wrote ‘Per la liberazione d’Italia’ (1800) and (quoted below) ‘Dopo la battaglia di Marengo’ (1801).

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he was, at heart, inimical to the French. Mareschalchi continued to befriend him, and obtained 500 francs, or about 20l. “No small relief to me,” he writes, “in / my necessitous circumstances.”a He was very eager to return to Italy, and he writes to his brother, – “Of the many thousand refugees who were here, almost all have returned to their country, because all have instantly received the necessary succour from home. I alone find myself abandoned by my relations, in a strange country, without friends, and without resources; unless, indeed, I can make up my mind to renounce my country for the sake of earning my bread in some office. But an irresistible sentiment is linked to the name of my native land. I possess in Italy the objects dearest to my heart – my child, my mother, brothers, friends, studies, habits; all, in short, that renders life dear. I pant, therefore, to return; and I implore you to send me assistance in the shape of a remittance for my journey, and to discharge my debts here. Every delay injures my interests, particularly at this moment. Direct to ‘Citizen Vincenzo Monti, Post-office, Paris.’ I shall count the days and moments – make my account short, if my happiness is dear to you.” Soon after his wishes were fulfilled, and he celebrates his return to his beloved Italy by a beautiful hymn, which begins – “Bella Italia, amate sponde, Pur vi torno a riveder, Trema il petto, e si confonde L’ alma oppressa di piacer.”b

He does not forget the victor in this song of joy and triumph. Marengo is mentioned with exultation; and Bonaparte celebrated with enthusiasm, as liberating Italy from the barbarians, and again bestowing upon her the blessings of freedom. On his arrival at Milan, Monti employed himself in correcting his poem, entitled the “Mascheroniana,” which he had begun amidst the Alps, when overwhelmed by misery, an exile, weeping over the disasters of his country and his own wrongs. Lorenzo Mascheroni, a celebrated mathematician as well as an elegant poet, was forced to quit Italy at the same time as Monti, and died in France shortly after.c In this poem the / poet vents all his spleen against his democratic enemies. In his preface he exclaims, “Reader, if you really love your country, and are a true Italian, read! but throw aside the book if, for your and our misfortune, you are an insane demagogue, or a cunning trafficker in the cause of liberty.” The poem opens with the death of Mascheroni, and the ascent of his soul to heaven. He here meets Parini, who laments the unhappy condition of Italy. “When I saw her misery,” he cries, “I desired to die, and my wish was fulfilled. I first beheld her a

This and the following extract are loosely translated from a letter of 26 June 1800 to Francesco Monti (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 281–2). b Published 1801; ‘Beautiful Italy, beloved shores, thus I return to meet you again, my breast trembles, and my overcharged soul dissolves with joy’. c In morte di Lorenzo Mascheroni, known as the ‘Mascheroniania’ (c. 1801), commemorating Lorenzo Mascheroni (1750–1800), Professor at the University of Pavia; Mascheroni’s Geometria del compasso (1797) was dedicated to Bonaparte.

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woe when dressed in her new freedom, which was called liberty, but which, in truth, was repine. I then beheld her a slave, alas! a despised slave, covered with wounds and blood, complaining to heaven that she was betrayed by her own children – by the many foolish, base, and perverse tyrants, not citizens; while the few remained mute or were destroyed. Iniquitous laws were given her; discord waited on her, and pride, and hate, and madness, ignorance and error; while the tears and sighs of the people remained unheard. O, wretches! who spoke of virtue in high-sounding words, and called themselves Brutus and Gracchus,a while they proved themselves traitors and monsters. But short-lived was their joy. I saw the Russian and the Austrian swords destroy the hopes of the fields of Italy, and the armed people commit crimes exceeding the supper of Atreus and the vengeance of Theseus!”b While Parini is thus pouring out his angry and bitter denunciations, Mascheroni interrupts him. “Peace, austere spirit!” he exclaims, “your country is again saved. A deity has caught her by the hair, and drawn her from the abyss: Bonaparte!” At this name, the frowning Parini raises his head, and a smile illuminates his countenance. The victories of Egypt, of Marengo, and Hohenlinden,c are commemorated; and the “British felon” assailed with the usual violence of hate. In the midst of the conversation of the friends, God appears with his cherubim, – one the herald of peace and pardon, the other of war and vengeance: they are sent out on the earth to assist / and wait on the Gallic hero. This poem, like so many others of Monti, which celebrated what was then the present, and is therefore truncated of its catastrophe, is a fragment. Such praise, dressed in all the magnificence of poetry, must have sounded sweetly in Napoleon’s ear. The “Mascheroniana,” whose chief object is to bestow on him new wreaths of victory, is one of Monti’s finest compositions. It is full of strength, vehemence, and beauty. His imitation of Dante is even more apparent than in the “Basvilliana.” The machinery of the poem, and the peculiar verification, are borrowed from the “Divina Commedia.” But, as we have before observed, Monti’s was too original a mind to be a plagiarist. What he took from another, he remoulded and brought forth in a new form, in fresh and brilliant hues, all his own. He has not the sublimity, the sweetness and pathos, nor the distinct yet delicate painting, of his prototype; but no one can read his verses without feeling that the true spirit of poetry breathes in every line, and that the author pours out the overflowings of a genuine and rapt inspiration. a Marcus Junius Brutus, (c. 85–42 BC) and Caius Sempronius Gracchus (c. 160–121 BC), exemplars of Roman republican patriotism. Brutus assassinated Julius Caesar (or perhaps his ancestor, who had his own sons executed for conspiring against the republic, is intended); Gracchus championed the common people. b Atreus was revenged upon his brother, Thyestes, by causing him to eat his own children at dinner; similarly, Theseus imprecates vengeance upon his (wrongfully accused) son, who was trampled to death by his own horses. Summarising In morte di Lorenzo Mascheroni, I. 173–219. c Battle of Hohenlinden (3 December 1800), a French victory over the Austrians in Germany, leading to the Treaty of Lunéville (9 Feb. 1801); the ‘British felon’ is presumably William Pitt the Younger, or perhaps, more generally, the British nation.

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His third tragedy of “Caius Gracchus”a had been written at Paris, and he occupied himself in finishing and correcting it on his return to Milan. This tragedy has been praised by some as superior to “Aristodemo,” but it is difficult to coincide in this opinion. It possesses fine passages and some energy, but it is wanting in poetry; and the characters want the simple heroism of antiquity, and resemble rather violent Italians of modern days. The defects of monotonous dialogue and often repeated situations flow also from an observation of the unities, which, by confining the subject in narrow limits, permit no variety of action, and, except in peculiar instances, force the poet to repeat himself; making one scene frequently little else than a repetition of what had gone before. Monti had begun his literary and poetic life by servitude, when he became secretary of the duke of Braschi. / In his present desperate circumstances he saw no hope, except in conciliating the ruling power of the continent, and entering on the service of the man who looked on all men as merely engines to fulfil his vast and illimitable projects. Napoleon had by fresh victories driven the Austrians from Italy; and a congress, called the Cisalpine, was held at Lyons, to fix on a form of government for the north of the peninsula. This was a kind of mockery that Bonaparte was fond of encouraging in the early days of his elevation, since, under some of the forms of popular election, new powers were, with a show of legality, bestowed on him. The Italians of the congress fixed on a plan of government, at the head of which was to be a president: they entreated Napoleon to accept this office, as the disunited state of the country rendered it unadvisable to elect an Italian to it. Napoleon consented.b This was a happy moment to bring himself before the supreme power, and Monti seized on it. He wrote an ode to Bonaparte, in the name of the Cisalpine congress; he chose the motto from Virgil, and it was a happy one, – “Victorque volentes Per populos dat jura.”c

The verses are very beautiful, and worthy of a better cause than laying the liberties of his country prostrate at the first consul’s feet. Still Monti was aware that, degraded by long servitude and disunited by petty passions, the Italians were ignorant of the nature of true liberty. He saw party spirit, oppression, and rapine as the result of any attempt on the part of his countrymen to govern themselves; he knew also how vain it was to contend with the conqueror, and he was very probably sincere in his belief that the welfare of his country was safest in his hands. Still, while we admire the harmony of the verses and the beauty of the imagery, we repine at the slavish spirit that lurks within them. Bonaparte, who loved to be a

Cajo Gracco (1802). Napoleon served as Italian president from 1802 until his coronation as King of Italy in 1805. c ‘Gives a victor’s laws to willing peoples’ (Virgil’s Georgics, IV. 561–2) referring to Octavius Caesar’s making himself sole ruler of Italy after the Battle of Actium (31 BC). b

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borne up by the wings of men’s imaginations into a superior sphere of glory and success, / must have been pleased by the halo of poetry with which Monti stooped to adorn his name. He did not go unrewarded. When peace was restored to Italy, the institutions for public education became objects of interest to the government, and a professorship was offered Monti, either at Milan or Pavia, at his choice.a Monti preferred the later, for the sake of enjoying the society of the able professors who filled the chairs of that university. He was diligent and conscientious in his attendance to the duties of his situation, and his lectures were fully attended: the best of his prose writings being his inauguration lecture, which had for its subject the praise of the literary men of Italy, and the claiming for them the merit of many discoveries usually attributed to the natives of other countries. After three years spent at Pavia, he was invited by the governor to Milan, and a number of offices and honours were bestowed on him. He was made assessor to the minister of the interior for the department of literature and the fine arts; he was named court poet and historiographer, and made cavalier of the iron crown, member of the institute, and of the legion of honour.b Monti was no laggard in fulfilling the duties of the first of these places. He wrote a variety of poems in praise of Napoleon, and in celebration of his victories. In the “Bard,”c a fictitious personage, Ullino, attended by the maiden Malvina, while watching with enthusiastic admiration the advance of the French arms, falls in with a young wounded warrior; they, of course, take him home, and watch over his recovery, when he relates, at their request, the events of the expedition to Egypt and the battles that illustrated Napoleon’s return to Europe. There is the merit of enthusiasm and glowing description in portions of this poem. The canto on the expedition to Egypt contains the best passages. When Napoleon was crowned king of Italy, Monti was commanded to celebrate the event. He writes to Cesarotti,d – “While you are robing the magnificent spleen of Juvenal in beautiful and dignified Italian, / I am sounding the Pindaric harp for the emperor Napoleon. The government has commanded me, and I must obey. I hope that love of my country will not make my thoughts too free; and that I may respect the hero, without betraying my duty as a citizen. I am in a path where the wishes of the nation do not accord with its political necessities, and I fear to lose myself. St. Apollo help me! and do you pray that I may be endowed with sagacity and prudence.” This poem, in which he tries to trim his sail so nicely between patriotism and servitude, is called “Il Benificio;” or, The Benefaction, a a

Detail from Zajotti, p. 23. This and the preceding two sentences taken verbatim from Zajotti, p. 23. c Monti’s six odes to Napoleon were published as Il Bardo della selva nera (The Bard of the Dark Wood) (1806). d Melchiorre Cesarotti (1730–1808), scholar and poet, best known for his popular translation of James MacPherson’s Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, (1762), also known as The Poems of Ossian. The letter is of 6 Apr. 1805 (Monti, Opere inedite, pp. 38–9). b

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vision.a It has great merit. All that Monti ever wrote is graced with such a happy flow, and with so much beauty of imagery and expression, that it is impossible not to admire as we read. He describes Italy as appearing to him in a vision; she is personified by a woman, wounded and drooping, the victim of grief and slavery. The poet, struck with compassion and horror, evokes the shades of mighty Romans from their tombs to assist the degraded queen of the world; but they turn in scorn from the fallen and lost one. Then a warrior, godlike and majestic, descends from the Alps, – Victory attends him, – yet he disregards her, and prefers the olive to the laurel (a most unfortunate compliment to a man whose whole soul was war). He approaches the unfortunate prostrate being, – raises her, and bids her reign; nor could the livid glare cast by the British cannon over the Tyrrhene sea avail against him. The warrior smiles, and at his smile all danger vanishes. Then the austere and noble spirit of Dante arises and apostrophises Italy, telling her that the regal power of Napoleon was exactly the restraint and law he had wished her to fall under; and, taking the crown from her head, places it on that of the French emperor. Spain salutes the new diadem. The German, still crimson with his own blood, acknowledges the victor, and bends his eyes to earth; while the British pirate, powerful in fleets and fraud, curses aloud. “I send you a copy of the Vision,” Monti / writes to a friend, “which I have written for the coronation of our king: it has succeeded perfectly, and no work of mine, since I began to write verses, has prospered so well.”b It is impossible not to congratulate him on his success in attaining prudence. Assuredly there was nothing too free in these verses; and Napoleon might accept them without an unpleasant thought being awakened as to his usurpation, tyranny, and rapacious, unbounded ambition. Every fresh victory, every new conquest, was a theme for the venal muse of Monti; venal we have a right to call it, since he acknowledges the bond of a salary and the necessity of obedience. Thus, on occasion of the battle of Jena, he brought out the “Spada di Federico;” or, the Sword of Frederic, – the most popular of his odes of triumph.c In this poem he images the spectral hand of the warrior king of Prussia disputing with Napoleon the possession of his sword, and yielding to the proud assumptions and tenacious grasp of the Gallic victor. Ten editions of this work were sold in the space of five months, and it was translated into the French and Latin languages. The attempted usurpation of the Spanish throne did not go uncelebrated. The “Palingenesi” has for its subject the regeneration of mind and of political institutions wrought in Spain, under the auspices of the French emperor and his brother Joseph.d If we could dismiss from our minds the truth, and fancy, as Monti a ‘Il Benificio, visione’, published in Poesie di Vincenzo Monti in occasione dell’ esattamento al trono d’Italia di Napoleone I, imperator de’ Francesi (1805). b From a letter of 29 May 1805 to P. Soliari (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 41–3). c Battle of Jena (14 Oct. 1806), French defeat of the Prussians in Germany, leading to the Treaty of Tilsit (7-9 July 1807); ‘La spada di Federico II’ (1806). d La Palingenesi politica (1809); on the subject of Joseph Bonaparte (1768–1844), elder brother of Napoleon, who served as King of Naples (1806–8) and King of Spain (1808–13).

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assumes, that a great and generous nation had sunk into the depths of slavery and degradation through the evil influence of a corrupt government, and that Napoleon was bent on loosening its fetters and raising it to freedom and knowledge, it would be impossible not to be filled with enthusiasm by the noble ideas and grand imagery of this poem. But the taint of falsehood prevents any sympathy, and our admiration of the imagination displayed is checked by our contempt of the flatterer; while we smile at the bitter and violent curses poured upon the English, whose motives for / assisting the Spaniards in resisting the French are painted in the most odious colours.a We wonder as we read. There is fire, sublimity, and power in every line. Can these be inspired, as we are assured by Monti’s friends, by the mere desire of acquiring the loaves and fishes, if not for himself individually, for his wife and daughter? Are the shadowy forms which he invests with so much beauty – the conceptions into which he infuses so much energy and seeming sincerity – the mere playthings of his thought, and not the genuine offspring of a mind teeming and overflowing with a sense of usefulness and truth? We cannot believe it; we are so apt to forget what our feelings were when the occasion that called them forth has vanished like morning mist. When Napoleon fell, men forgot the wonder and admiration with which they had regarded him during his prosperity. He had come on the time-worn world like an incarnation of the memories of antiquity. The greatest sovereigns, who traced their descent from the middle ages – the thrones of the world, so long the objects of worship and fear – the crowns and sceptres which had been looked upon as the sacred and inviolable symbols of divine right – were all at his feet, dispossest, transferred, and broken. It could be no wonder that men looked upon the cause of these things as something prodigious and superhuman. Monti may be excused that he joined in the common feeling of awe and admiration; while, afterwards, seeing how little good arose from the breaking up of the ancient tyrannies, and how the indomitable will of one man was enforced by means of treachery and slaughter, he might forget that he could ever have been so blinded, and fancy that acknowledged fear was the cause of an inspiration which really sprung from the slavish worship of success, which is too naturally inherent in human beings. Although Monti brought forward this disingenuous plea to excuse his celebration of the hero of the age, he was sincere in one feeling, – an attachment to the offspring / of his brain, and in the indignation he felt against those who depreciated his poetic merits. The “Sword of Frederic” was attacked by the critics with great asperity, and he replied with still greater acrimony. He had been charged with mannerism and sameness, especially in the machinery of his poems, in which visions, spectres, and cloudy spiritual essences play for ever a principal part. He would not allow this to be a defect, and railed at the unimaginative minds who a Referring to Britain’s entry into the Peninsular War in 1808 and the campaign of the Duke of Wellington.

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conceived it to be such. He tries to be jocose in his indignation, but his laugh is bitter; and he heaps the accusations of ill faith and envy, as well as of ignorance and bad taste, on those who attack him. There may be justice in this, but there is no dignity. There is always a degree of degradation in noticing the enmity of a race of ephemera, and not calmly relying on the award of the public. Besides the poems above mentioned, Monti wrote several other poems in praise of the conqueror. “The Jerogamia” and the “Api Panacridi” were compositions which, whatever their apparent subject might be, turned, after all, on the praise of the emperor.a They maintained, if they did not increase, the poet’s fame. His best works were already written; and these may be named to be the “Aristodemo,” the “Basvilliana,” passages in the “Prometèo,” the “Mascheroniana,” and the “Palingenesi;” and of his shorter odes, that to Bonaparte, on occasion of the Cisalpine congress, and his hymn on his return to Italy. Years began to tame the fire of his imagination, and he felt the spirit of original composition fail him. His active mind turned to other subjects on which to exercise it: his love of classical learning led him to works of criticism and erudition, and he wrote “Remarks on the Winged Horse of Arsinoe.”b A want of knowledge of the Greek language must, however, have been a great drawback to this species of study; but we must regard with still greater wonder, considering this defect, his next enterprise, which was the translation of / the Iliad.c He had been looking out for a subject, and meditating in what way he could employ his powers, when a word, spoken by chance by Ugo Foscolo, at once awoke in his mind the desire and the energy requisite for so arduous a task. Not being acquainted with Greek, he applied himself to every kind of literal translation, and was, besides, mainly assisted by his friend Mustoxidi, who explained passages, compared his version with the original, and bestowed a degree of labour which, barren as it was of reputation to himself, must be regarded as a singular proof of disinterested attachment.d Monti applied himself so vigorously to the task, that, in spite of all his disadvantages, in less than two years he brought it to a conclusion. This new labour yielded him a large harvest of reputation. Other Italian translations of the Iliad already existed: that of Salvini is valuable, from his profound knowledge of the Greek and Italian languages. It is elegantly and faithfully translated, but it wants spirit; and the sublime Homeric fire, which renders the Iliad the greatest of human works, glimmers feebly in his version. The translation of Ceruti is as faithful as is compatible with his ignorance of Greek; but, besides the

a

La Ierogamia di Creta (1810), on the wedding of Napoleon Bonaparte to Maria Louise of Austria; Le Api Pancredi in Alvisopoli (1811), on the birth of Napoleon’s son. b Del cavallo alato d’Arsinoe, lettere filologiche (1804). c Iliade di Omero (1810). Much of this paragraph is extracted from Zajotti, pp. 23–4. d Andrea Mustoxidi (1785–1860), Greek patriot and literary translator, whose acquaintances included Foscolo and Byron, as well as Monti. Monti relied heavily on Mustoxidi’s earlier translation of Homer, leading Foscolo to call him ‘the great translator of Homer’s translators’.

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want of the true spirit of the original, his style, modelled on that of Metastasio and Rolli, wants vigour and versatility.a Monti possessed, beyond any other poet, the faculty of warming himself with his subject, of penetrating himself with its soul, and imparting, by the vivacity of his language and the glowing brightness of his imagination, his own sentiments to the reader. The very act of versifying seemed to be to him what the sound of song is to the sensitive, in elevating and moving the soul. His mind possessed the qualities of the harp, which gives forth sweet music when swept by the breezes: thought with him was always pregnant with harmonious and animated expression, with glowing and various imagery. On this has been founded his excuse for writing with such apparent fervour on subjects that did not really interest his feelings; and this facility / is a good quality in a translator. Monti could conceive and imbibe the spirit of the original, and give it out, in his own language, with vigour and life. Visconti, in writing to the poet, says, “The choice and variety of diction and phrases, the equal and sustained tone of the verses, and the noble simplicity of the style, place your work among the few that transmit the poetic name with honour to posterity.”b This praise was accompanied by a few judicious criticisms which showed the care and zeal with which he had examined the translation. Monti paid attention to them, and endeavoured to amend all the errors pointed out in the subsequent editions of his work. When Napoleon was overthrown, and the north of Italy fell under the yoke of the Austrians, Monti of course lost all his public employments, and he was menaced in his old age by the miseries of hopeless poverty. But his submissive disposition and plastic opinions were just of that sort which kings delight to honour; and the emperor of Austriac bestowed such pensions on him as enabled him to pursue his studies in leisure and competence. No doubt Monti felt glad, in common with all his countrymen, to get rid of the anti-national sway of the French, and hoped that a better state of things would result from any change. His experience of popular rule in Italy had disgusted him with it. He had not that zeal and ardour of feeling resulting from a conviction that, however perilous the passage from slavery to liberty, it must be attempted and persevered in, with all its attendant evils, if men are to be brought back from that cowardice, indolence, and selfishness which mark the slave, to the heroism, patience, and intellectual activity which characterise the freeman. Besides this, the armies of Austria admitted of no reply from the unwarlike Italians. The remnants of their army which had returned, wasted and broken, from the Russian campaign had been forced, after some show of resistance, to capitulate: submission was their only resource, and a

Anton Maria Salvini (1653–1729); Giacinto Ceruti (b. 1737). Not traced. The writer is Monsignor Ennio Quirino Visconti, Chamberlain to Pius VI and a correspondent of Monti. c Francis Joseph von Habsburg (b. 1768), the last Holy Roman Emperor under the title Francis II (1792–1806) and later the first Emperor of Austria under the title Francis I (1804–35); Mary Shelley’s particular aversion. b

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submission was in accordance / with Monti’s disposition. Nor did he afterwards ever give umbrage to the jealous and revengeful government whose pay he received, when hopes of better times and of redemption warmed the hearts of all the nobler Italians to attempt the destruction of their tyrants. He was acquainted with many of the Austrian victims; and when we find in his letters complaints of sorrows and misfortunes, we must attribute these to the real sympathy he felt for these unhappy martyrs: but, though he sympathised with the men, it is probable that he disapproved of their attempts. He was hopeless, and a hopeless struggle presented to him only the too real picture of aggravated oppression in general, and frightful individual suffering; he did not feel that boiling of the heart, that fire of the spirit, which makes the great and good risk all, rather than live subject to a power which exerted all its leaden strength to press down genius, crush every exertion of mind, and to reduce men as nearly as possible to the condition of the herds who graze in the fields, without a thought beyond the food and rest which the fertility of the soil and the beauty of the climate afford. Monti was not one of these: his mind was active, and, in his way, he wished to benefit his country. So when a thousand hearts were convulsed by the throes arising from all the hopes and fears of a just rebellion, he turned his attention to the study of the Italian language, to the task of freeing it from the shackles which critics had thrown over it, and of gifting it with the new spirit and animation which must arise from the introduction of living forms of speech, instead of the classic and restricted limitations imposed by the Della Crusca society.a He composed few poems after the fall of Napoleon. When the emperor of Austria sent the archduke John to receive the oath of fealty from the provinces of Lombardy, he wrote, by command, a cantata, entitled “Mistico Omaggio,” or the Mystic Homage, which was brought out at the principal theatre at Milan. When the emperor himself visited Italy he celebrated / the event by a poem, called “The Return of Astrea,” and another, named “The Invitation to Pallas.” His style in these later compositions joins harmony to dignity, and forms that mixture of strength and sweetness which is so delightful in Metastasio. His last poetic compositions were written at Pesaro, where he was debarred from his usual occupations, and dispirited by a disease that attacked one of his eyes; and he solaced himself by dictating various poems full of grace and beauty, which he afterwards published under the title of “Sollievo nella Malinconia,” or “Relief of Melancholy.”b

a

Sentence loosely adapted by Mary Shelley, introducing her characteristic phrasing such as ‘gifting’, from Zajotti, p. 25. b Archduke John: Baptist Joseph Sebastian von Habsburg (1782–1859), Archduke of Austria and younger brother of Emperor Francis II/I. “Mistico Omaggio”: ‘Il mistico omaggio: cantata da esequirsi’, with music by Ferdinando Olandi (1774–1848), performed at La Scala; other works in this paragraph are ‘Il Ritorno di Astrea’ (1816), ‘L’invito a Pallade’ (1819) and Un sollievo nella malinconia (1822).

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One of the most fortunate incidents of his life was the marriage of his daughter to a man of singular merit. Costanza Monti was (is, we should rather say) remarkable for her beauty and her talents; her poetry, though there is little of it, is of a very high grade, and one poem, “On a Rose,” has sufficed to establish her fame in Italy.a Count Giulio Perticari sprung from a noble family of Romagna. His residence was at Pesaro, and he there filled successively the offices of podestà and judge. He devoted himself to literature, and had published works both in prose and verse, by which he acquired considerable reputation. It must be in the memory of all Italians, and all those strangers who visited Italy during his lifetime, how he was beloved by every one who knew him. No man was ever more popular, more universally pronounced the best of men; and this praise resulted from the goodness and singleness of his heart, the sweetness of his disposition, and his unpretending but attractive manners. Writing concerning this marriage to his friends, Monti speaks of it with pride and pleasure. He says, “Count Giulio Perticari, of Pesaro, is a young man well cultivated in literature. I say nothing of his moral qualities, which render him dear to all. It is the most delightful match that paternal love can desire.”b After this period Monti’s labours were chiefly confined to prose, and he is considered in this manner to have / greatly benefited the literature of his country. The chief among these are the considerations on the difficulty of well translating the poetry of the Iliad, and several dialogues on the Italian language, full of acute criticism and wit.c A circumstance turned his attention still more entirely to the subject of language. The government of Lombardy, wishing to show some encouragement to literature, had ordered the Royal Institute of Milan to occupy itself in the reform of the national dictionary; and Monti was requested by his colleagues to publish his observations on the subject. He obeyed with alacrity. His son-inlaw, count Perticari, had devoted much attention to this subject, and he became Monti’s associate in the task.d The great question in Italy is, whether the pure and classical language, the only one not wholly barbarous and vulgar, is Italian or Tuscan; a mixture drawn from the various dialects of the peninsula, or solely founded on Petrarch, Dante, and Boccaccio, and other early Tuscan authors. The academy Della Crusca espoused a Costanza (1792–1840), wife of Count Giulio Perticari di Savignano (1779–1822); referring here to her poem ‘L’origine della rosa’ (Origin of the Rose) (1829), written in two cantos of ottava rima. Mary Shelley appears to have private information about Perticari’s good reputation, but does not seem to have heard gossip that Costanza was unfaithful; for Byron calling Perticari a ‘classical cuckold’ see vol. V of Byron’s Letters and Journals, ed. Marchand (London: John Murray, 1977), p. 124) Podestà: magistrate. b From a letter of 29 Feb. to Cesare Arici, with the addition of the last sentence from a letter of 11 Jan. 1812 (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 109–10, 108–9). c Dialoghi, collected in Opere varie del cavaliere Vincenzo Monti (1827). d Petricari and Monti collaborated on the Proposta di alcune correzioni ed aggiunte al Vocabolario della Crusca (Proposal of Some Corrections and Additions to the Della Cruscan Dictionary) (1817); see also ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (vol. 4, p. 228) and Rambles, II, Letter XIV (MWSN, vol. 8, pp. 314–15).

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the latter side of the question, and, forming a dictionary, expunged every word not to be found in the authors named the Trecentisti.a Monti, on the contrary, attacked the ipse-dixitsb of this academy, and, pointing out innumerable errors in their dictionary, undertook, as he called it, a crusade against the Della Crusca. This is a question that has divided all the talents of Italy, and in which it appears presumptuous in a foreigner to express any decision. Still we may reason from general grounds, and from analogy. Every portion of Italy has a distinct dialect. Immediately on leaving the precincts of any town, an acute ear will detect in the person who lives outside the gate a difference in the form of speech and pronunciation. Many of the towns use a mere patois, which has never been written. The Neapolitan, Romagnole, Genoese, and Milanese, each have a dialect, devoid of grace, cacophonous, truncated of vowels, and unintelligible to any but themselves; the Venetian being the only one distinguished for its own / peculiar charms. To a stranger the language of the Romans has a great charm: the bocca Romana, or Roman pronunciation, is clear, soft, and yet emphatic. Their language is unidiomatic, and therefore easily comprehended. You enter Tuscany, and come upon those terse and idiomatic forms of speech which enraptured Alfieri, and which give so much energy and animation to the expression of sentiment, so much clearness and precision to narration or reasoning. But even these are not admitted by the Della Crusca. The Florentine is still a dialect – the Pisan and the Siennese fall under the same denomination: the principal difference is that the grammar of all the Tuscans is pure, and that you may form your speech on that of the peasantry and servants, without running any risk of falling into errors and vulgarisms.c Alfieri used to mingle in the crowds assembled in the market-place of Sienna, there to imbibe from unlearned lips the purest modes of the Italian language. The dictionary Della Crusca was founded therefore on Tuscan, omitting its peculiarities, and carefully registering any innovations that had crept in since the era of the Trecentisti. It is obvious, under this tutelage, that the Italian became, when written, virtually a dead language. No author could adopt the forms of speech he made use of in the common conversation. The language that they heard and spoke when moved by joy, by grief, by love, or anger, was to be modified, corrected, and, so to speak, translated, before it could be put in a book. The living impress of the soul was to be taken from it, and, instead of putting down the word that rose spontaneously to the lips, and ought to have flowed as a

Trecentisti, Italian poets of the 14th century, notably Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. Ipse dixits: dogmatic statements (from the Latin for ‘he said it’). c Mary Shelley, who had heard all the named dialects (except Siennese) actually spoken, here engages with the long-standing controversy which had achieved new topicality during the Risorgimento, the ‘questione della lingua’. Her position is staunchly pro-Tuscan. She cites examples of idiomatically vivid Tuscan peasant speech in ‘The English in Italy’ and in Valperga (MWSN, vol. 2, p. 157; vol. 3, p. 320). Cesarotti, by contrast, had argued that linguistic ‘purity’ was a myth: all Italian dialects had arisen by the infiltration into classical Latin of alien languages, and Tuscan was not a special case of gradual evolution from Latin, as the Della Cruscans maintained. b

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easily from the pen, the author hunted in the Della Crusca dictionary for authorities, which shackled the free spirit of inspired genius with chains and bolts forged from the works of the old writers, who themselves wrote as they spoke, and created a language, simply by putting down the forcible and graceful expressions then in colloquial use. Still a great difficulty arises from / any deviation from these rules. Was then the Florentine dialect, or the Siennese, or the Pisan, to be the written language of the country? Each city would have rejected its neighbour’s, and still more would Lombardisms be regarded with disdain by the inhabitants of the south. Language, pronunciation, idiom, all form a habit to the eye and ear, which, beginning with our very birth, cannot be afterwards discarded. No Tuscan ever would or even could tolerate the introduction of any of the words or phrases belonging to other dialects; and they endure the mistakes of foreigners with less disgust than the uncouth pronunciation of their countrymen of the north and east of the peninsula. Nor will they allow that even the well educated among these use classic modes of speech. This is the point of contention; for their antagonists insist, that they are in as full possession as the Tuscans of pure Italian, drawing it from the same sources – namely, the best writers of the country; and assert that they are as well able to originate new modes of expression, and to turn with as much elegance and force those already in use. Monti and Perticari both entered heart and soul into this dispute, which speedily roused every literary person in Italy to take one side or the other. The Tuscans, headed by the Della Crusca, were furious that their long-acknowledged supremacy should be questioned; while Monti, resting the merits of his opinion on the great authority of Dante,a did not hesitate in his attack. Several letters to his friend Mustoxidi display his earnestness and sincerity in the cause. We extract passages from them, as explanatory of his ideas and characteristic of the man. “The necessity of relaxing a little the intensity of the labour I have in hand, led me for a few days among these mountains, where yours of the 2d found me. To fulfil my duty towards government, I have been obliged to publish my remarks on the Della Crusca vocabulary, and the great distinction of which it is necessary to remind the Italians; the distinction I / mean between the plebeian dialects, and that dignified language spoken by all the well educated in the country, from the summit of the Alps to the Lilybæum promontory.b Founding my opinion on the authority of Dante, in which both Petrarch and Boccaccio concur in a surprising manner, I have undertaken to advocate that dignified Italian which is not spoken but written; and to vindicate the rights of fourteen provinces of Italy a Dante had examined fourteen Italian dialects in De Vulgaria eloquentia, concluding that all had defects, but that the perfect Italian literary language could be created by a selection of their excellencies. He was not considering what should be the national language of a unified Italy. b i.e. from one end of the country to the other. Lilybaeum, Roman settlement on the western promontory of Sicily; present-day Marsala. Extract of letter to Mustoxidi, 9 Oct. 1817 (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 144–6).

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against the pretensions of a single one, which, contrary to the principles of the great father of Italian literature, has endeavoured to substitute the language in use in a single city, in short a peculiar dialect, which, however beautiful, is only a dialect, and can never fill the place of that universal language of which the country has need. I do not know whether I shall treat this great cause worthily; but I am convinced that whoever impugns the principles which I establish, must begin by proving that Dante and the other two were mad. I dare not believe that I have obtained a complete victory; but I have laid the foundation-stones on which others of greater talent may one day erect and finish the edifice.” To another friend he writes: – “The treatise of Perticari on the language of the Trecentisti, which will soon be published, is a chef-d’œuvre, displaying great philosophy and acute criticism. I promise you that it will make a great sensation, and that the Crusca with drooping head, caudamque remulcens, will not know what to answer.”a “Grassi has written an excellent parallel of the Della Crusca dictionary with that of Johnson and the Spanish academy, which are similar in their plan; and you will perceive the Gothic condition of our vocabulary in comparison with others.b Assistance and support reach me from all parts of Italy, even from Tuscany; so that I may say that the whole nation sides with me.” With more moderation he writes afterwards, – “We do not wish to rule; but neither reason nor honour permit us to continue slaves. We only desire the right / to have a voice in the defence of national rights against municipal pretensions: for the rest, we will take the law from them.”c In fact, Monti must have felt the extreme difficulty of the question. In England and France it is just to say, that the language of the well educated all over the country may serve for authority as to language. But the nobility and higher classes in Lombardy and Romagna all speak their unintelligible dialects among themselves; it is only with strangers, and when they write, that they have recourse to Italian. It is impossible, therefore, that what they compose by rule, after study and practice, can be the living language of a people in opposition to a dialect, if you will, which, with few omissions and some change of pronunciation, is the admiration of all who can appreciate the true beauties of style; which is remarkable for passion and fervour combined with concision and sweetness; for idiomatic phrases that realise and stamp as it were the thought, instead of a periphrastic expression which speaks of an idea or notion rather than giving expression to a ‘And with drooping tail’ (Virgil, Aeneid, XI. 812), describing a guilty wolf retreating with tail between his legs; referring to Perticari’s ‘Degli scrittori del trecento e de’ loro imitatori’ (1820) in a letter to Urbano Lampredi, 22 Nov. 1817. The second extract is from a letter to Mustoxidi of 24 June 1818 (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 147–9, 156–8). b Samuel Johnson (1709–84), author of A Dictionary of the English Language (1755); in an effort to reform Spanish grammar and orthography the Real Academia Español compiled the Diccionario de la lengua castellana (1726); Giuseppe Grassi, Italian exile living in London, intimate of Ugo Foscolo and correspondent of Monti. c From a letter of 5 July 1818 to G. Niccolini (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 159–61).

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these themselves. Monti was right in throwing aside the classical shackles of the Della Crusca; but there is token in his letters that, in his heart, he at last acknowledged that there was more of the living spirit of true Italian abroad in the colloquial idiom of Tuscany, than in all the well-turned sentences and set phrases of the well educated of the rest of Italy. We cannot help thinking that Monti must have been very happy during the prosecution of these labours. An active mind abhors repose, when it must “cream and mantle like a standing pool.”a The aid and sympathy of his amiable and cultivated son-in-law must have shed an infinite charm over his labours, the zeal of his partisans have flattered, the attacks of his enemies have animated him. He believed that he was delivering his country from a superstition which clogged the springs of her literature, and choked up its free course. To a great degree he was in the right, and the proof is in the / original and beautiful use made of his theory by the Italian authors of the present day. Monti, loudly acknowledged to be the first Italian poet of his day, continued to reside at Milan, devoted to literary pursuits, surrounded by a circle of admirers, the chief not so much of a sect, as of Italian literature. Yet he was often attacked, and was by no means tolerant of criticism. His heart, however, was of better grain than his temper, and his violent literary disputes with distinguished contemporaries, with Mazza, Cesarotti, and Bettinelli, terminated in mutual friendship and esteem.b Angry when offended, and unmeasured in his expressions of offence, yet the desire of reconciliation on the part of others was always met by him with cordiality and ready forgiveness. He was the more loved and admired the more he was known; one of the charms that attended his intercourse was the beauty of his recitation. To hear him read Virgil or Dante, was to find a deeper pathos in the laments of Dido, new energy in the complaints of Ugolino.c Fond of, devoted to his art, there was no pedantry about him: he never thrust it upon the ignorant or frivolous; but with his friends he loved to analyse the essence of poetry, and to discuss the great question then in vogue in Italy of the classic and romantic schools.d There is a letter of his to a friend on this subject, passages of which may be quoted as showing his opinions on this subject, opinions which bear the stamp of truth. “A poet,” he writes, “ought to paint the nature which he beholds. I applaud the poetry of the North, which is in perfect accord with the gloomy atmosphere from a

Adapted from Merchant of Venice, I. i. 90. Angelo Mazza (1741–1817) and Saverio Bettinelli (1718–1808). c Dido, Queen of Carthage, laments when deserted by Aeneas (Aeneid, IV. ll. 305–30, 365– 87, 416–36, 534–53, 590–662). The shade of Ugolino della Gherardesca tells how he watched his sons starve to death in prison (Dante, Inferno, XXXIII. ll. 1–90). d The catalyst for the emergence of opposing schools was de Staël’s ‘On the Manner and Usefulness of Translations’ (1816) and the terms of the debate were articulated in a flurry of manifestos and polemics between 1816 and 1823. Perticari took the classical side. It is during this period that the term ‘romanticism’, applied to a literary and cultural movement, gained currency. b

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which it receives its inspiration. But Italian poetry, born of a glad and happy sky, is mad when she would robe herself in clouds, and study to paint a nature of which she can form no idea except from imagination. And besides, should poetry, whose chief use is to delight (and, in the miserable state of human beings, to delight is to serve), ought she to appear rough and frowning, ruled by pedantry and crabbed philosophy? / Is it possible that no one knows how to distinguish the office of poet from that of philosopher? It is one thing to speak to the senses, another to speak to the intellect. Naked and dry truth is the death of poetry; for poetry and fiction are the same, and fable being only truth disguised, this truth must be ornamented by flowers to be gladly received. You scattered fresh and beautiful roses over your poetic meditations when you speak of Greece and Rome; but, when you leave these fields of perennial poetic beauty, and say that the thoughts of the Greeks ran around in a narrow circle of images, and after uttering this falsehood, you throw yourself with loosened reins into the praise of the romantic school, then, my noble friend (pardon me if I frankly declare my opinion), you are no longer the same. Had I been at your side when you wrote your tender adieu to the gods of Greece, I should have persuaded you not to continue it – nor to irritate the shade of Schiller – of that Schiller whom, next to Shakespeare, I admire. Do you not know that his best and favourite ode is entitled the ‘Gods of Greece?’a in which he manifests his indignation against those who have expelled them from the kingdom of the muses, and prays that they may be recalled to adorn life and poetry. I conversed much with lord Byron during the fifteen days’ stay which he made at Milan.b Do you know that he trembled with rage when any one chanced, fancying that they paid him a compliment, to praise the romantic school. Yet, in the sense in which we understand it, no one was more romantic than he. But he disdained the name, hating to find himself mixed up with the crowd of fools who dishonour that noble school. I do not wish to play the preceptor with you, but allow the true friendship that binds me to you to conclude with a counsel which for many years I have myself followed, inter utrumque vola;c and, leaving the squabbles of party, let us use our best endeavours to write good verses.”d We may add to this profession of the poet’s faith with regard to the classic and romantic schools, that / Monti considered Homer, Dante, and Shakspeare as the first poets of the world; thus giving proof of the justness of his taste, and demonstrating that originality and truth were appreciated by him at their just value. Next to these three kings of the art he placed Virgil, whom he loved as the friend of his boyhood. He preferred Tacitus and Livy among the Latin prose writers, and Machiavelli among the Italians. His opinions on these subjects were delivered without arrogance, and without presuming to institute an unappealable decision. a

Die Götter Griechenlands (1788), by Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (1759–1805). Byron met Monti in Milan between 13 Oct. and 2 Nov. 1816 (Byron’s Letters and Journals, V, pp. 113–122). c ‘Hover between the two’, an adaptation of Ovid, Metamorphoses VIII. 13. d From a letter to Carlo Tedaldi Fores of 30 Nov. 1825 (Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 257–61). b

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The count and countess Perticari resided principally at Pescara;a but they held frequent intercourse with Monti at Milan. In the winter of 1821–22, Perticari having made some stay at Milan, Monti accompanied him on his return home. Several of his letters to his wife written during this excursion are published; and we cannot resist the temptation of giving them to the reader, affording as they do demonstrations of his affectionate heart, and of the pleasure he took in the society of his amiable relative. The first of these is dated from Verona, 7th October, 1821. “I never made a merrier journey. We were six in company: a Brescian, a Veronese, a Paduan, Mercandante, and us two. Day had scarcely dawned, when we began to examine each other, and snuff-boxes went their amicable round. An instant confidence sprung up among us, which led to much chat and pleasantry. So gay were we, that we did nothing but laugh in chorus till we arrived at the gates of Verona. Perticari and I ordered that our luggage should be carried to the inn; being determined to remain free. But the signore Mosconi, and Persico, had already left word at the best inns that there was no room for Perticari and Monti; and, at the moment when we arrived in the diligence, the countess Clarina and her daughter, and the count, got into their carriage to meet and run away with us, as if we had been two beautiful birds.b Poor Mariano, who was accompanying the porter with our luggage to / the hotel, was pounced upon by the son of the countess, ordered to turn right about and to follow him, he knew not whither; not daring to resist, and fearing that his commander was a custom-house officer. In short, it was not possible to resist the gentle violence put upon us, and the cordial entreaties of my dear friend the countess; and here we are welcomed, feasted, and honoured beyond measure. “It was our intention only to remain three days at Verona, but we have been obliged to promise not to go till Sunday. The countess means to accompany us half-way on the road to Vicenza, where we shall arrive by noon, and on Monday evening we shall be at Bassano, three hours’ journey only from Vincenza; thence to Passagno, and on to Padua, whence you shall hear from us.” “Venice, November 20. 1821. “Not to leave you any longer waiting for news of us, I seize a moment when every one is asleep (it being only five in the morning) to tell you that yesterday we arrived safely at Venice. It would be a too long-winded egotism to relate to you the kindness, the politeness, the friendly contests, with which we have been every where welcomed. We had been expected here for several days with impatience, and, at the moment of our arrival, chance brought us into immediate contact with a

‘Pescara’, of which Vittoria Colonna’s husband was marquis, appears to be an error for ‘Pesaro’; either way, Monti’s journey would have taken him eastwards across Lombardy from Milan to Venice and then down the Adriatic coast, but Pescara is very much further south than Pesaro. b Countess Clarina: Clarina Mosconi (1784–1873), née Contarini; Persico: Count Giambattista Persico.

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the baron Tordero,a who embraced us with indescribable delight. It being known that we were going to call on the countess Albrizzi,b an assembly gathered together there; nor can I describe to you the demonstrations of joy with which we were welcomed by that celebrated lady, and all her agreeable friends. We remained till eleven, and should have staid longer had not hunger (for we had not dined) recalled us to our inn; that, and the circumstance that our friends, who had accompanied us from Padua, were waiting for us. The merriment at table was prolonged till one in the morning; so you see I have barely had three hours’ sleep, and yet I never was so well in my life.” / “Pesaro, December 7. 1821. “At length, yesterday, at the stroke of the avemaria, we arrived, safe and sound, at Pesaro, to the immense joy of our Constance; a joy, nevertheless, mingled with bitterness, because her mother had not chosen to accompany us: a circumstance which grieves me also, because I fear that the severity of the winter, at Milan, which is here mild, may be injurious to you. But, since you have been pleased to disappoint our hopes, at least take particular care of your health, and do not expose yourself to cold. “Surrounded by visits and compliments, I have no time at present for more. Let it suffice that my health is flourishing, and that I hope that yours is the same. Constance and Giulio embrace you fondly. Addio, addio!” The following letter does not concern personal topics; but gives so lively a picture of Italian manners, that it is well worthy to be extracted:– “Pesaro, January 12. 1822. “You have reason to complain of the infrequency of my letters, but I study and write continually; and when I am buried among my books, with a pen in my hand, you know how difficult it is to draw me away, and ought to forgive me. “I am delighted to hear that, notwithstanding the clouds and snow that infest. Milan at this season, your health had not yet suffered. I entreat you to take the greatest care of it. Mine is perfect. I never enjoyed so benignant a winter. It is so mild, that I am dressed now as I am accustomed to do at Milan in October. “For the sake of making a longer letter, I will relate an anecdote which will make you laugh. “There is an ancient custom still existing at Fano, ten miles from Pesaro, of celebrating a bull-fight at this season; to which a great concourse of people / resort from the surrounding towns. A few days ago the first celebration took place. A truly ferocious bull was turned into the arena. It is a law, that whoever chooses to a

Baron Benedotto Tordorò. Isabella Marini, Countess Teotochi Albrizzi (1760–1837), prominent Venetian lady of letters, patroness and mistress of French statesman and scholar Dominique Vivant Denon (1747– 1825); Byron met her in Venice and his letters contain several references to her. She was especially known for her commentary on Canova’s sculpture (1809; translated into English 1824) and for her Ritratti (Portraits); see Note to ‘Vittoria Colonna’ and text. b

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attack the animal may descend into the lists. No one dared expose himself to this infuriated creature, and all the dogs who ventured to assail him were tossed and killed. At length a peasant presented himself, and, to the wonder of all, approached the tremendous animal. He boldly went close to him; and the bull became quite mild, allowing himself to be patted and stroked, while he licked the hand that caressed him; every one was astonished, when, all of a sudden, a fellow among the spectators starts up, and calls out, ‘The man is a sorcerer!’ ‘A sorcerer! a magician!’ exclaimed several others in a fury. ‘Burn the magician! burn the magician!’ every one exclaims. The president of the games is also persuaded that this prodigy can only be the work of the devil; and he sends four soldiers, who seize on the magician, drag him from the lists, and throw him into prison. The poor fellow asked the cause of this violence; he was told, ‘You are a magician; you will be hanged and burnt!’ ‘What are you saying about a magician?’ cried the man; ‘does not his excellency and his reverence know that the bull let me touch him because he knew me? I am his master.’ This testimony, being confirmed by several who knew the man to be the master of the bull, and who took oaths to this effect, ought to have cured the president of his folly; but the poor magician is still in prison, and they are still disputing what to do with him.” At the same time that Monti writes thus to his wife, his letters to his other friends are equally full of the pleasure he enjoyed at this time. “You will like to know,” he writes to one, “how I am passing my life. Most happily; but not in idleness. Happily, because I am with my children; and enjoy a season so mild and serene, that winter resembles the opening of spring. / Not in idleness, because I pursue my studies, and mean to give a last, short, critical treatise.”a But a few months after, in the July of the same year, 1822, Monti again visited Pesaro, in circumstances that form a painful contrast with the tranquil and domestic happiness that occasioned him so much pleasure during his former one. Perticari had died suddenly, and Monti went to assist and console his sorrowing daughter. He thus writes, on this occasion, to his friend Mustoxidi, in a letter dated Pesaro, 30th July, 1822:– “You will have heard from my wife the pitiable state in which I found my poor Constance. My arrival has produced a happy change in this unfortunate creature: my coming was like a sunbeam on a flower beaten down by the tempest. But, again, her mind is distracted, sleep flies from her eyes, and her health suffers dreadfully. I must applaud the kind attentions of her mother-in-law, who is an angel of goodness. But I perceive that the only way to preserve her from the most dangerous consequences of excessive grief, is to take her from a place too full of shocking associations. And I would not delay my journey, but for the new regulation of the pontifical police, which does not permit any one to leave these states without a passport countersigned by the Austrian ambassador at Rome. As soon a Loosely translated from letter of 12 Jan. 1822 to Teresa Calderara. The previous letters from Monti to his wife and friends about his journey from Milan to Pesaro are all found in Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 204 ff., with abridgements and omissions of some letters in the sequence.

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as I obtain this I shall set out, and conduct this dear object of my compassion to the arms of her mother.” This was a wound not easily healed, and never to be forgotten. In the spring of the following year Monti still alludes to his loss with the keenest grief. “Your letter,” he writes to a friend, “afforded me infinite pleasure and consolation. For a long time I have lived a wretched life under the rod of adversity; and it is only when I enjoy the society of some person dear to me, or hear from them, that I become a little cheerful, and my spirits revive. Such has been the effect, dear friend, of your letter to your poor Monti – / poor indeed in every way, and very unhappy. Unhappy in the death of Giulio; unhappy in the ill health of Constance, who is wasting away with grief; unhappy in myself, as I am deaf, old, and almost blind. For my eyes, owing to my over-use of them in reading and writing by candle-light, are fallen into their old state.”a The last volume of the “Proposta” was published in July, 1823; and, this last prosaic labour finished, the imagination of Monti awoke again, and he turned his thoughts once more to the composition of poetry. He restored the true reading to the “Convito” of Dante, which he prized as the basis and authority of his own theories concerning the Italian language. He wrote, also, the idyl on the nuptials of Cadmus;b and then contemplated the completion of his poem of the “Feroniade,” which he had begun many, many years ago at Rome. When he was secretary to don Luigi Braschi, duke of Nemi, and nephew of Pius VI., he was accustomed to accompany his patron in his hunting expeditions: the usual course of these excursions was the Pontine marshes, near Terracina, a spot abundant in game. There is a fountain in that neighbourhood, supposed to be that anciently dedicated to the Diva Ferronia, at which the hunters were accustomed to drink to refresh themselves. The sight of that insalubrious marshy tract of land, the drainage of which had just been undertaken by the pope, for the purpose of restoring it to agriculture, awoke in Monti the idea of paying his debt of gratitude to the house of Braschi, by commemorating this munificent work; he instantly began his task, and named his poem from the guardian genius of the place. The circumstances of the times interrupted his design: it became more profitable to celebrate the ambition of Napoleon than the piety of a captive priest; and the work was neglected, thrown aside, and almost forgotten. During the last years of the poet’s life, his friends solicited him to finish it. Perhaps, / when many years and many changes had made much of his past life appear like an unconnected dream, the memory of his early years came before him with all that charm and vividness which youth often assumes in the eyes of age; and he was glad to recur to a forgotten monument of bygone times. He yielded, therefore, to the request of those about him, and had almost finished, when first disease, and afterwards death, put a

The extract concerning Costanza’s grief is from Monti, Opere inedite, V, pp. 213–14; the other is from a letter to Antonio Papadopoli of 20 Mar. 1823 (ibid., pp. 225–6). b Saggo diviso in quarto parti dei molti e gravi errori trascorsi in tutte le edizioni del Convito di Dante (1823); ‘Le Nozze di Cadmo e d’Ermione’ (c. 1825).

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an end to all his designs. It was early in the year 1826 that he had thus renewed his poetic existence, resolving not again to abandon it while his imagination remained vigorous; but in the very opening of this enthusiasm, while every fear was distant, and his active mind gladly met, each morning, the series of duties and labour which he imposed on himself, he was seized by an illness, through which every scheme and every hope was calamitously overthrown. On the 9th of April, at about eleven o’clock, when he had retired, rather to study than repose, a sudden apoplexy attacked him; and no medical aid, nor any care, could restore him again to health. He lost the use of his left side, and the vital powers appeared mortally attacked. The news spread through Milan, and struck every one with grief; the population crowded round his door, and this public demonstration of kindness sensibly affected him. His mind remained clear and strong throughout the attack, nor was he without sanguine hopes of recovery. In the April succeeding his first seizure, we find him writing to a friend: “I burn with a desire to revisit Florence before I die; consequently I have resolved, next June, to go to the mud baths of Albano, near Padua, whence I hope to receive a renewal of my strength sufficient for my journey.”a These mud baths, however, were pronounced hurtful instead of beneficial to his disorder, and he never went. Still hope was alive, and he lingered on until the autumn of 1828, his life being consumed in a slow martyrdom: his death-bed was attended by his / wife and disconsolate daughter, whom, even to the last, he sought to cheer by words of affection, and by smiles when he could not speak. He expired on the 13th of October, 1828, at the age of seventy-four. The genius of Monti would, in times of less public excitement, have adorned his name with the highest praise; and his faults would never have been called into view. The studious and imaginative bent of his mind would have led him to cultivate letters and poetry; and we should glory in the exalted fancy of a creative poet, without any shame for the man. His domestic character was amiable; he was zealous for his friends, grateful for benefits; generous, kind, and true in all the ordinary intercourse of life: but neither reverence for genius, nor attachment to the man, ought to blind us to his political tergiversation, or to suppose that there is virtue in that inborn slavishness of spirit that could see no degradation in praising those whom he reprobated in his heart, and in commemorating with applause acts the most injurious to the common cause of humanity. There is retribution in our own consciences for all our faults, and Monti felt this: his love of glory was great, and he was often pained by being reminded of his political apostacies; but too often, when irritated by censure, he was willing to cast the blame upon others, instead of admitting his own want of rigid public integrity. But take away this error, and, as a private character, Monti merited the affection and esteem of all. The only fault of his disposition was irritability and an inclination to anger; but he redeemed it by the candour of his acknowledgments, a

From a letter of 19 Apr. 1827 to Samuele Jesi (Monti, Opere inedite, V, p. 278).

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and the uprightness of his conduct. Warmth of heart and warmth of temper are too apt to be united in the same disposition; but the kindness of his nature was rendered even more apparent by this defect of temperament. He was sensitive to injury, and his indignation was proportionate to his quick sense of injustice; but, though his anger took the / appearance of sternness and severity, it never led him to injure another, but evaporated in words, and might be said to agitate the surface, but never penetrated into the depths, of his mind. He was never guilty of an act of revenge, – on the contrary, he often benefited those who injured him. His mind was, in short, of a uniform texture; and what it wanted in dignity and grandeur was compensated for by gentleness, tenderness, and ready sympathy with the sufferings of others. He was beyond measure charitable to those in distress; and infinite and unwearied compassion, we are told by one who knew him well, was his prominent characteristic. The poor gladly celebrated the charities he strove to conceal. This virtue sprung, doubtless, from early habits acquired under the roof of his benevolent parents. He was simple as a child in the midst of worldliness, and the good faith and sincerity of his friendships were without a flaw. “In person,” the same friend informs us who has furnished the public with the principal documents on which this memoir is founded, “he was tall and handsome: his forehead ample; the shape of his face regular; and his eyes, gleaming from beneath his arched and full brows, shone at once with a vivacious and soft light, which commanded both affection and respect. An air of melancholy was diffused over his countenance, to which the habits of reflection would have given a severe and even disdainful expression, had not the sweetest smile illuminated it with the gracious light of love. His carriage was dignified, his mien serious, and his whole aspect was that of a man of talent, and of one warmed and softened by the benevolence and affectionateness of his disposition.”a We may conclude with this description of the outward man, emanating from one who revered and loved him as a preceptor and a friend. The world, in the days succeeding to those of revolution and preceding those of reform, was much divided between those who despaired and those who hoped. The latter now / triumph; but Monti died before the milder light dawned on the world, and while change appeared inevitably accompanied by bloodshed and misery. His compassionate heart preferred the peace of submission, both for himself and others, to the suffering attendant on defeated struggles; and errors springing from so humane a source may be forgiven, even by those whose ardent natures lead them to overlook the toil and danger of the journey, in the hope of attaining the accomplishment of their desires. /

a

Zajotti, p. 29.

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UGO FOSCOLO. 1778–1827. THE most necessary quality of an author is, that he should impress us with the conviction that he has something to say. In reading his pages, we ought to feel that he puts down the overflowing of his mind – ideas and notions which, springing up spontaneously, force a birth for themselves from the womb of silence, and acquire an existence through their own native energy and vitality. An author, therefore, is a human being whose thoughts do not satisfy his mind, ruminated on merely in his own isolated bosom: he requires sympathy, a world to listen, and the echo of assent from his fellow-creatures. But this is not all. Few men can be excited by a mere abstraction, by the images of their own mind, and the desire of communicating them for the benefit of their fellow-creatures. Pride or vanity mingle essentially in the fabric of a writer’s mind: the pride which leads him to desire to build up an enduring monument for his name, formed from his own compositions; or the vanity that leads him to introduce himself to the reader, and to court the notoriety which usually attends those who let the public into the secret of their individual passions or peculiarities. The three great authors of modern Italy form a singular contrast to each other, as to their apparent motives for authorship. Alfieri, proud, independent, and gloomy, sought at once to honour his own name, to exalt and refine his countrymen, and to produce such works as would benefit his species; while the vehement passions of his own soul were their primal source and inspiration. Monti was a poet of the imagination. / He wrote because the imagery, the melody, the aërial fabric of poesy were a part of his essence. The subjects of his poems were of less consequence, in his eyes, than the well treating them, or the variety, grandeur, and fantastic ideality displayed in his verses. Thus, at the word of command, he could celebrate the usurper, taint the struggles of a noble and free nation, and adorn the naked form of despotism with garments of beauty. Foscolo, on the contrary, was impelled to produce and reproduce himself: and yet to this assertion we must put some limit, for Foscolo was a man of learning and taste, and he was capable of giving light to compositions formed by the rules of art, and adorned by the graces culled from an intimate knowledge of the finest of human works. But vanity was still the mainspring, – a vanity accompanied by honesty of principle and independence of soul, and yet which was vanity – the worship of self – the making his own individuality the mirror in which the world was reflected. 330

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Ugo Foscolo was born in the island of Zante, about the year 1778.a The Ionian isles had long been under the dominion of Venice. The family of Foscolo was of Venetian origin; and his father was a surgeon in the navy of the republic. Little is known of his early years. He seldom mentioned them in conversation, though his imagination sometimes delighted to recur to the sunny land of his birth, and to regret it. In one of his sonnets he exclaims,– Nè più mai toccherò le sacre sponde Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell’ onde Del Greco mar. Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio, O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse Il fato illacrimata sepoltura. O! never more shall I thy sacred shores Approach, where my young limbs first sprung to life, Beloved Zante! who look’st upon the waves Of the Greek sea; and thou the song alone May’st claim of thy lost son, maternal land! For fate to him decrees an unwept tomb.b /

The Ionian islands were at that time held as colonies of the Venetian government, and tyrannised over by the most odious and oppressive laws. Among others, no schools nor colleges were allowed to exist, and the youth of the islands were sent to Venice for the purposes of education. At an early age, therefore, Foscolo repaired to the parent city. His father, it would seem, was at this time dead, for we hear only of his mother, to whom he was always tenderly attached; and it appears that she, also, transferred herself to Venice at the same period. Foscolo seldom mentioned his family, with the exception of his mother. He had two brothers, one who died, it is reported by his own hand, about the year 1797; the other enlisted as a soldier, and rose, from his good conduct and valour, to the rank of captain of dragoons. When boyhood was passed, Foscolo was sent to the university of Padua, and studied under Cesarotti. There was great dissimilarity in the tastes and literary opinions of the master and pupil; and thus Foscolo soon displayed his original and independent turn of mind. Cesarotti explained and commented upon Homer, and undertook at the same time to emend and improve the verses of the father of a Mary Shelley’s source here and for much of her information throughout is Giuseppe, Count Pecchio (1785–1835), Vita di Ugo Foscolo (1833). Pecchio, a Milanese Liberal, took part in the abortive revolution of 1820–1 and died an exile in Brighton. b ‘A Zacinto’ (To Zante) from I Sonetti (1806), ll. 1–4, 12–14, translation evidently by Mary Shelley as the two extracts have been joined in the translation to make a continuous passage.

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1797. Ætat. 19.

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poetry. He preferred Voltaire to Euripides, and Ossian to Homer.a While a great portion of ridicule attaches itself to such paradoxes, the real learning and extensive reading of the professor benefited his scholars; and by liberating them from the narrow system of instruction which had subsisted for many years, he introduced them, as it were, from the paled and guarded park of classical literature, to the wilds, the moors, the incult mountains, in short, to all the vast variety of unfettered nature. Foscolo, though taught by the advocate of Ossian, was all his life a worshipper of Homer. Studious, as well as ardent in his literary pursuits, he became a critical scholar; and, admiring not only Greek poetry, but the fabric and machinery which constitute its structure, he modelled his own poetic productions on them, / and made ancient mythology, and allusions to classical history, the props as well as the ornaments of his verses. At the same time he admitted Cesarotti’s rules with regard to the Italian language, and abandoned the dialect of the Trecentisti, – so long held up as a model, and yet which had become a dead tongue, – to form an animated, simple, living language, introducing into it phrases and words of modern use; expressions for ever on the lips of the Italians, though heretofore banished from their pens. We are told that, on leaving college, Foscolo hesitated whether to enter the clerical profession, which held out the prospect of competency to its followers; but he was fortunately turned aside from a profession whose narrow rules and arbitrary laws were in direct opposition to his impetuous and independent disposition. Instead of assuming the tonsure,b Foscolo resolved to follow in the steps of Alfieri, and to acquire fame as a tragedian. He produced his drama of “Thyestes” at the early age of nineteen; and it may be said to be a creditable production for a youth. It is from his after works that we judge that it was not inexperience, but an absolute defect of a certain species of talent, that made this boy’s tragedy a mere bald imitation of those of his illustrious predecessor. Alfieri was not a fanciful poet; his talent lay in developing plot, animating dialogue, and interesting the reader by the clash of passion, or the concentrated feelings of a single person. Foscolo possessed far more of the peculiar spirit of poetry; but it was of didactic poetry. He could not invent incident, nor describe any feelings but such as originated in his own heart. “Thyestes,” founded on one of the domestic crimes of the unfortunate house of Pelops, possesses all the faults of Alfieri’s tragedies. He imitated him in producing only a few personages on the scene; so that, as a critic observes,c it seems as if it were written just after the deluge, when the human race congregated by threes and fours: obscurity of plot is added to this simplicity of a The paradox lies in Cesarotti’s rating an 18th-century neo-classic dramatist (Voltaire) above a real classical dramatist (Euripides (484–406 BC)), and the ‘wild’ and irregular Ossian above Homer. The Ossianic poems were largely the creation of the ‘translator’, James MacPherson (1736–96). b i.e. shaving the crown of his head, the sign of a monk. c The critic is Pecchio; Mary Shelley offers a summary account of his commentary in ch. 1.

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action, and the purpose and aim of the / poet is never clearly discerned. One scene follows another, not because produced by the antecedent one, but because it is necessary that something should be said and done, or all would be at a full stop. The language is clear and energetic; but, as we are uninterested by the ideas which it conveys, this must appear a very secondary merit. “Thyestes,” however, succeeded in the theatre; and, as success in representation is certainly the test of dramatic merit, we might suppose some latent energy in its concoction, unapparent to the reader, but that its success appears to have arisen from political feeling. It was acted for the first time on January 4. 1797, in the theatre of St. Angelo at Venice, to a vast concourse of spectators, and was repeated with applause for nine consecutive nights. The extreme youth of the author filled the audience with admiration, and he was called for after the representation. We cannot well discern the political allusions that gave it its chief interest, except that the name of king and tyrant are made synonymous; a style, it might be imagined, neither distasteful nor injurious to a republican government, however aristocratic. It would appear, however, that this avidity for liberal sentiments was the cause of its temporary success; for it was never again acted on any stage in Italy. Adversity meanwhile was hanging over the head of the poet. The fall of Venice, which occurred in the autumn of the same year, deprived him of the very name of country. Hatred of the Austrian is a sentiment profoundly engraved in every Italian heart; and when Venice was made over by treaty to the German despot, Foscolo became a voluntary exile.a Whether he was in danger of being marked out in any of the lists of proscription does not appear; but as it is evident that he is the hero of his “Letters of Jacopo Ortis,”b we gather from that book, that his friends feared for his personal liberty if he remained, and besought him to / shelter himself, while there was yet time, from the enmity of the new government. “I have left Venice,” Ortis writes, “to avoid the first and most violent persecutions. How many victims remain! We Italians ourselves bathe our hands in Italian blood. Let what will happen to me! Since I despair of good, either for myself or my country, I can await in tranquillity a prison or death.”c a Signed on 17 Oct. 1797, the Treaty of Campo Formio marked the conclusion of Napoleon’s first Italian campaign. In the agreement, France dissolved the Venetian Republic and ceded its territories to Austria in exchange for possessions that included Lombardy and the Ionian islands. After the Austrian defeat at Austerlitz (1805), Napoleon reclaimed Venetia and absorbed it into what was by then the Kingdom of Italy. German despot: the Austrian emperor. b Published (1802) as Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (Last Letters of Jacob Ortis) after a series of partial editions beginning in 1798. Foscolo’s final revisions were published in the 1817 edition (London: John Murray), and it is probably this edition that Mary Shelley read in Italy in the summer of 1822 (MWSJ, I, p. 412). For her admiration of its descriptions, see her ‘Recollections of Italy’ (MWST, p. 28). c Ultime lettere, pt 1, extracted from the opening letter (‘From the Euganean Hills, 11 October 1797’) with some sentences omitted. Mary Shelley translates freely but accurately. Her ‘despair of good’ expands Foscolo’s ‘disperato’ and thus echoes a phrase used several times by P. B. Shelley, whose ‘Lines Written among the Euganean Hills’ (1819) similarly deplores the enslavement of Venice to Austria.

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All these letters are full of the indignant struggles, and the sorrow, as well as of the opinions which ruled the heart of Foscolo, as he found himself driven a wanderer from his home, sometimes lamenting his own misfortunes, sometimes those of his country. “How many of our fellow-citizens repent their flight from home,” he writes, “and mourn! for what can we expect except indigence and indignity – or, at the best, that brief and sterile compassion which uncivilised nations offer to the stranger exile? And where shall I seek an asylum – in Italy? Unhappy land! and can I behold those who have robbed, scorned, and sold us, and not weep with rage? Oh! if the tyrants were one only, and if the slaves were less abject, my hand would suffice. But those who now blame me for cowardice would then accuse me of crime; and the prudent would lament over, not the heroism of one resolved, but the frenzy of a desperate man. What can be done between two powerful nations, who, from being sworn, ferocious, and eternal enemies, colleague to enslave us? and where force alone does not avail, the one cajoles us with the name of liberty, the other with that of religion; and we, debased by ancient servitude and new-born licence, groan, betrayed, enslaved, famished, and yet not roused, either by treason or famine. Ah! if I could, I would destroy my house and all dear to me, and myself with them; I would leave nothing for the tyrants to triumph over. Were there not people who, to escape the Romans, robbers of the world, gave to the flames their dwellings, their wives, their children, and themselves, burying their / sacred independence among the glorious ashes of their country?”a Thus passionately attached to liberty, Foscolo was not to be deluded by the false halo that then surrounded the name of Bonaparte, or by the fallacious promises of the French republican crusaders. “Another set of lovers of their country,” he writes, “lament loudly. They exclaim that they are betrayed and sold; but, if they had armed themselves, they might have been conquered, but never had been betrayed; and if they had defended themselves to the last drop of blood, the conquerors could not have sold, nor would the conquered have sought to buy, them. Many of our countrymen imagine that freedom can be bought with money. They fancy that foreign nations come from a disinterested love of justice to slaughter each other mutually on our fields, for the sake of liberating Italy. But will the French, who have rendered the divine theory of public liberty execrable, become Timoleonsb for our sakes? Many, meanwhile, confide in the young hero, sprung from Italian blood, born where our language is spoken. But I expect nothing useful or noble from a cruel and base mind. What is it to me that he has the strength and roar of the lion, if he have the soul of a fox – and glories in it? Yes! base and cruel; nor are these epithets exaggerated. Has he not sold Venice, with open a Ultime lettere, pt 1; the first two sentences are extracted from the letter of 13 Oct., the rest from the letter of 28 Oct. 1797. The last sentence refers to the Numantians; cf. Mary Shelley’s comments on Cervantes’s drama of that name (vol. 2, ‘Cervantes’). b The Greek Timoleon, one of the subjects of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. Timoleon liberated Sicily from its Carthaginian oppressors but then retired into private life.

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and boasted barbarity? Selim I., who caused 30,000 Circassian warriors, who had surrendered, confiding in his faith, to be massacred on the shores of the Nile; and Nadir Shah,a who, in our time, massacred 300,000 Indians, are more atrocious, but less contemptible. With these eyes I saw a democratic constitution signed by the young hero; yes, it was subscribed by his own hand, and sent by Passerianob to Venice for acceptance; and at that very time the treaty of Campo Formio was already confirmed and ratified: Venice was sold; and the confidence which the hero fostered in us all, has filled / Italy with proscriptions and exiles. I do not blame the reasons of state, through which nations are sold like flocks of sheep; it was ever so, and so will it ever be: but I grieve for my country, which I have lost. ‘He was born Italian, and will one day regenerate his country:’ others may believe this, – I never can. I replied, and shall always reply, ‘Nature made him a tyrant, and a tyrant cares not for his country, nor does he possess one.’”c Ruminating on all these violent and bitter feelings, the offspring of patriotism and adversity, Foscolo took the road to Tuscany. “In this blessed land,” he writes, “poetry and letters first awoke from barbarism. Where-ever I turn, I behold the houses where were born, and the turf that covers, those renowned Tuscans; and I fear at every step to tread on their remains. Tuscany is a garden, its inhabitants are naturally courteous, the sky serene, and the air full of life and health; but I am not happy here. I hope always for better things on the morrow, when I shall reach another town: but to-morrow arrives, and I pass from city to city; and this state of exile and solitude grows each day more unendurable. We Italians are foreigners and exiles even in Italy; and scarcely do we leave our little native territory, than neither understanding, nor fame, nor blameless habits can shelter us; and we are lost if we endeavour to distinguish ourselves. Our very fellow-citizens look upon all Italians who are not natives of their own town, and on whose limbs the same chains do not hang, as strangers.”d Thus Tuscany afforded no asylum to the fugitive. He desired to see no one in Florence except Alfieri; and the retired and reserved habits of the count prevented his seeking his acquaintance. He saw him, as he describes in one of his poems, “wandering silently along the most solitary bank of the Arno, gazing anxiously on earth and heaven; but, finding nothing living that could warm his heart, he took refuge in the aisles of Santa Croce, while wished-for death overspread his countenance with pallid / hues.”*e The silence and the concentrated melancholy of Alfieri made a deep impression on the mind * Dei Sepolcri di Ugo Foscolo. a

Alluding to Selim I (1470–1520), who considerably expanded the Ottoman Empire during his sultanate and to Nadir Shah (1688–1747), similarly noted for extending the territories of the Persian Empire. b i.e, by way of Passeriano, the area where Napoleon stayed during treaty negotiations. c Ultime lettere, pt 1, extracted, omitting a quotation from Dante, from letter of 22 Jan. 1798. d Ultime lettere, pt 2, letter of 25 Sept. 1798, with some omissions. e Translating Foscolo’s poem I Sepolcri (Sepulcres) (1807), ll. 191–5.

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of his admirer; and Foscolo sought afterwards to imitate it in his own person, forgetful that his natural impetuosity and vehemence were very dissimilar to the gloom and pride of his model. From Florence, Foscolo pursued his way to Milan, which was then the capital of the Cisalpine republic, and imparted its rights of citizenship to all the wandering patriots of Italy. The new republic afforded a strange spectacle: formed upon notions of Greek and Roman liberty, picked up from learned priests, mingled with modern notions of freedom, it displayed the most ridiculous anachronisms; and its members, all Italians, yet strangers to each other, and regarding with oblique looks all those born in a different city, met without amalgamating. The young found hope and life in the new stage on which they were permitted to act a part; and though ridicule and blame might be attached to many of their public actions, still the more sanguine lovers of their country hoped that, when the first springtide of enthusiasm should ebb, prudence, unanimity, and strength would be the first born of national independence. Foscolo, however, was not among those. Irascible and misanthropic, and sensitively alive to the sufferings of his fellowcreatures, he saw the evils around him, and desponded. One of the advantages derived from this new capital was, that it served to draw together the most distinguished Italians within the walls of the same city. Each town of the peninsula sent some man esteemed for his talents; and names, scattered before over the surface of the country, now congregated together. Foscolo had thus an opportunity of becoming acquainted with all his more illustrious countrymen. In his “Letters of Jacopo Ortis,” he mentions Parini especially with reverence and affection;a and he became intimate also with Monti, who then displayed fervour in the / cause of liberty, while his inward dislike for the members of the actual government must have accorded with the sentiments of Foscolo. Two decrees, passed at that time, served, indeed, to show that blame deservedly attached itself to them: one was the law enacted to deprive of office all those who had formerly written against liberty – an act of despotism levelled expressly against Monti; the other was the sentence passed by the great council against the Latin language: whether it was because Latin was the language of their religion and the priests, or from mere stupid barbarism, they passed a decree to prohibit its being taught in the public schools. Foscolo saw, in the languages of the ancient world, not only the root of all our knowledge, but also the most splendid monuments of human intellect: he knew how fallacious and trivial all translations are; he was imbued to the heart with a love of classic lore; and he saw, in the suppression of the Latin, the paramount influence of the French language. No wonder that he, as well as every well-educated man, regarded such a law and its promulgators with mingled scorn and disgust. To make the resemblance between Foscolo and his imaginary hero, Jacopo Ortis, the more exact, we are told that, at this very time, he fell in love with a a

Tributes to Parini are found in Ultime lettere, pt 2, letters of 27 Oct. and 11 Nov. 1798.

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young lady of Pisa: his passions, naturally vehement, were inflamed to their utmost by the influence of the most engrossing of them all. The object of his attachment was singularly beautiful; her large black eyes, rich raven hair, her dignified stature and noble carriage, her whole person, in short, cast in the very mould of majestic beauty, was formed to inspire admiration and love. She possessed also all that natural talent which so usually falls to the lot of Italian women: her voice was harmonious, and her proficiency in music great.a She was known afterwards to several of the biographers of her lover; and, with the simplicity and frankness usual to the Italians, spoke openly of their mutual attachment. One among them, after calling the lady “the flower / of all loveliness,” adds, “We heard from her – for she yet lives – that the few lines cited as being written by Teresa, in a letter of Ortis, dated 17th September, 1798, were a part of a letter which she wrote to Foscolo.”*b Giuseppe Pecchio, in his Life of Foscolo, speaks of her with great enthusiasm: “I saw her,” he writes, “several times after she was married, when, at a private theatre, she took the part of Isabella in the ‘Filippo’ of Alfieri; and I still remember, with pleasure, her dignified action and her expressive countenance, which filled the audience with enthusiasm, and carried their feelings along with her.”c This attachment was not fortunate; and Foscolo suffered all the throes of disappointment and grief. Violent in all his feelings, love possessed his heart like a burning fire; he grew sullen and gloomy, only breaking silence by muttering a few sentences indicative of his ardent desire for self-destruction. He did not openly speak of his passion; but his feelings overflowed on paper, and he wrote and published “The Letters of Two Lovers,”d a sort of novel, which afterwards served as a foundation to the “Letters of Ortis.” While thus occupied by literature and love, he added the duties of a more laborious profession. Bonaparte, having created the Cisalpine republic,e strove to raise an Italian army for its defence. The Lombard legion formed the nucleus of these troops, and the sons of the noblest families in Italy accepted commissions: among others, Foscolo became an officer. The absence, however, of Bonaparte in Egypt, and the invasion of the AustrioRussian army, put a sudden end to the existence of the new republic. At the same time that Monti fled across the Alps, and wandered, a famished exile, among the * See the biographical notice of Foscolo, prefixed to the “Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis. Londra, 1829.” a Description adapted from Pecchio, ch. 2, p. 59. The lady can be identified as Isabella Roncioni, with whom Foscolo conducted a love affair in Florence in 1801. b While passages incorporated into the novel may have been authored by Isabella Roncioni, this lady is more likely Antonietta Fagnani Arese, and whose letters certainly found their way into the Ultime lettere (see below, p. 341, note c). c Drawn selectively from Pecchio, ch. 2, p. 59. d Vera Storia di due amanti infelici (True Story of Two Unhappy Lovers) (1798). e The Cisalpine Republic was reconstituted as the Italian Republic in 1802. In 1805 it became the Kingdom of Italy.

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ravines and woods of Savoy, Foscolo, forced also to provide for his own safety, took refuge in Genoa, and joined the French garrison commanded by Massena.a It was here that the French / made a last stand, endeavouring to stop the progress of the invading army. The siege of Genoa was formed; and Foscolo, serving under the French banners, had an opportunity of studying at once the military art and the science of government during the various chances of a long and arduous struggle. While day lasted, there were perpetual combats along the whole line of mountains which surround Genoa to the north; and the night was spent in popular assemblies, in which the leaders strove to inspire the citizens with resolution to endure the evils of the siege. These soon grew intolerable; and famine, and consequent disease, made frightful ravages. Foscolo sometimes collected the people together in a spot of the city made famous by the act of an Austrian corporal, who (1748) struck with his cane a Genoese, who was striving in vain to move a cannon: he endeavoured to animate his audience to heroic deeds, by describing the magnanimous vengeance with which their ancestors had vindicated the insult. Nor was he less forward in the performance of his military duties; and his name occurs in the lists of those who were most distinguished for their bravery. During the siege, on occasion of Napoleon’s return from Egypt, and being named consul, Foscolo addressed a letter to him from Genoa, which prophesied the height to which he would hereafter rise, and besought him to rest content with his present exaltation, nor to taint his well-merited renown by schemes of unmeasured ambition. This letter, which is of two pages only, is written with the freedom of a patriot and the dignity of a disinterested and noble mind. He incurred no danger by this address, but he displeased the ear of power; and the truth and frankness of his representations form an honourable contrast with the general adulation, and the barefaced flatteries, which other writers addressed to the victor. The energetic mind of Foscolo was not satisfied by the arduous duties of his profession, to which were added the not less exciting task of guiding and animating / the minds of the citizens of Genoa, when they flagged under the visitation of the most frightful calamities. It was at this period that he wrote an ode to Luigia Pallavicini, on her falling from her horse, which betrays no signs of the sufferings which he was enduring, except its motto, taken from Horace: “Sollicitæ oblivia vitæ.”b This poem is all grace, elegance, and classic allusion; but there is no originality nor poetic fire. The machinery is mythological, the imagery drawn from the same source; and it is rather the work of one imbued with the poetry of the ancients, and translating remembered ideas into his native language, than the outpourings of a mind inspired by passion and nature. It is strange that Foscolo a André Masséna (1756–1817), Marshall of France and one of Napoleon’s most able generals. b ‘A Luigia Pallavincini Caduta da Cavallo’ (1800), a classical ode addressed to a Genoese noblewoman who was thrown from a horse and disfigured. The motto means ‘Forgetfulness of life’s shocks’ (Horace, Satires, II. vi. 62).

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should have found time to compose verses at a period when the town he inhabited was being bombarded by the English fleet, when the Austrians were making daily assaults, and the streets were filled by a famished and dying multitude. But while Foscolo shared the labours and dangers of the garrison, he did not partake their amusements; and while they were immersed in the grosser pleasures of the bottle, of cards, and smoking, he took refuge in his imagination, and found relief in the soothing and refined feelings generated by study and poetry. Meanwhile Genoa, reduced by famine, surrendered on the 4th of June, 1800, with the condition that the garrison should be conveyed to France by the English fleet. Foscolo accompanied his fellow-soldiers, but he endured only a brief exile from his country. The battle of Marengo drove the Austrians from Italy; the Cisalpine republic was restored; and Foscolo, together with the rest of the Italian fugitives, returned to Milan. Already known as an author and a man of letters, he increased his fame at this period by the publication of the “Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis,” a romance which at once acquired great popularity, and, as being the first that had been written in the Italian language, demanded the praise of some sort of originality. Yet its chief fault is, that it is an imitation. Foscolo could not invent / incidents, nor weave the artful texture of a well-told story. The plot of “Ortis” is similar to that of Goëthe’s more celebrated romance of “Werter.”a A youth of disappointed expectations, and devoured by a morbid melancholy, falls in love with a girl who is already betrothed to another. He resolves to die as soon as the marriage shall take place; but, meanwhile, fosters his passion by frequenting the society of the young lady. She had never been attached to her intended husband, and is the victim of obedience to her father’s will, who, besides that his honour is engaged, would have found an insuperable obstacle to the pretensions of Ortis in his plebeian birth. His sorrowing daughter, while she obeys, returns the affection of her passionate, adoring lover; her destined husband become jealous, her father uneasy; and Ortis, called upon by duty and friendship, absents himself from her society: he travels to Florence, to Milan, to Genoa; and then, hearing of Teresa’s marriage, retraces his steps to the Euganean hills, the abode of his mistress, and fulfils his long-nurtured intention of putting an end to his existence. The slight differences between this story and “Werter” are founded on Foscolo’s own attachment, before alluded to. There is, indeed, this main difference between the work of Goëthe and that of Foscolo, – that the former is, so to speak, a dramatic, and the latter a didactic, author. Goëthe founded his story on the feelings of another. He delineated the sentiments and passions of his unfortunate young friend Jerusalem; and, putting himself in his place, filled out, from his own experience and imagination, the various portions of a picture, the most highly wrought, refined, and true that, a

Johnann Wolfgang von Goethe, Die Lieden des Jungen Werthers (1774), based on the suicide of Karl Wilhelm Jerusalem. The comparison between Die Lieden and the Ultime lettere is suggested by Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo (ch. 4). Foscolo later attempted to distinguish the Ultime lettere from Werter by adding political material.

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perhaps, exists in the world of fictitious portraits. Foscolo painted a beau idéal of himself. So full was his mind of his own idea, that he prefixed a portrait of Ortis, which was only a favoured likeness of himself. Like the author, Ortis fled from Venice when it was made over to the Austrians. Like the author, his heart was tortured by patriotic sufferings, and his soul was in / arms against the oppressor. Ortis, like Foscolo, saw misery and evil rife around him: compassion rose with him into a passion; and his heart bled and burnt alternately, as he pitied the victim, and abhorred the tyrant. Ortis, like Foscolo, meditated suicide as the cure for all evils, and regarded death as a harbour whence to retreat from the tempests of life. Yet Foscolo did not, like Ortis, destroy himself; because, we are apt to say, he is in this greater than his prototype, since he felt powers and capacities within him that led him to continue to endure the evils of life, to raise for himself a name among his fellow-creatures, to benefit and to exhort them; while Ortis, like a weak plant that wants all self-erecting power, fell prostrate, and was trampled on by the iron heels of destiny. Egotists, perhaps, are, of all people, the least likely to put an end to themselves; yet they like to dwell on their own deaths, and, feeling that the drama of their lives is incomplete without a striking catastrophe, they ponder on it, and, if led to bring themselves forward, are pretty sure to adorn their lives by describing its disastrous conclusion. This morbid shrinking from the woes of existence, this total want of fortitude, added to a lively sensibility, presents a picture which, a few years ago, was the model by which the youth of Europe delighted to dress their minds. Men need a career – an hope, an aim: the French revolution first gave new life to these natural instincts, and then, aided by Napoleon’s despotism, blighted and tore them up. Since then, a better day has dawned, and men are glad to live for the morrow, since each day is full of spirit-stirring expectation. The influence of a book like “Ortis” is null now: it was pernicious at the time when it was written. And yet, in representing his hero as a self-destroyer, Foscolo was not without moral aim. The Italians fear death to the extent of the most contemptible cowardice; they consider any one insane who engages in any actions that even remotely endanger his life;a and Foscolo was earnest to prove that death was not the worst of evils, but / that it might be sought voluntarily as a refuge from slavery or woe. We find, therefore, conjoined to intolerance of personal suffering, the most ardent patriotism, integrity, and independence of spirit; lively compassion for the physical evils of the poor, which are too often disregarded; and observations on life and our natural feelings, full of delicacy and profound truth. What more true than the remark, “that we are too proud to give our compassion, when we feel that we can give nothing else?”b What can come more home to a man of sensibility than the exclamation of Ortis, – “I am always in perfect harmony with the unhappy, for indeed I always find something wicked in the prosperous?” And, again, when he a cf. Mary Shelley’s remark at the horror expressed by Italians when P. B. Shelley went pleasure-boating on the Arno (‘Note on Poems of 1821’, MWSN, vol. 2, p. 320). b This and next quote from Ultime lettere, letters of 25 May 1798 and 22 Nov. 1797.

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says, “Let us gather up a treasure of dear and soothing feelings, which, during the course of years, destined, perhaps, to be sad and persecuted, may awaken the memory that we have not always been unhappy.”a Another merit which these letters have may be mentioned, which an Italian author has also discovered: they display a love for, and an observation of, nature, seldom found among their greatest writers. The Italians, generally speaking, are not lovers of nature: full of passion and talent, yet they do not ally themselves to the mighty mother, nor do their pulses beat responsive to her varied and living phenomena. Dante alone, perhaps, displays a true feeling for external objects, describing them as they are, and as they may be supposed to feel; while the others dilate rather on their beauty, as if they presented a scenic exhibition, than were in themselves animated beings to feel and have existence. The rambles of Ortis amidst the Euganean hills; the sentiments with which he contemplates a tempest and the succeeding calm; the glories of summer, or tyranny of winter; resemble those so often to be found in English authors, and give the work a charm peculiar to itself. The style, also, of these letters (and the Italians make style a chief merit) is pure, elegant, and forcible. It created a language hitherto unknown to his countrymen, uniting the familiar / and colloquial with the tasteful and the expressive. It is too rhetorical, even thus, for our ears; but the Italians easily pardon inflation. The success of “Ortis” was immediate and striking. The Italians usually love to be amused and made laugh; but they were caught by the charm, and content to weep over the misfortunes of the victim of love. The author had artfully contrived to mingle himself inextricably with the image of his hero; and the ladies of Italy were interested by his appearance, uncouth as it was, and his manners, dissimilar to the inanity of their usual companions. He became what we call “a lion,” and he himself fell in love with one of his fair admirers; but, as is too often the case where the author is more thought of than the man, this lady’s love was more of the head than the heart, and Foscolo, after a short period, was dismissed. We are told that this lady was the daughter of the courteous Marchesa F., mentioned by Sterne in his “Sentimental Journey.”b True passion often enforces sympathy; otherwise, we cannot wonder that Foscolo did not create a sentiment in another as strong as that which he himself felt. In personal appearance he was not formed to excite tender admiration. Pecchio, who knew him at this time, describes him in vivid but no attractive colours. According to him, Foscolo was of middle stature, rather strong and muscular of frame; he had thick, reddish, rough hair, which added to his expression of wild vehemence, and rendered his fits of gloomy silence, or transports of rage, more horrible. His eyes were of a blueish grey, small, a

Ultime lettere, pt. 1, last sentence of the letter of 20 Nov. 1797. Sterne, A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy (1768), ‘Paris – The Translation’. Mary Shelley recalls here the character of the ‘Marquisina di F***’ and her comic collision with Yorick in the Milanese theatre, in detail taken from Pecchio, ch. 5. The lady is likely to be Antonietta Fagnani Arese, with whom Foscolo conducted a love affair from 1801–2. b

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deep set, and intensely sparkling. His complexion was ruddy; his features well formed, except that his lips, though thin, protruded, having that animal-look about the jaw which is the opposite of the beau idéal of the human countenance: he wore his chin thickly covered with hair, which gave him a sort of resemblance to an oran-outang. There is a story told of him that a Frenchman said to him one day, “Vous êtes bien laid, monsieur;” to which Foscolo wittily replied, / “Oui, monsieur, à faire peur.”a On another occasion he was engaged in a duel with a friend, who impertinently compared him to the animal above mentioned. To add to the wildness and singularity of his appearance, he was fond, in an awkward sort of imitation of Alfieri, of appearing immersed in thought, maintaining a gloomy silence, interrupted only as he muttered, or rather growled forth, various quotations or verses, in a voice which made an Italian young lady once name him “a sentimental clap of thunder.”b Such was the outward appearance and manners of the Italian Werter; and if he met with success among the fair sex, it must be attributed to the ready sympathy they are apt to afford to sincere feeling, and to a generous, independent spirit. When Bonaparte, under the name of first consul, rose to supreme power in France, it became necessary to remodel the Cisalpine republic; and a congress of 450 deputies was held at Lyons, to decide on the new form of government. On this occasion Foscolo published an “Oration to Bonaparte.”c A good deal of uncertainty exists as to the exact circumstances under which this oration was composed. It has been supposed that it was delivered publicly at the congress; but there is no foundation for this idea, as Foscolo was not one of the deputies, and did not accompany them to Lyons. It is said, on one hand, that he wrote it at the desire of Bonaparte himself; and on the other, that the task was intrusted to him by the triumvirate, who, under the title of committee of government, were placed at the head of the Cisalpine republic; and it is said that the oration was delivered before the committee itself*, which, considering its nature, can hardly be believed. It commences with a grandiloquent eulogium of Napoleon; it then diverges into indignant and sarcastic representations of the mal-conduct of the heads of the republic. “Men,” he describes them, “who are neither statesmen nor warriors, formerly slaves, now tyrants, and for ever slaves of themselves, and of circumstances, / which they neither will nor can command; conscious of their own vices, and therefore timid and discordant; cowardly with the bold, bold with the cowardly, they crush accusations by bribery, and complaints by menaces. Men who took the arms out of the hands of the militia soldiery, an army formed of * Pecchio, “Vita di Ugo Foscolo.” a

‘“You are very ugly, sir.” “Yes, sir, enough to frighten you.”’ Not located. In the next sentence, ‘Italian Werter’ is borrowed from Foscolo himself, who had described Ortis as the ‘Italian Werther’ in his ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’ (1818). c L’Orazione a Bonaparte pel Congresso di Lione (1802), discussed in Pecchio, ch. 5. b

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citizens, to give them to bands of runaway felons and deserters.”a He then dilates on the miseries endured in Italy during the period of the success of the Austrians and Russians, and describes Bonaparte’s return as the advent of a demigod; and he calls on him to complete his work by assuming the supreme command, instead of leaving it to the triumvirate, who betrayed the cause of liberty and oppressed their countrymen. Independent as Foscolo was, we are surprised when he goes on to say, that every patriotic Italian would elect Bonaparte for their legislator, captain, father, and perpetual prince. But this surprise diminishes when we read on, and find that he expects this supreme ruler to gift the subject country with liberty. He entreats him not to entrust the state to men, but to laws; not to the generosity of other nations, but to its own force. “Let such be your institutions,” he exclaims, “such your example, such our strength, that no one shall dare rule us after you. Who, indeed, would be worthy to succeed to Bonaparte? As you cannot live for ever for us, let the seal of our liberty be set; you yourself leaving it inviolate: and, with the whole nation, I call freedom our not having (with the exception of Bonaparte) any magistrate who is not Italian, nor any general who is not our fellow-citizen. If, while you live, our liberty totters, what hope have we that it will endure after you are withdrawn from the earth? No! there is no liberty, no property, no life, no soul in any country, and under whatever form of government, when national independence is fettered!”b It is impossible that Foscolo, despite his assertions, and despite, perhaps, his hopes, should not have been aware that the strongest chain that can be imposed on the freedom of a nation is its having a foreign prince / at the head of government. Still he vindicated the cause he espoused, by demanding national institutions and a national army. The style of the oration is forcible, but too rhetorical; and, though full of truths that intimidated the oppressors and did honour to the free spirit of the writer, calmer representations and closer reasoning would command more of our admiration. Not that such would have availed with the conqueror: Italy was, to him, only one other lever added to the vast engine of military force which was to raise him to the throne of the world. Yet, though not gifted with liberty, the present epoch was a happy one for the north of Italy. After suffering from the persecutions of demagogues, and from the devastations of war, it reposed contentedly under the wise and liberal administration of Melzi.c Foscolo continued to inhabit Milan: by day immersed in study, his evenings were spent in amusements. His sanguine disposition often led him to try the chances of a gambling table: when he won, he launched out into extravagant expenses; he bought horses and dress, and hired the most magnificent apartments. When Fortune turned her back, all this show of prosperity as suddenly a Mary Shelley apparently translates from Foscolo’s ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’, where this same selection from the Orazione is given. b Translated with omissions from the Orazione, IX. c Francesco Melzi d’Eril (1753–1816), Napoleon Bonaparte’s Italian advisor and his vicepresident during the years of the Italian Republic (1802–5).

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disappeared; and he retired into a corner to study.* In one of these intervals of seclusion, he wrote a translation of the Hymn of Callimachus on the Hair of Berenice, accompanied by a whole volume of comments.a The sort of learning which he here displayed obtained no applause; but we are told that the erudition thus made show of had for its aim, not the instructing the ignorant, but the ridicule of pedants and book-worms. It is difficult, however, to cull wit from the dry bones of verbal criticism. Under the presidency of Melzi, an Italian legion had been formed in which Foscolo held a commission. When Bonaparte formed the camp at Boulogne, for the avowed purpose of invading England, the division of the Italian army to which the poet belonged made part of / the vast assemblage of troops called together. He held the rank of captain, and was attached to the staff of general Tulliè. The Italian troops were stationed at St. Omer and Calais, at which latter place Foscolo entered on the study of the English language. The spot which he selected for the purpose of study was curiously chosen: he was often seen writing with eagerness by the light of the lamp of the billiard-table, while his fellow-officers were playing, drinking, and conversing around. To exercise himself in English, he undertook the translation of Sterne’s “Sentimental Journey;” and it is much praised for the purity of its style.b But the most curious part of the publication is a disguised account of the translator. Foscolo’s excessive vanity shines very apparent in this account of himself, in which he indulges in an egotistical description of his own singularities; and, according to his old fancy, conducts himself to the grave, and writes his own epitaph. The titlepage of the translation declares the translator to be one Didimo Chierico; and on the character of this Didimo (being himself) Foscolo fondly dilates; mentions various works of his, the manuscripts of which he says that he possesses; and records his eccentricities and opinions in a manner which excites a smile, when we remember that he is his own memorialist of trifles, which it would be hardly worth mentioning when appertaining to the greatest men. “Didimo entertained,” he tells us, “strange systems, which, nevertheless, he did not defend by argument; and, as apology to those who brought forward irresistible reasons, he replied by the single word ‘opinions.’ He respected, also, the systems of others, and, from carelessness or some other motive, never tried to refute them; but always remained silent, without making sign of dissent, except that he uttered the word ‘opinions’ with religious seriousness. On these systems or notions he founded actions and words worthy of laughter. He called don Quixote happy, because he deluded himself with glory and love. / He drove away cats, because they appeared * Pecchio. [ch. 6] a Chioma di Berenice, poema di Callimaco, tradotto da Valerio Catullo, volgarizzato ed illustrato da Ugo Foscolo (Milano, 1803). b Viaggio sentimentale di Yorick lungo la Francia e l’Italia (1813), published under the pseudonym Didimo Chierico.

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to him the most silent of all animals; at the same time he praised them, because, like dogs, they took advantage of society, and enjoyed their liberty like owls. He did not believe that you could trust any one who lived next door to a butcher, or near the place destined for public executions. He believed in prophetic inspiration, and fancied that he was acquainted with its source. He accused the nightcap, dressing-gown, and slippers of husbands, as the cause of a wife’s first infidelity. He gave no better specimen of his knowledge: asserting that the sciences were a series of propositions which had need of demonstrations apparently self-evident, but substantially uncertain; and that geometry, in spite of algebra, would remain an imperfect science, until the incomprehensible system of the universe was known: and he maintained that the arts could render truth more useful to men than the sciences. “When travelling, he dined at the public tables: he easily became familiar, though he spoke dryly to the ceremonious, proudly to the rich, and avoided all sects and confraternities. He frequented mostly the society of women; because he thought them more richly endowed by nature with pity and modesty, two pacific qualities which, he said, alone temper the combative propensities of human beings. He was listened to readily; though I know not where he found matter of discourse, since he would talk a whole evening without uttering a word concerning politics, religion, or scandal. He never asked questions, that he might not lead others to answer falsely. He was glad to receive his acquaintances at home; but when walking he liked to be alone, or with strangers to whom he took a fancy; and if any of his acquaintance approached, he took a book from his pocket, and, in room of salutation, recited scraps from a modern translation of the Greek poets; on which he was left alone.”a And thus he goes on, for several pages, describing eccentricities, partly natural, partly assumed, which he / wished should attract attention, as is evident by his thus introducing them to the public, who would otherwise have been ignorant of their existence. On his return to Italy, he became intimate with general Caffarelli, minister of war of the kingdom of Italy.b Warmed by the recent sight of the encampment of Boulogne, he proposed to the general to make a new edition of the military works of Montecucoli, with notes. The text was furnished him by the marchese Trivulzio, and the edition was brought out with great splendour; but Foscolo is accused of having used his imagination, rather than critical acumen, in the emendation of his author. The north of Italy was enjoying a great degree of prosperity at this time. Melzi gave encouragement to all undertakings that tended to elevate the Italian a Loose quotation and paraphrase of extracts from Foscolo’s ‘Notizia intorno a Didimo Chierico’. b General Augusto Cafferelli, Italian minister of war and Foscolo’s military commander, for whom he translated Raimondo Montecuccoli’s L’attione bellica (1692). Mary Shelley refers here to the renowned library collections of the Trivulzio-Trotti family of Milan.

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character; and literary men were held in that esteem which ensures their exerting themselves to bestow on their country the richest harvest of their talents. Foscolo, though he still held his captain’s commission, was, in honour of his literary character, exempted from the toils of service; and, taking advantage of the liberty allowed him, he left Milan for a time, and took up his residence at Brescia. He resided in a small house, situated on an open hill, not far from the city. Here he was accustomed to study till sunset; and, whether alone or in company, he would recite the poetry of the ancients, or his own, which he was then occupied in composing. The Brescians are a happy, gay people; they live less in the town than the inhabitants of the rest of Italy, and take peculiar pleasure in rural amusements; they are hospitable and fond of festivity; not very refined, they are yet openhearted and cordial, and noted for bravery when in the field. Foscolo’s neighbours admired and visited him; persons of every sect and opinion, even the priests, flocked to his house; and often seated under a wide-spreading fig tree which was in his garden, he held forth to a numerous audience. The Brescians are naturally enthusiastic: he had the / art of inflaming the souls of the young, and they crowded round him as, with stentorian voice, he uttered his moral apophthegms. When night closed in, he left his rustic drawing room, and visited the theatres; and was often seen paying homage to the dark eyes of some Brescian beauty.* It was here that he wrote the most perfect of his poems – his “Ode on Sepulchres.” The elegance and pure taste of this composition have caused it to be compared to Gray’s well-known “Elegy;” but it is more classical in its ideas and construction, and would rather remind the reader of Milton’s “Lycidas.”a Every verse is harmonious music; and the melancholy that is cast over it is graceful and touching, not harrowing and sombre. A law had been passed at Milan instituting a public cemetery without the walls of the city, in which all the dead were to be promiscuously buried, without marks of distinction. The poet, addressing Pindemonte,b begins by commenting upon the notion that funeral pomp and an honourable tomb are of no avail to the dead; and then he speaks of the sacred sentiment that leads us to live still with our lost friends, and makes the spot of their interment precious in our eyes. Alluding to the new law, he apostrophises the muse, asking her if she does not love to linger near the desecrated tomb of her Parini, whose venerated remains, cast among the bodies of criminals, are scarcely protected from the assaults of the houseless dog, while night birds hover, screaming, over it. He speaks of the pious sentiments with which the sad relics of * Pecchio. [ch. 6] a Referring to two pastoral elegies, Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ and John Milton (1608–74), ‘Lycidas’ (1638). Pecchio (ch. 6) draws extended parallels between Foscolo’s Sepolcri and Gray’s ‘Elegy’. b Ippolito Pindemonte (1753–1828), poet, translator of Homer’s Odyssey and dedicatee of I Sepolcri.

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mortality have ever been regarded since religion first instituted sacred and social laws; and describes, in heartfelt but poetic language, the various ways in which survivors love to pay homage to the beloved dead. From tender and pathetic pictures of domestic bereavement, he then rises to describe the ennobling sentiment inspired by a sight of the tombs of the great and good. He apostrophises Florence, and gracefully brings in the / well-known predilection of Alfieri for the aisles of Santa Croce; and then, taking a still higher flight, he describes Providence and destiny as presiding over the graves of the worthy, and vindicating their unforgotten names, even from the silent turf that covers them; and, carried away by his love for classic lore, with no forced digression, he concludes by speaking of the mounds that still mark the spot where the warriors of Greece died on the Trojan shore, and describes Homer, the poet blind and old, wandering around, and bestowing on them the immortal fame of which they would otherwise have been deprived. This anatomy of a poem can convey but a slight and incomplete idea of its merits. The harmony of the versification – the tender and soft melancholy diffused throughout – the grace of the transitions – and the continual rising in his subject to the end, are all lost. Nor could a translation do justice to these, since, as evanescent as they are delicate, they would be lost in another language. The whole poem is Foscolo’s masterpiece. He also published at this time his translation of the first book of the Iliad.a Monti was bringing out his version, and there was much hardihood in Foscolo’s rivalship. His knowledge of Greek, contrasted with the other’s ignorance, no doubt instigated him. To remove any unpleasant feeling, he dedicated it to Monti; in which he speaks at once with modesty of his own attempt, and in high praise of Monti’s genius. It is difficult for a stranger to judge between the merits of the translators; but even if Foscolo’s is the best, it is a mere fragment. He never published more than the first and third books; while Monti went through the labour of the entire translation, and bestowed a complete work on his country. In 1808, Foscolo was installed professor of eloquence in the university of Pavia – a chair formerly filled by Monti and Cesarotti. The choice was universally popular; and his introductory oration, “On the Origin and Use of Letters,”b was listened to with enthusiasm. / He had refused to introduce any praise of Napoleon into it, and the whole was conceived in the spirit of personal and political independence. This fault was visited with singular severity; since, after a short time, the professorship of eloquence at Pavia was entirely suppressed, under the pretence of a reform in the plan of studies, but in reality as a mark of disapprobation. Petty jealousy and the vain desire of ruling even the thoughts of the subject world, induced Napoleon on all occasions to punish severely any demonstration of independence. Nor was the vengeance confined to Foscolo and Pavia alone. The a b

Esperimento di traduzione della Iliade di Omero (1807). Dell’origine e dell’ufficio della letteratura (1809).

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literary professorships at Bologna and Padua were also abolished, as well as those for the Greek and oriental languages; for history, and, in short, all except those instituted to teach law, medicine, and the sciences. Several learned and excellent men were thus deprived of an honourable living. The nation was at once robbed of all easy access to a liberal education, and to the inappreciable knowledge of those languages which contain the most glorious monuments of man’s genius: and thus Napoleon gave testimony to the Italians of the truth of Alfieri’s axiom, that absolute monarchs hate the historian, the poet, and the orator, and give the preference to the sciences.*a Foscolo retreated from the university to the seclusion of the Lake of Como; giving proof of his pure and ardent love of nature, so rare among Italians, by his retirement from cities to the sublime and luxuriant scenery of this lake. He took up his residence at a villa named the Pliniana, built on the site of the fountains whose periodical ebb and flow the younger Pliny records in his letters. The lake, paled in by mountains, bathes the walls of the villa; and the neighbouring banks, clothed with myrtle and arbutus, overhang the waters, and cast their deep shade on the clear depths: the precipitous mountain rises behind, diversified by chestnut woods; and here and there are seen huge cypresses, whose spires seem to pierce the skies, when / regarded from the terraced garden of the villa. The flowing fountains keep up a perpetual murmur; and, perhaps, in all the varied earth there is no spot which affords such a combination of the picturesque, the beautiful, the rich, the balmy, and the sublime. The house itself, without being ruinous, is huge and desolate; but its vast cool halls are a pleasant refuge against the heats of mid-day.b Here Foscolo studied through the morning, varying his life by spending his evenings with the family of count Giovio, a man of education and learning, whose young and gay family served to dissipate the fumes of melancholy in which the poet was rather fond of indulging.†c

* Hobhouse’s Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. † Pecchio. a

John Cam Hobhouse (1786–1869), Historical Illustrations to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (London, 1818); Foscolo drafted the ‘Essay on the Present Literature of Italy’ published with the volume. b The description draws on memories of the Shelleys’ visit to Como (9–12 Apr. 1818), where they had unsuccessfully tried to rent the Villa Pliniana at Torno. Mary Shelley echoes the wording of P. B. Shelley’s letter to Peacock of 20 April 1818, which she published in 1840 (PBSL, II, pp. 6–7). c Giovanni-Battista Giovio, member of a prominent family in the Lake Como region and distinguished for his service in 1796 as the General Counsel of Como. Foscolo was enamoured of Giovio’s daughter, Francesca, in 1808. Mary Shelley alludes to Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo, ch. 8.

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He here commenced his “Ode to the Graces:”a this was a favourite composition, yet left unfinished. He was never weary of altering or improving – of softening its language, or adding new melody to the versification. It is purely classical in its idea, yet varied by the most beautiful touches of natural beauty. He occupied himself also by finishing his tragedy of “Ajax.”b The same faults are discoverable in this drama as in his juvenile production of “Thyestes.” It is founded on the dispute between Ulysses and Ajax for the arms of Achilles, and the selfdestruction of the latter. The action ends almost before it begins; the scenes are frigid, the interest null; still it excited a good deal of expectation; and reading, as he did, speeches and scenes to various friends, its representation on the stage was looked forward to with eagerness at Milan. The theatre was crowded on the first night, and the audience sat patiently and listened for a long time to scene following scene, of sonorous words, high-sounding declamations, and vehement apostrophes, all leading to nothing, ending in nothing – exciting no sympathy, but wearying the ear. At length they grew tired; and though they listened to the conclusion, it was evident that they were delighted to be dismissed. It was a strange accident, that a drama which thus / failed of eliciting any interest in the audience, and the great fault of which was dulness, should have excited a persecution against its author. His enemies spread the report that the tragedy had a political aim; that Napoleon was symbolised in Agamemnon, the king of kings; and that general Moreauc was pictured in Ajax, who deserved, but did not obtain, the arms of Achilles. There seems to have been no real foundation for this supposition, but Foscolo did not deny it: he preserved a mysterious silence; whether from disdain, or from a covert pleasure in the annoyance of government, is uncertain. The ministers of Napoleon were inquisitorial and revengeful; not to praise their emperor was sin sufficient to render any author obnoxious, and any expressions that could be distorted into blame were criminal. The cities of Italy, whose inhabitants are forbidden all political discussions, and who are shut out from the pursuits that naturally excite ambition, are singularly apt to diversify the monotony of their lives by gossiping. Such a supposition as the one above mentioned spread rapidly through Milan: men met together to wonder and dispute; they worked themselves up into an idea that something had been done, and that something would ensue; while the spies of the police excited and reported each unguarded expression. The city became disturbed by the notion of Foscolo’s attempt to bring Napoleon on the stage as an object of censure, and in expectation of the punishment with which his boldness would be visited; while he, silent a Le Grazie (1803/1822), inspired by Antonio Canova’s statuary group, formerly at Woburn Abbey. A lengthy extract from the poem was published under the title ‘Dissertation on an ancient hymn to the Graces’, in John Russell’s Outlines, Engravings, and Descriptions of the Woburn Abbey Marbles (1822). b Ajace (performed 1811). c Jean Victor Moreau (1763–1813), French general during the Revolutionary Wars, who aided Bonaparte’s rise to power in the coup of 18 Brumaire but later conspired against his imperial ambitions. Moreau was banished from France in 1804.

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and mysterious, refused to offer any explanation. It was intimated accordingly to him, that he would do well to change the air; and, submitting to an exile from Milan, he again visited Tuscany. He took the house at Camaldoli, near Florence, which had, in ages gone by, been inhabited by Galileo. He alludes to this in his “Ode to the Graces,” in some verses which describe the nocturnal murmur of the distant Arno, which flowed clear yet hid beneath its willows, and visited the ear of the astronomer as he watched the / star of eve. It was here, he records, that dawn, and the moon, and the sun displayed to him, with various tints, the serene clouds that hung below the Alps, or illumined the plain which stretches to the Tyrrhene sea; a widespread scene of cities and woods, diversified by the labours of the happy husbandman, by temples; or the hundred hills with which, adorned by caverns, and olive groves, and marble palaces, the Apennines encircle the lovely city, where Flora and the Graces have garlands.* In one point, the poetry of Foscolo may be compared to the more didactic parts of Milton. He never omits a romantic or classical allusion; and, bringing forward all that ennobles and animates his subject, adorns it with human interest. Whoever reads in the original the verses I have so lamely translated into prose, cannot help remembering various passages inspired by the memory of Tuscany, which show like pictures of Claude in the pages of the most graceful as well as the most sublime of our poets.b We cannot refrain from observing, in this place, that we possess a proof, in the bent of Foscolo’s genius, of how little the intellect is often in accord with the *

“Con elle (le Grazie) Qui dov’ io canto Galileo sedea –– a spiar l’ astro Della loro regina, e il desviava Col notturno rumor l’ acqua remota Che sotto ai pioppi della riva d’ Arno Furtiva e argentea gli volava al guardo, Qui a lui l’ Alba, la Luna e il Sol mostrava Gareggianti di tinte, or le serene Nubi sulle cerulee Alpe sedente Ora il piano che –– alle tirrene Nereidi, immensa di città e di selve Scena – e di templi e d’ arator beati, Or cento colli, onde Appenin corona D’ ulivi e d’antri, e di marmoree ville L’ elegante città, dove con Flora Le Grazie han serti, e amabile idioma.”a

a Le Grazie, II, ll. 13–29. Pecchio may have served as Mary Shelley’s immediate source for the poetry of Foscolo in Italian; his Vita di Ugo Foscolo includes this precise extract from Le Grazie, as well as the passages that Mary Shelley translates from ‘A Zacinto’, L’Ultime lettere and I Sepolcri. b i.e. Milton; Mary Shelley is probably thinking of his ‘L’Allegro’ and ‘Il Penseroso’ together with similes in Paradise Lost which draw on his visit to Tuscany; see MWSN, vol. 8, p. 238. The serene, classical landscapes of Claude Lorrain (1600–82) were among her favourite paintings.

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heart. Wild, vehement, gloomy almost to savageness, independent even to an incapacity of yielding to the common rules of society, he could not depict the wild furies of Ajax, nor, indeed, the more burning throes that often tore his own heart. His best compositions, on the contrary, seem to emanate from an impassioned but / brooding spirit, nursed in soft melancholy and elegant and fanciful reverie. As we have before mentioned, he was purely a didactic writer; but perhaps no modern poet ever displayed so much harmony, grace, and truth of description. We have not the fantastic imagery nor the fire of Monti; neither the storms of the deep, nor the thunders of the sky; but an inland landscape, where the balmy air broods over waving forest and murmuring stream, and the heart of man reposing seems to take refuge “In that sweet mood where pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.”a

When the result of his Russian invasion shook Napoleon’s throne, Foscolo returned to Milan. Public events were undergoing a vast change. Napoleon, defeated by his own ambition, retired to what seemed to him the narrow circle of France, and appeared for a while to stand at bay, while a universal attack was made on him. His authority, every where shaken, tottered in Italy. The English, who had assisted so gloriously in the emancipation of Spain, sent emissaries to Italy, to invite the people to throw off the French yoke. It would have been of no avail to have invited them to exchange servitude under France for that under Austria, and the words liberty and national independence were pronounced as a spell to rouse them. Lord William Bentinckb published a manifesto calling on them to assert their freedom; he conjured the soldiers to vindicate their country’s rights, and to acquire for it that liberty which Spain, Portugal, and Holland reaped from the fall of Napoleon. His voice found an echo in every heart. We are told that “the name of independence was on the lips of all; nor at any crisis of any nation in the world were so much ardour and unanimity shown, as by the Italians at this moment.”* While thus the allies tried to win the Italians to their side, the treaty of Fontainebleau and the abdication of the French emperor placed the peninsula at their feet. The / viceroy of Italy, prince Eugêne,c crossed the Alps; * Storia d’ Italia, scritta da Carlo Botta.d a

Wordsworth, ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’ (1798), ll. 3–4. Lord William Cavendish Bentinck, second son of the 3rd Duke of Portland (1774–1839). His proclamation (which embarrassed the British government) was made in Genoa in 1814. He was the governor-general of India between 1827 and 1835, during which time he had attempted to abolish suttee. c Eugène de Beauharnais (1781–1824), step-son of Napoleon, created prince and viceroy of the Kingdom of Italy (1805) and later King of Bavaria. d Carlo Giuseppe Guglielmo Botta (1766–1837), Piedmontese and historian, who served as Napoleon’s physician during the campaigns in Italy and Corfu. He later turned against French rule and become an Italian nationalist. Mary Shelley follows here and below his 5-vol. Storia d’Italia dal 1789 al 1814 (Paris: chez P. Dufart, 1834), V, chs 26, 27. b

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the south of Italy fell into the hands of its old rulers; while Milan, left to itself, assembled a senate to discuss a new form of government. The point disputed was, whether prince Eugêne or a prince of the house of Austria should preside over them; but they fancied that their independence was secure under the one or the other. The latter proposition carried the day; for when the senate, recording the virtues of the viceroy, was about to solicit the allies to set him over them, a vast multitude surrounded their house, composed of every class – nobles, commonalty, artificers, rich and poor – even women of rank joined in the tumult – crying out for the independence of their country, and “No viceroy! No France!” A placard went about, saying, “Spain and Germany have cast away the yoke of France from their necks – Italy must imitate them;” while magistrates and people called aloud, “We will have electoral colleges, and no Eugêne.” The senate fled – the people, roused to violence, rushed to destroy the partisans of the French, and the unfortunate Prini was torn to pieces.a Liberty (alas! blood-stained) seemed to win the day; but it was a mock victory. The electoral colleges were convened, and they created a regency; it was decreed that the allies should be solicited to grant the independence of the kingdom, and a free constitution with an Austrian but independent prince at its head. Legates were sent to the emperor Francis, at Paris, with these demands. He replied, that he also was Italian – that his soldiers had conquered Lombardy, and that the answer would be given at Milan. The Austrians entered Milan on the 28th of April. Bellegardeb took possession of it in the name of Austria on the 23d of May. The kingdom of Italy was at an end; its independence was crushed and exchanged for an ignominious and cruel servitude.* At the commencement of these changes Foscolo remained unmoved. He pursued his studies in silence / and seclusion, and seemed to forget the political crisis among his literary occupations. But when Napoleon fell, he sided with the independents against the French party; though at the same time he gave proof of his courage and humanity by exerting himself vigorously, though vainly, to save the unfortunate Prini. At the same time he resumed his military duties; and when the regency was established, he was promoted to the rank of capo squadrone, or colonel. To the last he took an active part in asserting the liberty of his country. When the Austrian soldiers entered Milan, the city submitted peacefully, but not silently. Six thousand soldiers of the civic guard assembled, and, in presence of the occupying army, placed in the hands of the English general, Macfarlane, an address which they begged might be laid before the allies, claiming national independence and a constitution. Foscolo drew up this address. We are told that it * Carlo Botta. a Joseph Prina (b. 1768), comte de l’Empire, senator and minister of finance, who was killed by mob violence on 20 Apr. 1814 (Biographie universelle). b Heinrich Bellegarde (1756–1842), Austrian commander in Italy during the Napoleonic Wars.

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was brief, energetic, and dignified*; a precious monument of the author’s patriotism. But Foscolo was not allowed to reap any good from his firm adherence to the cause of liberty. The Austrians looked on him with suspicious eyes, and he was not popular among his countrymen. He had quarrelled with Monti, and had many enemies. He saw no mode of maintaining himself: he foresaw that he should be persecuted, and perhaps entered into plots for the subversion of government. At this moment, some member of the Austrian government, knowing the benefit that would accrue to their cause if they could win Foscolo as a writer, asked him to furnish a plan for a public journal. He consented, refusing at the same time to write in it; but this slender act of civility was tortured into one of apostacy by his enemies, and too late he found that he had given room to calumny. Pecchio relates a conversation which he had with him, which, if he did not suspect Foscolo of treason to his country, was unkindly carried on by him. They met without / the eastern gate of the city, and Foscolo walked on for some time without speaking. At length he suddenly addressed his companion, saying, “You, who are accustomed to speak the truth both to friends and enemies, tell me what is said of me in public.” Pecchio replied, “If you continue your intercourse with Austrians, your enemies will assert that you are their spy.”a This answer was as a thunderbolt to Foscolo – his countenance darkened – he quickened his steps, and said no more. The next day, without taking leave of any one, without passport, and without money, he set out in disguise for Switzerland. Whether his proud heart rebelled against continuing any longer among his suspicious countrymen, or whether, as some said, he was implicated in a plot among the soldiers, which was just then discovered, or whether, hopeless and sick at heart, he yearned for new scenes and a new life; whatever his motive was, he became henceforth a voluntary exile, and, leaving friends and country, began an untried career; adding one more to the number of unfortunate wanderers whom political changes had driven from their homes abroad on the earth. At first Foscolo took refuge in Switzerland, and remained for two years in the city of Zurigo. He did little during that interval, except publish a sort of unintelligible Latin satire, called “Dydymi Clerici Prophetæ Minimi Hypercalypseos, Liber singularis;” which is written in imitation of the prophecies of the Bible, and satirises Paradisi and others who enjoyed offices in the fallen kingdom of Italy.b Without a key it is impossible to understand it – alluding, as it does, to people * Pecchio. [ch. 9, pp. 191–2] a

Summarising Pecchio, ch. 9, pp. 193–4. Foscolo’s satire can be translated as ‘The Singular book of Super-Revelation, by Didymus Clericus, Very Minor Prophet’. Agostino, Count Paradisi (1736–83), professor at the University of Modena and author of several tragedies, published Gli Epitidi (1801). ‘Zurigo’: i.e. Zurich; this has been taken from Pecchio’s Italian. b

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little known, and to facts still more obscure; and when understood is not praised, even by his countrymen, who might be supposed to take some interest in a personal satire on men with whom they were acquainted. Foscolo found tranquillity at Zurigo; and his disposition, not being inclined to intrigue, would have permitted him to remain there in peace; but he was / poor, and obliged to seek a country where he could turn his talents to some account. England, the refuge of exiles, was the place to which he repaired. There were liberal men there, who, ashamed of the part which the country had permitted lord Castlereagh to play, in sacrificing to despotism the very men whose desire of freedom he had sought to excite, readily and generously welcomed the victims of our foreign secretary’s cruel policy.a Foscolo, on his arrival, was visited by the most distinguished men of the country; the Whig party received him with open arms, and he made one of the circle assembled at Holland House.b He was treated with all the cordiality considered due to a man of integrity and a patriot, banished by a foreign despot, and refusing to become the pensioner of the oppressors of his country; while, at the same time, he met with the mingled respect and curiosity which an author of acknowledged talents excites: and even lord Sidmouth,c armed with the terrors of the alien act, assured him that he should remain unmolested during his sojourn. A little time somewhat destroyed the illusion which first adorned his name. The English are very ready to receive any one as a lion, but not fond of fostering intimacies with any whose habits and manners do not perfectly assimilate with their own. The vehement gestures, wild looks, and loud voice of the Italian, were all in contradiction to the etiquette of English society; and no foreigner is capable of perceiving any thing but dulness and ice in the mild, high-bred, and unpretending manners of the aristocracy of this country. The English enjoy society in their own way; and there is a charm to us in the perfect liberty each one enjoys – no one encroaching, or being encroached upon. But the sensitiveness which leads us to give freedom to others, renders us jealous of any assumption of it on their part. Foscolo had no real hold on the society of which he made a part, except through his talents, and the respect his independence / and integrity commanded: but respect is a cold feeling, and can be indulged while we keep the object of it at a a Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh (1769–1822), British politician, whose career included service as the Irish Secretary, Foreign Secretary, and leader of the House of Commons. Castlereagh was noted for his role in crushing republican insurgency throughout the United Kingdom and for advocating some of the period’s most repressive legislative measures, but the disgrace referred to here is most likely his part in the Parga affair, described below. b Holland House, the London residence of Henry Fox, Lord Holland and the centre of an elite Whig circle during the first half of the 19th century, whose members include literary, political and scientific notables. c Henry Addington, Lord Sidmouth (1759–1844), British politician, Prime Minister (1801– 4) and Home Secretary (1812–21). Under his ministry Habeas Corpus was suspended, government spies were widely employed as agents provacateurs and the Manchester Massacre (1819) took place. He appears as Hypocrisy on a crocodile (accompanying Castlereagh) in P. B. Shelley’s Masque of Anarchy (1832).

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distance. His talents ceased to amuse, joined as they were to pride, to vehemence, and to habits which would not alter, but could not please. Foscolo ceased to be a lion; and he retired to the neighbourhood of St. John’s Wood, near the Regent’s Park; and, surrounding himself by his books, and visited by a few friends, he led a life at once retired and eccentric. When Pecchio visited his friend in this retreat, in 1822, he was struck by the apparent desolation of the spot (South Bank) in which his house was situated; and at the same time by the appearance of three lovely sisters, who were the household servants of the poet, – named by his visiters the three Graces; in allusion at once to their beauty and Foscolo’s poem.* He supported himself chiefly by writing in the Quarterly Review; and we owe to this mode of exercising his pen one of the most delightful of his productions, the “Essays on Petrarch.” These are four in number: on the Love of Petrarch, – on his Poetry, – on his Character, – and a Parallel between him and Dante. On the whole, we are almost inclined to say that Foscolo scarcely does justice to the generous, amiable, and faithful lover of Laura. The pride and unbending disposition of Dante were more in accordance with his own character. But the discrimination, the taste, and enthusiasm of these Essays render them one of the most delightful books in the world. The volume in which they are collected is enriched, also, by several of lady Dacre’s translations from Petrarch, which are unequalled for fidelity and grace; preserving the spirit and feeling of the original, and yet arraying them in flowing and melodious English verse.b / Foscolo published also a translation of the third book of the Iliad; and his tragedy of “Ricciarda.”c Though founded on a story of the middle ages, there is no more interest in this last drama than his preceding ones: the feelings and

* It was on account of one of these Graces that Foscolo believed himself obliged to challenge one Graham, an American.a When they met in the field, the poet received, but did not return, his adversary’s fire, and the affair terminated without a reconciliation. Graham was at that time a reporter to a newspaper, and had served Foscolo as translator of his works. He afterwards got into difficulties, committed a forgery, and was obliged to leave this country. Soon after, he fell in a duel in America. a William Grenville Graham (1793–1827) later editor of Whitaker’s Weekly Museum. The duel apparently took place in Nov. of 1823 over Graham’s seduction of a favourite housemaid. It is described in Pecchio, ch. 10. Mary Shelley met Graham in the mid 1820s. He was the probable father of the illegitimate child of her friend, Isabel Robinson. The need to disguise Isabel’s status as an unwed mother led Mary Shelley to help provide a new identity for her as ‘Mrs. Walter Sholto Douglas’, the ‘wife’ of the transvestite poet Mary Diana Dods; see Betty T. Bennett, Mary Diana Dods: A Gentleman and a Scholar, rev. edn (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University, 1994). In respect of what it conceals, this is perhaps Mary Shelley’s most remarkable footnote. b Foscolo’s Essays on Petrarch, first written for the Quarterly Review, XXIV (Jan. 1821), were republished by John Murray in 1823. The volume includes ‘Translations from Petrarch’ by Lady Dacre (see ‘Petrarch’, pp. 23–5). c Riccardia (1812), published in English in 1820 and dedicated to the executed Whig leader William, Lord Russell (1639–83).

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situations are forced and unnatural. Fraternal hatred is the mainspring of the plot: Guelfo detests his half-brother, Averardo; and, on the death of their father Tancred, goes to war with him, to deprive him of his portion of their common heritage. As a further mark of hate, he betroths his daughter Ricciarda to Guido, the son of Averardo, merely to discover whether she loves her cousin or not; and, finding that she does, separates them with violent denunciations, and resolves to marry her to another. The drama opens while the brothers are at war. On account of the unfortunate unities – which force the author to bring all the persons together in one place, however improbable it may be that they should there meet – the poet causes Guido to leave his father’s camp, and to secrete himself in Guelfo’s palace, for the sake of watching over Ricciarda’s safety, whose life he imagines to be menaced by her father. The action chiefly turns on Averardo first sending a friend, and then coming himself in disguise, to induce Guido to return to him; in Guelfo’s denunciations against his daughter; and in scenes between the lovers. At length Averardo assaults and enters his brother’s palace; and Guelfo, finding himself defeated, first kills Ricciarda, to prevent her marrying Guido, and then stabs himself; while Guido swears that he will soon follow his mistress to the tomb. The only beauty of the tragedy consists in the character of Ricciarda, her struggles between filial piety and love, her obedience to her father, and her devotion to her lover. But the whole is conceived in one unvaried tone of hate and unhappy love – of meditated murder and suicide. You neither perceive the end that the author has in view, nor that there can be any end except by their all dying. Foscolo dedicated this tragedy to lord William Russell. His politics naturally brought him into contact / with what was then the opposition party; and this alliance was drawn closer when the exiles of Pargaa applied to him to draw up the petition to be presented to parliament. He assented gladly, and wrote four hundred pages without avail; former treaties preventing the English from interference in behalf of the Pargiotes. Foscolo found difficulty in obtaining the means of life, and lady Dacre in particular interested herself in pointing out some method by which he might turn his talents to account. She proposed, and zealously promoted, the course of lectures on Italian literature which Foscolo delivered in 1823. Mr. Stewart Roseb was another of his real and anxious friends; and Foscolo’s acknowledged talents, and the interest excited by his exile, facilitated their endeavours. His lectures were numerously attended, and brought him a thousand pounds; – a small sum, if on it he was to found a sufficient income to maintain him for the rest of his life; a a

Parga, an Ionian island held by the French until 1815 and granted status as a British protectorate at the request of the local population. In a betrayal of public trust, Britain sold rights to the territory to the Ottoman Empire in 1817. Anticipating reprisal from their historical enemy, the town’s 4,000 inhabitants abandoned the island entirely. Foscolo’s essay for the Oct. 1819 issue of the Edinburgh Review was instrumental in calling public attention to the events. b William Stewart Rose, translator of numerous Italian poems; Foscolo’s Didymi Clerici prophetae minimi (1815) was dedicated to him; see ‘Pulci’ and ‘Berni’.

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large one to an Italian, accustomed to look on a few hundred crowns as riches. And thus it was that the success that attended his undertaking was, in the end, fruitful of annoyance and disaster. The poet’s head was turned – he fancied his treasure inexhaustible, and he set about spending it with as much knowledge as a child would have had of its real quantity and value. He built a house, furnished it expensively, and adorned it with all those luxuries that cost largely and are of least intrinsic value. His entrance hall was adorned by statues, and he had a conservatory filled with the rarest flowers; while the three Graces still waited on him, and did not contribute to the economy of his household. As all the houses in the suburb of St. John’s Wood, which he continued to inhabit, are distinguished by a name, he, to the no small puzzle of the common people, christened his Digamma Cottage; in commemoration of a literary victory which he believed achieved by his “Essay on the Digamma.”a “I went to see him,” Pecchio writes, “on my return from Spain, in August, 1823. I found him inhabiting a new house, / surrounded by all the luxury of a financier suddenly become rich. I was astonished, and could not account for this sort of theatrical change; it appeared to me a dream. I thought to myself, Ugo Foscolo has followed in the steps of doctor Faustus, and has entered into some compact with the fiend Mephistopheles. He certainly displays good taste; and if he be not rich, he deserves to be so; and if all I see is not a vision, he deserves that it should be real. But too truly it was a vision: little or nothing of what I saw was paid for; it was the palace of king Theodore, tapestried with promises to pay. His destiny was similar to that of him of whom Young says– “A man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.”*b

Poor Foscolo too soon paid the penalty of his inexplicable want of common sense; he became pressed by his creditors, his goods were seized, and he, threatened by arrests, was obliged to leave his villa, which so resembled a castle in the air, and to hide in a lodging in an obscure corner of London. He was now obliged to provide for his daily necessities by writing articles for various reviews and magazines. The merit and success of his “Essays on Petrarch” suggested to Mr. Pickering,c a London bookseller, the idea of an edition of Dante, Petrarch, * Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo. a The sixth letter of the original Greek alphabet, later excluded from classical Greek, probably originally pronounced ‘W’ but in shape like ‘F’. Foscolo believed that it marked a hiatus and was not a letter at all; he was drawn towards this study by his Zantean ancestry. The essay is described in Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo, ch. 11. b Selectively translated from Pecchio, Vita di Ugo Foscolo, ch. 11, pp. 230–2; where Mary Shelley does not translate, Pecchio’s remarks are summarised in her text. The quotation is from Edward Young (1683–1765), The Satires: I, The Love of Fame, the Universal Passion, ll. 171–2. c William Pickering (1796–1854) made his name in the 1820s with the publication of the Diamond Classics. He later founded the Aldine Press, reviving the dolphin-and-anchor colophon of Aldus Manutius, the great Renaissance printer. His name is preserved by Pickering & Chatto. Pickering published Foscolo’s 3-volume edition of Boccaccio’s Decameron (1825), as well as a treatise on Dante entitled Discorso sul Testo di Dante Alighieri (1825).

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Boccaccio, and Tasso, with preliminary notices and critical notes by Foscolo. The offer was tolerably liberal, being 600l. for the whole work, if completed in two years. But even now Foscolo was ruined by another mistake. Had he provided Essays similar to the admired ones already written, adding a few critical and historical observations, it had been well; he would have produced, at no great cost to himself, a popular work that had repaid the bookseller for his speculation. But Foscolo had already given token of a predilection for verbal and minute criticism. His prefatory notice to Boccaccio consisted of a critical history of editions, totally uninteresting to the general reader, / and of no value except to book collectors. The commentary on Dante is somewhat less confined in its topics; and, with great subtlety and talent, he compares various readings, and gives reasons for his own selection. But even in this his observations are almost entirely grammatical and verbal, though interspersed by others of great acuteness on the meaning and intentions of Dante. Still his work, altogether, bore no similarity to his delightful Essays, which portray the character, spirit, and history of Petrarch and Dante in so new and attractive a manner. Unfortunately, intense labour was required for a work so little alluring or profitable; and Foscolo spent months collating, consulting, and emending: producing, in the end, a work to be read with tedium and fatigue. While thus diligently occupied, and at the same time harassed by many cares, ill lodged, and full of chagrin and mortification, he fell ill. He grew thin, and a tendency to dropsy manifested itself; the consequence of an affection of the liver, from which he had long suffered. A few friends visited him; and, dividing his time between them and his literary labours, he never left the house. Yet his work did not advance. He and his bookseller were at cross purposes. Mr. Pickering desired a popular and saleable publication, which he supposed would cost not much more time than the author’s celebrated articles in the reviews. Foscolo wished to immortalise himself by a work of labour and erudition, which should become a text book and authority to all who hereafter read or wrote upon the poets in question. Anxieties thus grew upon him. Economy, and a desire for tranquillity and better air, induced him to leave London; and he hired a small house at Turnham Green. Here the last months of his life were spent. A few friends visited him: some of these were English; but they consisted mostly of the exiles driven from the south of Europe by the ill success of the attempted revolutions of 1820–21. The canon Riegoa was one among them, who attached himself warmly to Foscolo, / admiring his independence and consistency. Meanwhile his disease gained ground, and it became publicly known that small hopes were entertained for his recovery. This announcement excited universal sympathy; and his rich or noble English friends, who, from incompatibility of manners and character, had fallen from him, came forward to offer assistance. The friends around him declined a Canon Miguel Riego, a Spanish exile living in London, with whom Foscolo became acquainted in 1827.

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receiving more than fifty pounds to meet the exigencies of the moment; and even this supply was concealed from Foscolo, whose pride would have been deeply and uselessly mortified by the sense of pecuniary obligation. Money, indeed, was not the only kindness proffered: lord Holland sent wine, the duke of Devonshire, game; but the kindness and services most deeply felt, were those of the canon Riego; who spared no trouble to assist and comfort his dying friend. Foscolo was sensible of his friendship, but feared that it might become officious; and he wrote to him; thanking him warmly, but entreating him to do no more. “I beg of you,” he writes, “and it is my most earnest prayer, that you do not inform any one, man or woman, of my situation, for the purpose of obtaining assistance. I make this fervent request, because I heard of something of the kind from miss Florida:a But your kindness on this point would only cruelly torture my heart, increase the sufferings of my mind, and the sickness of my body.” He lingered two months after this letter. On the day of his death he was visited by his noble countryman, count Capo d’Istria,b who, passing through London to assume the presidentship of Greece, paid the homage of a visit to the most renowned author of modern Greece. Foscolo was now in a state of torpor, and unconscious of the honour done him. To the last he was patient; submissive to his medical attendants, and courageous; commenting on the inevitable advances of death with fortitude and calmness. He died on the 10th of October, 1827. His funeral was private and modest; his remains were followed to / the grave by five friends, and they were buried in the neighbouring churchyard of Chiswick, where, a little to the left of the church, amidst a crowd of tombstones, is to be found one, inscribed simply: UGO FOSCOLO , Obiit xiv. Die Septembris, A . D . 1827. Ætatis 52.*c

* There is an error in this inscription with regard to the day of Foscolo’s death, and also probably of his age, since it is supposed that he was not more than forty-nine when he died. His countrymen also regret that instead of the above inscription, that was not adopted which he wrote for himself, under the feigned name of Didimo Chierico, which runs thus:– Didymi Clerici Vitia: virtus: ossa

a Alluding to Foscolo’s illegitimate half-English daughter Floriana (b. 1806) (by Sophia St John Hamilton); he wasted her independent fortune, but she supported him in his poverty. Pecchio is the source of Foscolo’s letter to Canon Riego, a part of which Mary Shelley translates here. b Giovanni Antonio, Count Capo d’Istria (1776–1831), President of Greece from 1827–31. c ‘Ugo Foscolo, Died 14 September, AD 1827, Aged 52’.

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The character of Foscolo, and his literary merits, may be gathered from the foregoing biography. Consistency was among his most prominent virtues, for his writings and actions were in strict accordance one with the other. He always rose superior to the blows of fortune, and preserved his independence in the midst of the disasters brought on him, either by the misfortunes of his country or his own imprudences. Vanity, that assumed the appearance of disdain, rendered him difficult of access, but compassion and warmth of heart were hidden by this outside. Fearful of being thought servile, he ran into the opposite extreme, and was little apt to praise even those to whom praise was due. Vehement in his opinions, yet he disliked dispute; and if ever led into it, in a few minutes sheltered himself again in silence. His heart was a stranger to the feeling of hatred, but neither was he very open to friendship; he was intimate but with few, and even with these he was reserved. He preferred the society of women, and in early life loved with sincerity and passion; and there was delicacy and refinement in all his feelings with regard to the fair sex. As he expresses himself, in Ortis, “I have been taught by some how to seduce and betray, / and I might perhaps have seduced and betrayed, but the pleasure I anticipated fell coldly and bitterly on my heart, which has never been tamed either by time or reason; and thus you have often heard me exclaim, that all depends on the heart, which neither heaven, men, nor we ourselves can ever change.”b The sincerity of his feelings had their reward – since his affections had on some occasions met a return, which his uncouth appearance and strange manners would never have commanded, and which was due only to his truth. He loved solitude and study, was abstemious in his habits, but not of strong health, and was often devoured by the deepest gloom. He spoke well, and detested all artifice and deceit. To these virtues we may add his constant attention to and affection for his mother. Strange, wild, and imprudent, his faults chiefly hurt himself; and even the impetuosity of his character seldom led him into any acts that injured or annoyed others. As an author, he may be said to be a bad tragedian, and not a good novelist; but he was an elegant writer, conversant with the depths and the refinements of the human heart. His subtle turn of mind led him too much to verbal and minute criticism – his love of the ancients sometimes injured the warmth and originality of his productions; but we may name two among them as nearly perfect in their

Hic: post: annos… Conquiescere cœpere.a a ‘The vices, the virtue, and the bones of Didymus Clericus, after … years, here begin to find their peace’ (Pecchio, ch. 11). The discrepancy in dates between the tomb inscription (and other records, which Mary Shelley passes over in silence), is found elsewhere. In 1871 Foscolo’s remains were reinterred in Santa Croce, Florence. b Ultime lettere, pt 1, letter of 11 Dec. 1797.

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IT ALIAN LIV E S : F OS COLO

[394]

several species; – the “Essays on Petrarch,” in prose; and, in verse, his “Ode on Sepulchres,” which, for harmony, grace, sweetness, and pure taste, is perhaps unequalled by any other poem in the world. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME .

361

/

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EDITORIAL CORRECTIONS

Volume I Page 17 41 61 70 78 80 81 81 81 81 81 81 81 82 83 84 104 107 112 112 112 112 115 135 142 142

line 26 32 34 32 4 24 19 24 30 31 31 35 37 32 28 34 26 39 15 27 31 33 17 1 24 40

popular;] popular: herself.] herself “Decameron”] “Decameron;” originated in] originated the damned.”] the damned. Giuliano] Guiliano flow’rets] flowrets free-born] freeborn edificii] edeficii delicie] delizie tesor] tezor augelletto] angeletto ombrose] ombrore Ben venga] Ven venga he brings] he bring * Tiraboschi] Tiraboschi Herodotus Halicarnasseus] Herodotus, Hallicarnassus Ruggeri] Rugeri E fu] E fù Co’l] Col † “Piena] Piena Re]Rè the] th [in some copies only] flourished] floulished 1513.”] 1513. 1513.”] 1513.

Volume II 178 190 197

16 10 24

partir, partì] partir partì violent expression] violent expressions Là] La 363

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MAR Y SHE LLE Y ’ S L ITE R AR Y LIV E S : V OLU M E

219 223 223 244 252 285 289 305 324 324 331 331 350 358

32 31 35 2 8 13 23 5 14 18 7 33 39 32

Il ben più] Il ben L’ingiurie] L’ingurie ilmar.] il mar Conio] Corrio 1760]1750 particularly] particulaly had left] has left himself] himself himself Persico] Persica beautiful] beautifu Nè più] Ne più displayed] dis-displayed idioma.”] idioma’ were spent. A] were spent A

364

1

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS Volume 2. Spanish and Portuguese Lives French Lives (Montaigne to Rochefoucauld)

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS GENERAL EDITOR: NORA CROOK VOLUME EDITORS: CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR PAMELA CLEMIT A. A. MARKLEY TILAR J. MAZZEO LISA VARGO

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MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS VOLUME

2

SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LIVES EDITED BY

LISA VARGO

FRENCH LIVES EDITED BY CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR

( MONTAIGNE

TO ROCHEFOUCAULD )

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First published 2002 by Pickering & Chatto (Publishers) Limited Published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © Taylor & Francis 2002 All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797–1851. Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives and Other Writings (The Pickering Masters). 1. Authors, Italian – Biography 2. Authors, Spanish – Biography 3. Authors, Portuguese – Biography 4. Authors, French – Biography I. Title II. Crook, Nora, 1940- III. Italian Lives IV. Spanish and Portuguese Lives V. French Lives VI. Miscellaneous writings 809

ISBN-13: 978-1-85196-716-2 (set) DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768 Typeset by P&C

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements Abbreviations

vii xi

Editor’s Introduction, Spanish and Portuguese Lives

xv

Notes on Spanish and Portuguese Lives

xxviii

Editor’s Introduction, French Lives

xxxix

Notes on French Lives I [Montaigne to Rochefoucauld]

liv 1

SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LIVES

Introduction Mosen Jordi The Cancioneros Alphonso X and his Court Alphonso XI and his Court Juan de Mena Juan de Enzina Boscan Garcilaso de la Vega Diego Hurtado de Mendoza Luis de Leon Herrera Saa de Miranda Jorge de Montemayor Castillejo The Early Dramatists Ercilla [Not by Mary Shelley] Cervantes Lope de Vega Vicente Espinel – Esteban de Villegas Gongora Quevedo Calderon v

9 13 16 18 19 21 24 27 43 67 77 90 95 96 98 100 107 119 170 209 215 227 245

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Early Poets of Portugal Ribeyro Saa de Miranda Gil Vicente Ferreira Camoëns

2

254 256 257 257 257 259 293

FRENCH LIVES VOLUME I

Montaigne Rabelais [not by Mary Shelley] Corneille Rochefoucauld [Continued in volume 3]

301 319 330 350

Editorial Corrections: Spanish and Portuguese Lives French Lives I [Montaigne to Rochfoucauld]

vi

377 378

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

While Mary Shelley struggled to obtain books and advice for her project, a number of people helped ease my own way in editing the Spanish and Portuguese Lives. I am extremely grateful to the individual who purchased the elegantly bound set of Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedia held in Special Collections at the University of Saskatchewan Library. Special Collections Head Shirley Martin and Neil Richards produced a photocopy of the text and provided advice and access to other volumes. I must also convey many thanks to the Interlibrary Loan Department of the University of Saskatchewan Library for their efficient service and for going to heroic lengths to obtain volumes for me. It was a pleasure to renew my friendships with Jeannine Green and John Charles, Bruce Peel Special Collections Library, University Library, University of Alberta. Sue Hanson and Mary Burns, Department of Special Collections, Kelvin Smith Library, Case Western Reserve University welcomed me to use an impressive collection of Spanish literature. The Cleveland Public Library is where I first defined my love for literature and it is fitting that the CPL was able to offer so much assistance. Stephen Zietz, Head of John G. White Special Collections, Evelyn Ward, Head of the Department of Literature, and Jo Ann Petrello, Head of the History Collection of the Cleveland Public Library were generous in making volumes available to me. I also wish to acknowledge the assistance of the staff of the British Library, the University Library, Cambridge, and the University of Durham Library. My colleague Peter Hynes helped me with translations. A grant from the University of Saskatchewan Publications Fund provided support and I thank my university for a half-sabbatical leave to work on the edition. I was particularly fortunate to hold the Prowse Fellowship at Van Mildert College, University of Durham during Epiphany Term 2001. The late Ian Taylor is to be thanked for offering me the fellowship and the present Principal, George Patterson, for welcoming me to Van Mildert. The fellows and staff of Van Mildert were extraordinarily kind, but if I may, I wish to single out the spirited members of the Middle Common Room for their comradeship and support. I must also acknowledge the conversation of members of the Department of English at Durham and thank Department Head David Fuller and Séan Burke for inviting me to present a talk about my research. It is my fondest hope that the friendships I made in Durham will be lasting ones. Thanks as well to Barbara Taylor and Sarah Knott for vii

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2

an invitation to speak at a colloquium of the Feminism and Enlightenment Research Project, Royal Holloway College, University of London and University of East London. Finally, I wish to thank the other members of this project. I couldn’t ask for better partners: Arnold Markley, Tilar Mazzeo and Clarissa Campbell Orr. Pamela Clemit, University of Durham, offered me advice and friendship, which I can hardly begin to acknowledge. Above all, I wish to express affection and gratitude to Nora Crook for asking me to undertake this fascinating project and for extending to me her perpetual patience, good humour and wisdom. I can only wish that Mary Shelley might have had such assistance when she undertook to write the work, for then her task would have been as pleasant as mine has been editing it. Lisa Vargo University of Saskatchewan Saskatoon, Saskatchewan

Under-resourced universities whose staff do much of their own photocopying unwittingly hatch scholarly collaborations as colleagues in different departments chat over the xerox machines. Once I had been invited to join the editorial team, strong support for this collaboration came from John Pollard, Shirley Prendergast, Kevin Bonnett, Leonardo Castillo, and Nick Goddard at APU, who all helped to make as much time available as possible for my participation. Particular thanks are due to Paul McHugh for undertaking some of my teaching halfway through the project, and to APU’s Research Development Fund and Pippa Temple for providing some teaching cover at the end of the project. I have also benefited from conversations or emails with Felicia and Ian Gordon, Jan Todd, Marilyn Butler, Anne Mellor, Jan Marsh, Pamela Clemit, Michael Rossington, Lisa Vargo, Barbara Taylor, Jane Rendall, Norma Clarke, Jenny Mandler, Robert Wokler, Catherine Heyrandt, Valerie Cossy, Saba Bahar, and Ute Heidmann, in Cambridge, London, Los Angeles, York and Geneva, at various times while the work was in progress. I was fortunate enough to be only a bicycle ride away from Nora Crook, which made it all the easier to debate the vexed questions of attribution until the issues were finally resolved, or to have various helpful items pushed through my letter-box. Nora’s determination and drive as well as her wit and encouragement have meant the project has been brought to a full conclusion, and despite the rigours of deadlines my friendship with her and her husband Keith has flourished. As someone who is more often an editor instead of an editee, it has been an especial pleasure to experience the role reversal. She has also lightened my load by taking charge of ‘Montaigne’ ‘Rabelais’ and ‘Corneille’. It has also been my good fortune to be cycling distance away from Cambridge University Library, where the staff of the Rare Books Room were unfailingly cheerful and helpful, and sustained their excellent provision even when they viii

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ACKN OWLE D GEM E NT S

changed locations. The CUL also provided a setting for enjoyable discussions about the project with my old friend Margaret D’Evelyn from the USA and her husband Tom during their study-leave in Cambridge. Also on a personal note, I must thank Phil Cooper for his sympathetic manly interest as the project drew near completion, Diane Haigh for her encouragement at a crucial moment, and Anne Maconochie and Ruth Doggett for their help with other responsibilities. As always, Pushkin and Petrushka often purred and slept nearby but kept their paws off the keyboard. Finally I would like to dedicate my share of this project to my great-niece, Anna Maria, who arrived so peacefully, cheerfully and conveniently in November 2001, and who, as the child of British and Italian parents, will one day, I am sure, really understand where Mary Shelley’s heart lay. Clarissa Campbell Orr Anglia Polytechnic University Cambridge

ix

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ABBREVIATIONS

Adamson Bell Bleznick Bouterwek Bowring Brenan CCJ

Corneille (1795) Darst, Boscán Darst, Mendoza DNB Drake and Finello Durán Durán, Cervantes Essays Essais Foster and Foster

John Adamson, Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Luis de Camoens, 2 vols (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme & Brown, 1820). Aubrey F. G. Bell, Portuguese Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1922; rpt. 1970). Donald W. Bleznick, Quevedo (New York, Twayne, 1972). Frederick Bouterwek, History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, 2 vols, trans. Thomasina Ross (London: Boosey & Sons, 1823). John Bowring, Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (London: Taylor & Hessey, 1824). Gerald Brenan, The Literature of the Spanish People, 2nd edn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953). Claire Clairmont, The Journals of Claire Clairmont, 1814– 1827, ed. Marion Kingston Stocking, with the assistance of David Mackenzie Stocking (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). Théâtre de Corneille avec les commentaires de Voltaire, 10 vols (Paris: P. Didot l’aîné, 1795). David H. Darst, Juan Boscán (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1978). David H. Darst, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1987). The Dictionary of National Biography. Dana B. Drake and Dominick L. Finello, An Analytic and Bibliographical Guide to Criticism on Don Quijote 1790–1893 (Newark, Del: Juan de la Cuesta, 1987). Manuel Durán, Luis de Léon (New York: Twayne, 1971). Manuel Durán, Cervantes (New York: Twayne, 1974). Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, The Essays, trans. Charles Cotton, ed. W. Carew Hazlitt, new edn (Chicago: William Benton, 1952). Michel de Montaigne, Essais, 3 vols (Paris: Garnier Flammarion, 1969). David William Foster and Virginia Ramos Foster, Luis de Góngora (New York: Twayne, 1973). xi

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Gicovate Gourville Hayes Holland Holmes Howatson James Jones Kamen La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires Longman Archive Maintenon, Lettres Moskal

MWSJ

MWSL MWSN Obras Sueltas

2

Bernard Gicovate, Garcilaso de la Vega (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1975). Mémoires de Gourville, ed. Léon Lecestre, 2 vols (Paris: Libraire Renouard, 1894). Francis C. Hayes, Lope de Vega (New York: Twayne, 1967). Henry Richard, Lord Holland, Some Account of the Life and Writings of Lope Felix De Vega Carpio (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees & Orme, 1806). Richard Holmes, Shelley: The Pursuit (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1974). M. C. Howatson, ed., The Oxford Companion to Classical Literature, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). G. P. R. James, The Life and Times of Lewis the Fourteenth, 4 vols (London: Richard Bentley, 1838). R. O. Jones, A Literary History of Spain: The Golden Age: Prose and Poetry (London: Ernest Benn, 1971). Henry Kamen, Spain 1469–1714: A Society of Conflict, 2nd edn (London: Longman, 1991). Mémoires du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, ed. and pub. P. Ant. Aug. (Paris: Renouard, 1804). Publishers’ Archives: The House of Longman, 1794–1914, 73 reels (Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, Jan. 1976–Mar. 1978). Lettres de Mme de Maintenon, 2 vols in 1 (Paris: Rollin, 1753). Jeanne Moskal, ‘“To speak in Sanchean phrase”: Cervantes and the Politics of Mary Shelley’s History of a Six Weeks’ Tour’ in Mary Shelley in Her Times (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), pp. 18–37. The Journals of Mary Shelley, 1814–1844, eds. Paula Feldman and Diana Scott-Kilvert, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987) [corr. pbk one-vol. edn Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995]. The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, ed. Betty T. Bennett, 3 vols (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980–8). The Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley, gen. ed. Nora Crook, with Pamela Clemit, introd. Betty T. Bennett, 8 vols (London: William Pickering, 1996). Francisco Cerdá y Rico, ed., Colección de las Obras Sueltas, Assi en Prosa, como en Verso, de D. Frey Lope Felix ed Vega Carpio, 21 vols (Madrid: A. de Sancha, 1776–9).

xii

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AB B RE V IATI ONS

Palacio PBSL Peckham Pellicer

Quarterly, XVIII

Quarterly, XXV

Quarterly, XXVII

Quintana Retrospective Review, III Retrospective Review, IV Retrospective Review, VI Retz (1817) Retz (1987) Ríos

Jean de Palacio, Mary Shelley dans son œuvre: Contribution aux études shelleyennes (Paris: Editions Klincksieck, 1969). The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. F. L. Jones, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964). Morse Peckham, ‘Dr. Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedia’, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, XLV (1951), 37–58. Casiano Pellicer, Tratado historico sobre el origen y progresos de la comedia y del histrionismo en España: con las censuras teologicas, reales resoluciones y providencias del Consejo supremo sobre comedias: y con la noticia de algunos célebres Comediantes y Comediantas asi antiguos como modernos, 2 vols (Madrid, 1804). Robert Southey, Article I. [Review of Lord Holland] ‘Some Account of the Lives and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio, and Guillen de Castro’, Quarterly Review, XVIII (October 1817), 1–46. Henry Hart Milman, Article I. ‘El Teatro Español; ó Collection de Dramas escogidos de Lope de Vega, Calderon de la Barca, Moreto, Roxas, Solis, Moratin, y otros célebres Escritores’, Quarterly Review, XXV (April 1821), 1–24. Robert Southey, Article I. [Review of John Adamson and Macedo] ‘1. Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Luis de Camoens. 2. O Oriente, Poems de Jose Agostinho de Macedo’, Quarterly Review, XXVII (April 1822), 1–39. Manuel José Quintana, ‘Essay on Spanish Poetry’, in Wiffen [see below]. John Bowring, Article I. ‘Poetical Literature of Spain’, Retrospective Review, III (1821), 195–215. John Bowring, Article II. ‘Poetical Literature of Spain’, Retrospective Review, IV (1821), 21–54. John Bowring, Article II. ‘Poetical Literature of Spain’, Retrospective Review, VI (1822), 21–49. Mémoires du Cardinal de Retz, de Guy-Joli, et de la Duchesse de Nemours, 6 vols (Paris: Ledoux & Tenré, 1817). Cardinal de Retz, Mémoires, ed. Simone Bertière, 2 vols (Paris: Editions Garnier, 1987). Vicente de los Ríos, ‘Vida de Miguel de Cervántes’ and ‘Pruebas y Documentos que Justifican la Vida de Cervántes’ in El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha Compuesto Por Miguel de Cervántes Saavedra, Neuva Edicion Corregia por la Academia Española. Parte Primera, Tomo I (Madrid: Don Joaquin Ibarra, 1780).

xiii

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Sedano Sévigné (1974) Sismondi Sismondi, Républiques italiennes

Strangford

Suard, Maximes Sunstein

Taschereau, Corneille Viardot Voltaire, Siècle Ward Webb Wiffen

Wilson and Moir

2

José López de Sedano, Parnaso Español. Colección de Poesías de los mas Célebres Poetas Castellanos, 9 vols (Madrid: J. Ibarra, 1768–78). Correspondance de Mme de Sévigné, 3 vols, ed. Roger Duchêne (Paris: Gallimard, 1974). Jean-Charles Léonard Simonde de Sismondi, De la littérature du midi de l’Europe, 2nd edn, 4 vols (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1819). Jean-Charles-Léonard Simonde de Sismondi, Histoire des républiques italiennes du moyen âge (Zurich, 1807–9), 2nd Paris edn, 16 vols (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1818); new edn, 10 vols (Paris: Furne, 1840). Lord Viscount Strangford, Poems from the Portuguese of Luis de Camoens; with Remarks on His Life and Writings (London: J. Carpenter, 1805). Maximes et Réflections Morales du duc de la Rochefoucauld, with Notice sur le caractère et les écrits du duc de La Rochefoucauld, ed. J. B. Suard, (London: B. Dulau et al., 1811). Emily W. Sunstein, Mary Shelley, Romance and Reality (Boston and London: Little, Brown, 1989; rev. corr. edn, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991). Jules Taschereau, Histoire de la vie et des ouvrages de P. Corneille (Paris: Alexandre Mesnier, 1829). Louis Viardot, ‘Notice sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Cervantès’ in L’Ingénieux Hidalgo Don Quichotte de la Manche, vol. 1 (Paris: J.-J. Dubochet, 1836). François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire, Siècle de Louis XIV (1751), 2 vols (London: R. Dodsley, 1752). Philip Ward, ed., The Oxford Companion to Spanish Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978). Timothy Webb, The Violet in the Crucible: Shelley and Translation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976). Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen, The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, Surnamed the Prince of Castilian Poets, Translated into English Verse; with a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish Poetry and a Life of the Author (London: Hurst, Robinson, 1823). Edward M. Wilson and Duncan Moir, The Golden Age: Drama, 1492–1700 (London: Ernest Benn, 1971).

[The historic editions listed here are not necessarily the ones used by Mary Shelley]. xiv

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EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LIVES

By the time that Italian Lives II had been published on 1 October 1835 Mary Shelley was already preparing herself to write the Spanish and Portuguese Lives, the third volume of the Literary Lives. The volume was by no means her only concern in the two years leading up to its publication on 1 November 1837, a period during which she wrote her last novel, Falkner, suffered the death of her father, began the ‘Life of William Godwin’, moved back to London from Harrow, and saw her son enter Trinity College, Cambridge. Spanish Lives might be seen as taking a different character from these activities, ‘sparing one’s imagination’ as she was to say of French Lives (MWSL, II, p. 293) – in short, a less demanding call on her energies than fiction, commissioned by a flexible publisher who allowed her advances. Nevertheless it is still a highly politicised work, though its politics are submerged. It is also a deeply personal one.

Spain, Portugal and the Godwin–Shelley Circle The history of Spain and Portugal during this era is one of profound political struggles in which Britain played a continuing role. Following the accession of the House of Bourbon in 1700, England had entered the Wars of Spanish Succession. Spain’s alliance with France through the Family Compact (1762) meant that the country became embroiled with the activities of Napoleon. During the first decade of the nineteenth century Napoleon controlled Spain, and in 1808 he put his brother Joseph Bonaparte on the throne, which prompted a revolt. The Peninsular War began after Spain asked Britain for assistance, which it supplied in the form of troops, including those led by Wellington. The Constitution of 1812, drawn up by Britain, created a limited monarchy but was followed by the restoration in 1814 of Fernando VII. Oppression of Liberals and re-establishment of the Inquisition followed and disaffection mounted. Mary Shelley’s stepbrother Charles Clairmont, a tutor in Valencia between 1818 and 1819, witnessed the brutal suppression of an attempted insurrection and impetuously published an account in the Morning Chronicle.1 Revolution broke out in 1820, and a liberal government was installed. But in 1823 the King bloodily retrieved his power and reigned until 1833, leaving the young Isabella II as his successor. A challenge xv

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from the King’s brother led to the First Carlist War (the setting of ‘Inez de Medina’, Mary Shelley’s last work of translation), which was settled with the Treaty of Vergara in 1839. But throughout the reign of Isabella (rgn. 1833–68) the country continued to be unstable. In the 1820s and 30s there were a number of political exiles in London for whom the Spanish patriot Joseph Blanco White edited a Spanish journal, El Español.2 A similar convulsion was going on in Portugal, where the young queen Maria had succeeded to the throne in 1826. The country was split between absolute monarchists and Constitutionalists. Constitutionalists in turn were split between radicals and moderate supporters of the ‘charter’ of 1826, which Britain played a part in writing. In 1836 the radicals had ousted the ‘Chartists’ and all three factions were fighting each other. Britain, having played a leading role in drawing up the two liberal constitutions, had a particular interest in the fragile regimes. Spain and Portugal had thus figured in the national consciousness as a theatre of war for over thirty years. But before Napoleon, Robert Southey had been engendering interest in Hispanic history and culture. He travelled to Portugal on his honeymoon and his Letters Written during a Short Residence in Spain and Portugal (1797) – a self-consciously Wollstonecraftian title – is the first of his many publications about the Iberian Peninsula. He translated Amadis of Gaul (1803) and Chronicle of the Cid (1808). He published a long poem Roderick, the Last of the Goths (1814), a three-volume History of the Peninsular War (1822, 1824, 1832) and a number of reviews on Hispanic writers; his history of Portugal (begun in 1806) was left unfinished at his death. Though Southey was later to become associated with reactionary politics, his 1807 Letters from England was a progressive work, intended both to unsettle British complacency about the prosperity and happiness of its working class and to undermine prejudices against the Spanish national character. Spain was, for most British protestants, a guilty peninsula, associated above all with catholic bigotry and cruelty towards native Americans.3 The fictive writer of Letters from England, however, is an Anglophile gentleman, Don Manuel Espriella, devout yet moderate, who finds both splendour and misery in ‘enlightened’ England. Mary Shelley read Southey’s translation of Amadis of Gaul in 1817, Letters from England in 1815 and Roderick, the Last of the Goths in 1815 (MWSJ, II, p. 677). She makes use of his Quarterly Review essays in her Lives and, through Lardner, Southey assisted her with information for her life of Camões (Camoëns). Other British authors followed in Southey’s footsteps. In 1809 Wordsworth published a prose tract on the Convention of Cintra; Spanish resistance was a subject of several of his sonnets. Byron’s stanzas on Spain and Portugal in the first canto of Childe Harold called attention to the struggles of the two nations during the era of Napoleon. He wrote a dramatic fragment based on Camoëns’s story of Inés de Castro and makes reference to Quevedo in his satirical Vision of Judgement; the memorable opening cantos of Don Juan are set in Seville, a ‘pleasant city / Famous for oranges and women’. John Lockhart and John Bowring produced xvi

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volumes of translations of Spanish lyrics.4 Things Spanish captured the attentions of women writers and translators. Felicia Hemans wrote England and Spain, or Valour and Patriotism and published Translations from Camoens and other Poets (1818). In 1823 Thomasina Ross translated an account of Spanish literature by the German Frederick Bouterwek. Mary Shelley’s friend Washington Irving popularised the history of Spain in Columbus (1828), Conquest of Granada (1829) and Legends of the Alhambra (1832). Articles and reviews about Spanish literature appeared in periodicals, notably the New Monthly Magazine under the editorship of the poet Thomas Campbell, the Quarterly Review and the Retrospective Review. Many of the above were later used by Mary Shelley. The Iberian peninsula was always part of Mary Shelley’s family background. She herself never travelled there, but in 1785 Mary Wollstonecraft spent several weeks in Portugal nursing her dying friend Fanny Blood.5 Godwin was widely read in Spanish literature, as Burton R. Pollin established. The plot of Caleb Williams (1793) is indebted to the picaresque Guzmán de Alfarache of Mateo Alemán (which Mary Shelley read, probably in translation, in 1819) and a section of St Leon: a Tale of the Sixteenth Century (1799) is set in Spain. His Mandeville began in 1809 as a romance set in twelfth-century Spain; the surviving fragment was published in 1833. Significant political events in Spain were noted in his journals.6 And, as Jeanne Moskal has argued, the radicalising of the concept of chivalry which he initiated in the 1790s had a particular application to Spanish chivalry and Spanish heroism through the figure of Don Quixote, who became an anti-Jacobin trope for the foolish visionary idealist.7 Godwin was lampooned as an ‘Infernal Quixote’ in Charles Lucas’s 1801 novel of that name while Mary Wollstonecraft lay behind the many novelistic reincarnations of an updated ‘female Quixote’ that appear during the period 1800–20. For his part, Godwin had come to admire Don Quixote as a work of supreme genius. It is this contentious Don Quixote who lies behind the numerous references to Cervantes’s romance scattered about Mary Shelley’s work. As Cervantes’s reputation grew in England during the nineteenth century, and editions proliferated, so did politicised readings which view the work in terms of a debate between imagination and reality. As Dana Drake and Dominick Finello point out, the Tory John Lockhart’s 1822 edition of Peter Motteux’s translation suggested that Quixote ‘gained true genius and wisdom through experience’, while Thomas Roscoe’s 1832 edition of Smollett’s translation takes a pessimistic line in concert with Byron and Sismondi, suggesting the work is a melancholy one because Quixote is emblematic of the problem of how to be a ‘heroic and virtuous man in an vulgar world’.8 It was perhaps inevitable, then, that the Shelleys should have read Don Quixote together in translation (in 1816); Mary Shelley’s radical interpretation can be seen in her playful-serious bestowing of the sobriquet of ‘Don Quixote’ upon her husband soon after, as he began his vain battle with the oppressive windmills of the law for custody of his children (MWSL, I, p. 27). In addition to Don Quixote, during 1819 she also read Cervantes’s Persiles and Sigismunda and Quevedo’s xvii

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Sueños in a French translation.9 With their introduction to Calderón in the summer of 1819 by Maria Gisborne, the Shelleys became eager to learn Spanish.10 P. B. Shelley learned it rapidly and Mary Shelley followed, writing in December 1819 to Maria Gisborne of her intention to ‘get on with Spanish and latin’ (MWSL, I, p. 122); she seems to have become proficient by November 1820 when she was reading Calderón and Cervantes in the original, sometimes with Thomas Medwin, himself an excellent linguist and enthusiast for Calderón.11 When the Spanish Revolution of 1820 broke out, the Shelley household (then in Pisa) were overjoyed. Mary Shelley wrote on hearing of this, ‘the Beloved Ferdinand has proclaimed the Constitution of 1812 & called the Cortes – The Inquisition is abolished – The dungeons opened & the Patriots pouring out – This is good. I shd like to be in Madrid now’ (MWSL, I, p. 141).12 For P. B. Shelley, the joy was inseparable from his new ability to read the language. In ‘Letter to Maria Gisborne’ (composed 1820) he associated the Spaniards’ new-found freedom with … that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion … (ll. 180–4).

As Timothy Webb notes, Calderón, the aristocratic priest, may seem unusual company for a revolutionary atheist, but his place as an apostle of liberty is consistent with the suggestion in the Defence of Poetry that Calderón is a poet who has planted trophies of love in the human mind and accordingly may be considered an unacknowledged legislator.13 Mary Shelley continued to follow events in Spain and to attach great significance to the 1820 Spanish Revolution. In 1826 she described it as the blaze which had set Piedmont alight in 1820–1; it had aroused Italian patriots and kept hope alive. Both revolutions had been quenched, but ‘not for ever’. In short, a future successful Italian revolution would owe its igniting spark ultimately to Spanish pride and energy. Yet Italy in 1826 was, she thought, ‘better situated than Spain – in case of a revolution’, because in Italy Napoleon had destroyed church influence. In Spain, religion still remained an ‘enemy to political liberty’.14 Later, in ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (1838) she was to continue this narrative, modifying her earlier remarks on religion. Since the upheavals of 1820–1, Italy’s intellectuals have ‘been thoroughly awakened to the importance of their task in enlightening their countrymen, and in teaching them either lessons of Christian virtue, or animating them to a love of liberty’. In context this means that Mary Shelley saw the cause of Italian independence as served both by victims like Silvio Pellico, whose Christian forbearance in the face of Austrian persecution had aroused the conscience of Europe, and agitators like Mazzini, who ‘animated’ patriots. Her remarks offer a clue to her strategies in Spanish Lives. For her subjects typically embody either Christian virtue or Spanish heroic energy, and both one day, she xviii

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believes, will find their proper agency in the mental liberation not only of the Hispanic world, but of all nations, into independency.

The Search for Sources: ‘treading in unknown paths & dragging out unknown things’ Despite an interest in her subject, Mary Shelley faced her task with a certain apprehension. On 13 October 1835 she confided to Maria Gisborne, ‘I am now about to write a Volume of Spanish & Portugueeze Lives – This is an arduous task, from my own ignorance, & the difficulty of getting books & information’ (MWSL, II, p. 257). By all accounts Spanish books were scarce in England and in many cases little was known about the lives of her subjects. Furthermore, as Jean de Palacio points out, she was writing in a state of relative isolation in Harrow.15 Access to information forms a constant theme in her letters. Her letter to John Bowring of 3 October 1835 is worth quoting at length for what it tells us about her concerns: You are very kind to answer my letter in the midst of all your important avocations. One great difficulty seems to be getting books – There is no Spanish Library – & one wants to turn over so many that the Longmans would be tired of buying. I own that I depended much on yours – & am disappointed at what you say – is there no getting at them? – are the cases large & are all the Spanish books in one case? – Could indeed any but yourself touch them? – I do not mind trouble – but wish to do my task as well as I can – & how can I without books? – The difficulty seems to be that from slight biographical notices one can yet the book will be more of literature than of lives – & I know not how Lardner will like that. The best is that the very thing which occasions the difficulty makes it interesting – namely – the treading in unknown paths & dragging out unknown things – I wish I could go to Spain. Many thanks for the hints you give (MWSL, II, pp. 254–5).

The letter reflects Mary Shelley’s dogged professionalism. She is determined to ascertain from Bowring whether he is being honest about the inaccessibility of his books. At the same time she communicates her desire to do a creditable job in spite of the difficulties she anticipates. The comment about making the book more of literature than of lives suggests her anxiety to please Lardner. Mary Shelley faces her task with the assumption that the work will be interesting even if requiring energy for the treading and dragging out, fit metaphors for her work as exploration into what is for her relatively unknown territory. If a logical place to find texts was the Reading Room at the British Museum, Mary Shelley made it clear that she would not go there and there are no records indicating that she did so (MWSL, II, p. 261n.). The letter to Bowring captures some of the frustration she felt in her inability to obtain books. She further complains (8 November 1835) to Maria Gisborne: xix

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The Spanish & Portugueeze will cost me more trouble [having just described writing the Italian Lives], if I can do them at all – There is no Spanish Circulating Library – I cannot while here, read in the Museum [she is living at Harrow] if I would – & I would not if I could – I do not like finding myself a stray bird alone among Men even if I know them – Nothing could make me voluntarily go among strange men in a character assimililating [sic] to their own – One hears of how happy people will be to lend me their books – but when it comes to the point, it is very difficult to get at them; however as I am rather persevering, I hope to conquer these obstacles after all ( MWSL, II, p. 260).

Greg Kucich regards this as her refusal ‘to conduct research in the British Library because of its patriarchal atmosphere’.16 It is certainly true that among the many improvements introduced when Antonio Panizzi’s famous domed Reading Room opened in 1857 were special tables set aside for women and a female attendant in the ladies’ room, which suggests that poor facilities for women had been a longstanding grievance.17 But she would probably not have been the only stray bird. If women were in the 1830s an exception at the British Library, their presence had long been tolerated. Lady Mary Carr and Lady Ann Monson used the Reading Room in 1762 and in 1763 Catherine Macaulay was admitted and became a regular reader. Harriet Martineau and Agnes Strickland held reader’s tickets between 1828 and 1837. And some consideration of the working conditions makes her refusal seem less an act of feminist protest than a matter of comfort and practicality. Godwin had long before complained at the waste of time involved in working in a public library, and declared in his Life of Chaucer (1803) that only in the privacy of his own study could he collate authorities properly.18 Between 1829 and 1838 two rooms (later the Middle and South Rooms of the Department of Manuscripts) with fourteen tables were set up for 120 readers. They were ‘approached by a labyrinth, leading along a gutter and over two drains’ and attained by a steep flight of exterior steps, which led to a cold lobby.19 The rooms could not accommodate the demands placed upon them and late arrivals were often unable to find a seat. In 1832 water-closets were installed for readers, though there were constant worries about hygiene. Use of the library could not have pleasant for members of either sex.20 Heating arrived in 1837,21 but the rooms were still noisy, badly lit, and poorly ventilated; in 1859 the Keeper of Printed Books ‘wrote with considerable feeling about the smell of these particular rooms, when they were full of readers’.22 A much more desirable place to work would have been Lord Holland’s celebrated library of Spanish books, and Thomas Moore, who was part of the Holland House Circle, was her entrée. Holland had assisted her father, so Mary Shelley would not have been unknown to him. Moore wrote on her behalf in early December 1835, but Lady Holland refused her access. It seems that borrowing books from the library was ‘a concession only made to most intimate friends, especially in later years. Holland had always a particular objection to lending a volume from a set. About this time Mrs. Shelley had appealed through Tom Moore for the loan of certain Spanish works, which she was anxious to consult for articles xx

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to be written for “Dionysius the Tyrant” (as Moore put it in his letter), “alias Dr. Lardner.” Lady Holland’s reply was most civil, but admitted of no appeal. Lord Holland could not possibly break through his established rules’.23 According to Moore, Mary Shelley drolly responded to the bad news: ‘Letter from Mrs Shelley […] quotes some foreigner who says that, in England, “chaque individu est une Ile” and adds that “some even surround the island with Martello-towers.”’(MWSL, II, p. 255n.). It is particularly unfortunate since Holland had earlier been interested in influencing the cause of Spanish liberals, and much of Mary Shelley’s perspective on Spanish political history was in keeping with his views. He might have supplied her not only with books, but also with some further contacts and information about contemporary Spanish letters. In spite of these hindrances, Mary Shelley did benefit from Bowring’s generosity. A letter to him written on 1 June 1837 suggests he lent her some works on Cervantes: ‘Many thanks for the Del Rios, which is of the greatest assistance – would it be quite impossible for you to lay your hands on any other of Cervantes’s works – I remember you lent me some several years ago – Pellicer’s book I want much’. At the same time she looked to his expertise for advice on how to approach her subjects: ‘Do not forget your promised call – a conversation with you would doubtless be a great help to me, and I count on it – though it is trespassing on very valuable time’ (MWSL, II, p. 288). A month later she writes of her hope to see Dr Bowring, who had a seat in Parliament, before its sessions closed and he left London: shall I not see you before you quit town – is there the slightest hope of your being able to get at any other Spanish books for me And will you tell me what papers you have written in what Reviews on Spanish literature & if there exist any translations by you of Spanish poets besides the volume which I am well acquainted with. Will you tell me if any where I can meet with any translations from Boscan, Garcilaso de la Vega, Herrera, Mendoza &c &c – Do let me have an answer to this question directly – (MWSL, II, p. 289).

It seems that Bowring did respond as she writes on 13 July 1837: Your note made me Melancholy to think how you should be drawn from the studies you loved & adorned to the arid business of life. Thanks for all the hints you have given me – I have got Wiffin’s Garcilaso – He mentions in that that he meant to publish a Spanish Anthology – did he ever? – or can you tell me if any where I can find translations from Boscan & Hurtado de Mendoza – Did you ever in any Article? Your translations are best of all – they are so easy flowing & true (MWSL, II, p. 290).

Her letters give some idea of her sources and her preferences with regard to the English translations of the poetry. Furthermore, there is evidence that she attempted to seek advice elsewhere. A letter written by Robert Southey on 7 October 1837 and assumed to be addressed to Lardner contains information about his discussion of Macedo’s attack on Camoëns in his article in the Quarterly Review. An annotation on the letter indicates Mrs Shelley was sent the xxi

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information (MWSL, II, p. 290n.). Not only does this point to the fact that Mary Shelley made use of essays and review articles for information, but that she was likely working on the final life in her series, that of Camoëns, close to the time of the publication date.24 Because of the problems Mary Shelley had in locating books, her sources are relatively few in number and she makes great use of them. The chief items are the biographies in the nine-volume Parnaso Español (1768–78) of José López de Sedano (1729–1801) and the two-volume history of Spanish and Portuguese literature by the German professor of philosophy Frederick Bouterwek (1766–1828) in Thomasina Ross’s 1823 translation. A third source, which is itself heavily dependent upon the first two, is Sismondi’s De la littérature du midi de l’Europe (1813); she also used his Histoire des républiques italiennes du moyen-âge (probably in the second Paris edition of 1818). She makes use of translations by John Bowring in his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (1824) and of journal articles by Southey and by Bowring, notably those in the Quarterly and the Retrospective Review. (For other, more specialised items, see individual Notes.) She never follows her sources slavishly. There is always a sense of an engaged and intelligent mind at work weighing what should be included, what seems accurate, even if she cannot be privy to information gleaned by subsequent scholarship. While she uses her sources freely in keeping with a project that is intended to present ‘what oft was thought’ about a subject to a general reader, she never wilfully hides them. She is somewhat cavalier in acknowledging that she often closely paraphrases her English sources and translates directly from her French and Spanish ones. Yet more often than not she will give a reference to her source in passing.

Method and Matter in the Spanish and Portuguese Lives When the opportunity arises Mary Shelley does not hesitate to interject her own point of view. Her judgements are a mixture of personal convictions and a distillation of received contemporary critical opinion conveyed with a clear sense of methodology. Her Lives are modelled on forms established during the eighteenth century. In the Johnsonian manner, she begins entries with information about the life and character of the writer, gives examples from their work both in their original language and in translation (sometimes her own, but more usually those of noted translators of the day), and concludes each entry with a summary of the beauties and defects of the writer. However, Spanish Lives is also remarkable for the extent of her statements about and reflections on the principles and problems of writing biography itself. We find these concerns appearing in the fragmentary comments scattered throughout the volume. Many of them appear to be in dialogue with her father, now endorsing, now amplifying, now qualifying his utterances, now struggling with the issues which he engaged him, and with her own self-questioning as to how she was to write his life.25 xxii

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In ‘Of History and Romance’ Godwin had argued that every corner of the life of a great genius was the legitimate object of biographical investigation: ‘I am not contented to observe such a man upon the public stage, I would follow him into his closet. I would see the friend and the father of a family, as well as the patriot’.26 However (in a private letter which Mary Shelley had in her possession) he was to qualify this principle. In 1812 he warned P. B. Shelley against the dangers of public self-revelation: ‘Mankind will ascribe little weight and authority to a versatile character, that makes a show of all his imperfections.’ Psychologically interesting, as such a person might be, like Rousseau, he ‘must be contented to sacrifice general usefulness’. And he added ‘I have myself, with all my caution, felt some of the effects of this’ – alluding to his over-frank revelations about his relationship with Wollstonecraft. ‘For Godwin,’ Pamela Clemit has written, ‘the reformist potential of biography lies in its ability to depict the individual in a social context, and the best subjects for biography are historical individuals who contributed to moral and social improvement in their own time. By demonstrating how social forces act on such individuals, and how they, in turn, had an impact on society, Godwin argues, biography has the power to inspire the reader with an analogous spirit of reform.’27 But to publish the imperfections of such individuals is to risk destroying their potential for being, as Godwin had written of Wollstonecraft, ‘the fairest source of animation and encouragement to those who would follow [her] in the same career’. 28 Mary Shelley takes up this point in ‘Lope de Vega’: It is the fashion of the present day to ransack every hidden corner of a man’s life, and to bring to light all the errors and follies which he himself would have wished to consign to oblivion. A writer offers a fairer mark than any other for these inquiries, as we can always fancy at least that we trace something of the man himself in his works, and so form a tissue of some sort from these patchwork materials; Lope felt this, and in one of his epistles, laments that by publishing his verses, he has perpetuated the memory of his follies. (‘Lope de Vega’, p. 179.)

But what should we do where the problem is not the existence of scandalous material but the absence of any material? Mary Shelley is particularly concerned with the methodological dangers of inferring that because nothing is known, there never was anything to know. For instance, Calderón has been assumed to have had a placid life because there is no record to the contrary: Sismondi says, that his life is sprinkled with few events. How do we know this? Throughout these campaigns, during these years of youthful ardour and enterprise, how much may have occurred, what dangers he may have run – what generosity, what valour he may have displayed – how warmly he may have loved, how deeply have suffered! As a poet and master of the passions he must have felt them all. But a blank meets us when we seek to know more of these things. A poet’s life is ever a romance. That Calderon’s was such we cannot doubt; but we must find its traces in the loves, the woes, the courage, and the joys of his dramatic personages: he infused his soul into these; what the events xxiii

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might be that called forth his own personal interest and sympathy we are totally ignorant. (‘Calderon’, p. 247.)

But how far should one go in inferring a writer’s character from the works? The poet may live a life of romance, but should a biographer be a romancer? In accounting for the problematic nature of recreating the life of Camoëns, she observes: There is nothing so attractive to a biographer as to complete the fragments of his hero’s life; and, almost as children trace the forms of animal and landscapes in the fire, by fixing the eye on salient particles, so a few words suffice to give “local habitation and a name,” to such emotions as the poet has made the subject of his verse. To do this, and by an accurate investigation of dates, and a careful sifting of concomitant circumstances to discover the veiled event, is often the art of biography – but we must not be seduced too far. Truth, absolute and unshakeable, ought to be the foundation of our assertions, or we paint a fancy head instead of an individual portrait. Truth is all in all in matters of history, for history is the chart of the world’s sea; and if imaginary lands are marked, those who would wisely learn from the experience of others, are led sadly astray. (‘Camoens’, p. 265.)

‘To write romance is a task too great for the powers of man’, Godwin had written in a spirit of conscious paradox. So, Mary Shelley seems to confess, is the writing of a life. Its business is the dangerous edge of things. In trying to avoid one error, one is continually at risk of straying into another. The biographer must unveil the hidden event but if what comes to light is discreditable, then to publish it risks the disfigurement of an illustrious moral exemplar. It is with this principle in mind that we should regard her dwelling on the inspiring side of the Spanish national character. Spanish Lives tells a story of the survival of genius and moral independence in spite of oppression by public institutions, both individually and nationally. In her introduction she states that regardless of ‘his political opinions, or his view of human nature and society’ anyone who has travelled to Spain has ‘admired and loved’ the country because ‘There is an originality, an independence, an enthusiasm, in the Spanish character that distinguishes them from every other people. Despotism and the Inquisition, ignorance and superstition, have been unable to level the noble altitude of their souls; and even while the manifestations of genius have been crushed, genius has survived.’ (p. 9) If she follows Lardner’s prescription to ‘enforce the cultivation of religion and the practice of virtue’ as a ‘principal object with all who undertake to inform the public mind’, she is doing so in terms that politicise Spanish literature for the English public.29 Literature, Mary Shelley would persuade her readers, does have a bearing on the political character of a nation. She restricts her focus to the Siglo d’Oro (the Golden Age) of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish literature, which contained the best writing from a country that during her lifetime was struggling against invasion, civil war, absolute monarchy, class strife of country versus city, xxiv

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and a movement for liberal reform in a nation ruled by Catholicism and which the Enlightenment had largely bypassed. Modern readers may be disappointed that she does not spend much time pursuing the subject of Spanish and Portuguese colonisation, notably in the Americas, especially given her early reading on the subject.30 But for her to take this particular focus would be out of keeping with her efforts to inspire her readers with the best qualities of a nation as embodied in the life and works of its greatest writers. Spanish genius in action can be seen in the cluster of lives she creates with the early sixteenth-century poets Juan Boscán, Garcilaso de la Vega, and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, who had the distinction of introducing Italian poetic forms (and therefore ideals of Petrarchan love and humanist learning) to Spanish writing. She values Boscán for the fact that he commemorates ‘domestic happiness in his verses, dwelling on the detail with all the fondness and pride that springs from a thankful enjoyment of a tranquil life’. This represents for Mary Shelley ‘all that human nature can conceive of happiness’.31 Garcilaso de la Vega is in her description ‘a poet of higher merit, a more interesting man, a hero, both in love and war, whose name seems to embody the perfect ideal of Spanish chivalry’. In her account of his life, she struggles with the fact that Garcilaso took the side of Charles V, while his brother (whom she seems to admire even more) was involved in a popular uprising. She notes that Garcilaso has been likened by scholars of her age to the poet Surrey for ‘adorning his knightly accomplishments with the softer graces of a poet’ and suggests that he might serve as a model to her contemporary Spaniards in the ‘attempt to regain her ancient freedom’ (pp. 53, 66). It is here that one sees the impress of Godwin’s radicalisation of chivalry most clearly. But she is at least as much interested in Garcilaso as a happily married father and friend of Boscán. Unlike his friends, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza never married, and her response to the ambassadorial roles he played in the Court of Charles V, which included the persecution of the Sienese, is a half-hearted endorsement: ‘That he was the friend of these men, and addicted to literature, is his chief praise.’ (p. 67.) Because Mary Shelley believes that he lacks imagination, ‘we read Mendoza’s verses rather to become acquainted with the man than seek the soul of poetry in his compositions’ (p. 76). His biography is limited for her, as his personal life does not epitomise improvement. With ‘Cervantes’ she writes the life in a manner which echoes the adversities of her father’s own life.32 Something similar might be said of the life of Calderón whom Mary Shelley considers to be ‘one of the master geniuses of the world’ (p. 253).33 At the same time, she is writing a parallel life, still interdicted by her father-in-law, of her poet-spouse. In arguing for the value of Calderón’s style, her belief in the significance of P. B. Shelley’s own beautiful idealisms seems to resonate as she implies a connection between her Spanish subject and an English one: ‘The Germans subtilise, mystify, and cloud the real and distinct: they dissolve flesh and blood into a dream. Calderon, on the contrary, turns a dream into flesh and blood: he gives a pulse to a skeleton; he breathes passion from the lips of xxv

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ghosts and spectres. Which is the greater power, others must decide. The influence of Calderon is greatest to us; he is master of a spell to which our souls own obedience.’ (p. 251.) At its most personal are the brief passages that present Mary Shelley’s own veiled comments about herself. Her regard for the happy married life of Boscán echoes her own opinions about the importance of marriage and family. The final life, of Camoëns, contains much personal reflection. Jean de Palacio points out how the life echoes a complaint voiced to Maria Gisborne in 1835: ‘I have been so barbarously handled both by fortune & my fellow creatures – that I am no longer the same person as when you knew me – I have no hope – ’.34 Her observations in ‘Camoens’ are not so much a parading of her sorrow as a suggestion of the sorts of bonds that grow up between a writer and a biographer. The comments suggest how deeply felt the project was for Mary Shelley.

Authority, Authorship, Translations, and Reception In creating her accounts of Spanish and Portuguese poets, Mary Shelley addressed a number of issues that demonstrate her thoroughly professional attitude towards the task of writing. As with the Italian and French Lives she brought structure to what had been originally planned as a compendium of multiauthored contributions. The Lives form a coherent narrative, with the exception of ‘Ercilla’, which is not hers. Lardner had also commissioned lives of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Camoëns and Calderón between 1830 and 1832. These, however, must have been discarded as both external and internal evidence confirms that the published biographies of these four authors are hers.35 They bear throughout her style, opinions, impress of her reading and small touches such as her marginal glosses. Whether the author of ‘Ercilla’ also wrote the discarded lives, whether any were shown to Mary Shelley, and, if so, whether any traces survive of them at all are questions less easy to answer, but Thomas Roscoe, author of the discarded Life of ‘Lorenzo de’ Medici’ (see Introduction, Italian Lives), is a possible author of these four as well. His life of Cervantes was attached to the Novelist’s Library edition of Don Quixote published in 1833. There are a few structural similarities between Mary Shelley’s ‘Cervantes’ and this much shorter life, but they are insufficiently strong to suggest that she saw it.36 There are other issues concerning authority that need to be mentioned. Mary Shelley is working with the materials that were available to her, which were often inaccurate. One of her working procedures is that she attempts when possible to obtain lives written by friends or followers of the writers, accounts which in retrospect have often proved not completely reliable sources. An example is the life of Lope, knowledge of whose alliances and numerous illegitimate children were suppressed by the priest poet’s biographer and not known of until later in the nineteenth century. And she reflects the tenor of her time in her lack of ease with xxvi

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Catholic Spain. In the Lives there is an assumption that the writers’ Catholicism is an unfortunate circumstance.37 In keeping with Lardner’s claim that nothing offensive would be included, she avoids dwelling on the satirical or ribald works of some of the writers. At the same time she mentions their existence. (Sometimes, as in the case of the scurrilous verses of Mendoza, the works were not available in print.) She favours the early verse of Gongóra rather than the later work on which his fame rests. A word must also be said about the translations Mary Shelley contributed to the volume. As with the Italian Lives, she looked for existing translations whenever they were available. She does not hesitate to comment on their quality and is eager to praise where she feels the flavour of a poem is not lost in translation. At the same time she is critical of poor translations and sensitive to the difficulty of the task. It seems that the lack of suitable translations gave her the confidence to put forward her own. This is one of the virtually unique features of the Spanish Lives. They contain approximately a dozen of her verse translations from the Spanish, the longest being a selection from the ‘Epistle to Mendoza’ by Boscán.38 While she takes care to evaluate translations, less diligence is given to accurate presentation of quotations from Spanish. It is clear that either Mary Shelley or her printer Spottiswoode alter capitalisations and indentations from her sources. The accents are often unreliable and some misspellings occur. Whether these mistakes occurred in her transcriptions or were introduced by a printer unfamiliar with Spanish can’t be known, but she does not appear to have proof-read thoroughly. In the interests of leaving the text as it appeared, only very light corrections have been made to the typography in the Spanish, all of which appear in the Editorial Corrections at the end of the volume. The text demonstrates the conditions under which Mary Shelley worked in copying verses from diverse sources. Mistakes were inevitable, and understandable. In light of the effort she undertook in writing the Spanish Lives, it would be gratifying to know something of the work’s critical reception. But the third volume attracted less attention than did its preceding ones, which had appeared two years previously. An advertisement appeared in the 21 October 1837 issue of The Athenaeum,39 and the Sunday Times for 1837 included this brief notice: The 96th volume of this series, recently published, makes the 3rd of the Lives of the most eminent literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Many curious particulars are given respecting Lope de Vega, Cervantes, Camoens, Calderon, Quevedo, &c. The chapter on the early dramatists is full of interest.40

Unlike Italian Lives and French Lives, Spanish Lives was not pirated in America. Nor have any private opinions been gathered. Maria Gisborne, the person who perhaps most of all would have appreciated the volume, had died in 1836. Mary Shelley told Longman to send a copy to Leigh Hunt of ‘my Spanish Lives’; the Longman ledger shows that one was sent on April 5 1838 (along with copies of xxvii

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Italian Lives) but his response has not survived and following her own precept, I ‘must not be seduced too far’ into filling out what this might have been.41 Although this edition attempts to redress the volume’s neglect, it shouldn’t be forgotten that 3,000 copies were eventually released to do their quiet, diffusive business. While Percy Bysshe Shelley declares in the Preface to Prometheus Unbound that ‘Didactic poetry is my abhorrence’, Mary Shelley, without such a declaration, characteristically evades an overly didactic type of writing in her efforts to encourage her readers to think for themselves. In so doing, her Lives preserve continuity with the writings of her parents and husband. She shows us how one might remain committed to a conviction that poetry and imagination do make things happen, that in times of ‘iron rule’ (p. 66) there can exist the promise ‘to adorn the annals of mankind with all the virtues of heroism and all the elevation of genius’.

NOTES ON SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LIVES INTRODUCTION: MOSEN JORDI; THE CANCIONEROS; ALPHONSO X AND HIS COURT; ALPHONSO XI AND HIS COURT; JUAN DE MENA; JUAN DE ENZINA. At the beginning of her introduction Mary Shelley sets up her working thesis of genius surviving despotism and ignorance, and at the conclusion she anticipates her focus on writers of the Golden Age of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish writing. Her main sources of information are a three-part review essay by John Bowring that appeared in vols III and IV (1821) and vol. VI (1822) of the Retrospective Review, founded by Henry Southern, an essay on Spanish poetry by Manuel José Quintana (1772–1857) included in Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen’s Works of Garcilasso de la Vega (1823) and Bouterwek. Bouterwek, like Mary Shelley, believes that ‘the genius of the Spanish people was not so easily suppressed as their political and religious freedom’.42 BOSCAN Juan Boscán Almugár (Joan Boscá Almugáver in Catalan) (c. 1487/92–1542) is significant for his experiments with Italianate poetry, especially that of Petrarch (see vol. 1). Boscán’s Petrarchanism influenced Spanish poetry for the next 150 years. Mary Shelley’s interest in Boscán appeared as early as 1827, when she copied a sonnet by him into her journal (MWSJ [1995], p. 500). She wrote to John Bowring on two occasions in July 1837, asking if he could provide translations from Boscán’s poetry, including any by Bowring himself (MWSL, II, pp. 289, 290). Her chief sources for this Life are Sedano and Bouterwek. A preoccupation here is her evaluation of Boscán’s poetry through a comparison with Petrarch’s. xxviii

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Another is her belief that Boscán incorporates descriptions of his domestic bliss into his writings. In maintaining this she is true to her sources, but the emphasis also serves one of the ideological purposes of her Lives. GARCILASO DE LA VEGA This life closely follows J. H. Wiffen’s The Works of Garcilasso de la Vega, Surnamed the Prince of Castilian Poets, Translated into English Verse; with a Critical and Historical Essay on Spanish Poetry, and A Life of the Author (London, 1823), though her own political sentiments are in ample evidence. She also draws on Wiffen’s notes and appendices. Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen (1792–1836) was a Quaker and translator of Tasso. His brother Benjamin Barran (1794–1867) was interested in Spanish causes. He visited Spain in 1839 to forward abolition of the slave trade and he published writings and biographies of Spanish reformers (DNB). DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA Mary Shelley follows Sedano as her main authority, and there is evidence that she looked at Bouterwek as well (as he cites Sedano as a source of his own account of the writer; some of the overlap is a product of Bouterwek using the same source). Her focus on the historical context rather than on the writings of Mendoza makes evident her discomfort with her subject, whereas Bouterwek gives priority to the Spaniard’s intellectual and literary accomplishments, while defending what he tells of the life as representing ‘the real Castilian spirit of the age’.43 Therein lie Mary Shelley’s reservations. Mendoza, unlike Boscán and Garcilaso, doesn’t conform to her vision of the domestic poet who serves family as well as country. She makes it clear that she includes her subject for his connections with Boscán and Garcilaso (about which almost nothing is known apart from the epistolary poem addressed to Boscán) and for his love of books and learning. LUIS DE LEON Again Mary Shelley’s source is Sedano, whose Parnaso Español is also used by Bouterwek in his life of León. In contrast to Sedano, she struggles with León’s Catholicism, though she is very much attracted to his virtue and retirement. On the other hand she seems to somewhat distort the story of León’s imprisonment in reading it through her own opinions. Her favourable opinion of León is echoed by his modern critics.

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HERRERA, SAA DE MIRANDA, JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR; CASTILLEJO; THE EARLY DRAMATISTS This chapter of miscellaneous writers serves as a sort of summary point between the lives of Boscán and his followers and the essay on Cervantes. Mary Shelley includes a second brief life of de Miranda in her brief chapter, ‘The Early Poets of Portugal’, which suggests it is likely that she was not working to an exact plan, but making decisions about content as she went along. His name appears only once in the original contents pages, and as a Portuguese poet. ERCILLA [Not by Mary Shelley] William Walling suspected this Life as far back as 1972, writing ‘the style itself seems markedly heavier than anything in the other essays’.44 It precedes the life of Cervantes, as the lives are presented in chronological order. Yet the preceding chapter on Herrera et al. makes no mention of Ercilla, but concludes with a transition anticipating the life of Cervantes. The referencing and some internal evidence, including an explanation of Spanish surnames and phrasing that is not used by Mary Shelley, also point to another author. The only internal support for her authorship is weak: some evidence of reliance on Sismondi, and a reference to Moréri’s dictionary, also used in Godwin’s Lives of the Necromancers. This last was a standard reference work and was also used by the author of ‘La Fontaine’, another non-Shelley Life. A letter to Lardner written between July and September of 1837 might seem to support Mary Shelley’s authorship, for she observes, ‘I have not yet had a proof. I wish you to tell the printer – that the life of Ercilla already printed must precede that of Cervantes already sent. Ercilla’s life must follow the other lives I have sent & precede Cervantes – I should be so glad of proofs’.45 But the words ‘already printed’ do not necessarily imply that ‘Ercilla’ was among the ‘lives I have sent’. Finally, Longman’s ledger shows that the same ‘Ercilla’ for which £8. 10s had been paid in 1830, was the one included in the Spanish Lives,46 and must therefore be the ‘Ercilla’s life’ to which she alludes. It is included here as an anomaly, in order to highlight her integrated approach to the volume as a whole. It is also hoped that others might be able to resolve certain questions – such as authorship – connected with it. CERVANTES That Cervantes would receive the longest and most personal entry speaks not only to his importance as a Spanish writer, but also, as outlined in the Introduction, to the larger cultural forces that shape her perspective, and to ‘Quixotism’ within the Godwin–Shelley circle. She is most indebted to the biographies of Juan Antonio Pellicer (1797), Vicente de los Ríos (1780), and a respected French biography by Louis Viardot (1836).47 She does not rely on biographical accounts by Bouterwek (who champions the originality of the novel’s form and his skill at xxx

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drawing characters) or Sismondi (populariser of the reading which identifies Quixote with the imaginative man), though she seems to be in agreement with their views.48 In Moskal’s words, the life ‘gave literary form to some feelings’ raised by her unfinished memoir of her recently deceased father William Godwin, and echoes between the poverty and fortitude of Cervantes and Godwin are found throughout.49 Indeed, the Spanish writer is identified with anyone who remained true to the cause of reform, be it her father, P. B. Shelley, or even herself. In 1838 she wrote to Leigh Hunt that ‘writing of Cervantes so much reminded me of you that I thought it would please you’; she adds in her next letter ‘I am sure that of Cervantes will come home to you’ (MWSL, II, pp. 292, 293). LOPE DE VEGA Mary Shelley’s perspective reflects the extent to which knowledge of Spanish drama was in early nineteenth-century England eclipsed by the overwhelming interest in Don Quixote, despite Lope’s great reputation among his own contemporaries. In her comparison of Cervantes’ poverty and neglect with Lope’s fame and prosperity she still pursues her overall thesis of genius conquering adversity, but in reverse. She makes her point of view clear in her suggestion that she will enquire about the cause of the ‘excessive admiration’, which among Lope’s contemporaries became incorporated into the popular consciousness.50 For ‘Lope de Vega’ she employs Lord Holland’s Some Account of the Life and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio (1806), the first account in English, and the twenty-volume edition of the Obras Sueltas (1776–9), which includes a life by Lope’s contemporary Montalbán. As Montalbán’s life contains some significant inaccuracies and omissions, which are repeated by Holland, Mary Shelley’s account is likewise flawed. Albert Rennert’s authoritative Life of Lope de Vega benefits from research carried on in the nineteenth century, notably that of D. Cayetano Alberto de la Barrera.51 In a more recent monograph Francis C. Hayes points out that modern scholars no longer subscribe to the view that Lope ‘lived and died a saint’, and take a negative view of his treatment of women (he had two marriages, six legitimate children and at least ten children from his numerous amorous liaisons). At the same time the number of plays he wrote has been reduced from Montalbán’s figure of 1,800 to between seven and eight hundred titles. No more than 520 of the plays have survived, but whatever the actual number his output was prodigious.52 While Hayes suggests that the sheer bulk of the dramatic work ‘gives rise to comparative neglect of his lyric poetry by scholars’,53 Mary Shelley has taken the opposite view. Perhaps the availability of texts and the sheer number of the dramas influenced the character of the entry, whereas the poetry, made available to her through Sedano and the Obras Sueltas, occupies her attention. The surname ‘Vega’ is Spanish for fertile plain or valley. Lope was an enthusiastic gardener as well as a great lover of cats, and both subjects figure in his poetry.

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Unlike Cervantes and Calderón, whose writings she read with P. B. Shelley, there is no record of her previously having read Lope. VICENTE ESPINEL – ESTABAN DE VILLEGAS These two brief lives of minor poets associated with different regions link Mary Shelley’s accounts of their better-known contemporaries. It seems that her choice was entirely her own and not dictated by critical precedent, though Quintana mentions Villegas favourably and Bouterwek includes a section on the poet. Espinel merely receives a paragraph of notice from Bouterwek.54 GONGORA Mary Shelley makes it clear that Góngora does not embody her ideal of a poet, though she does stress that he came to regret ‘his former excesses of temper’. She is also faced with the difficulty of translating his works written in the ‘culto’ or refined style, and she favours his early, more traditional poetry. Her criticism of his obscurity and extravagant conceits follows Sismondi. One wonders whether she is not also obscurely vindicating P. B. Shelley by pointing out the faults of one whom, she considers, does actually merit the censure that her husband undeservedly received (in much the same terms) from Hazlitt and others. Curiously, she does not pursue connections with Quevedo, a possible sign of fatigue on her part, or of a long interval between the writing of the two lives, for normally she takes opportunities presented for drawing parallels, as with Boscán, Garcilaso and Mendoza. Góngora and Quevedo had a famous literary feud that represented two poles of poetry in the early seventeenth century: Conceptismo (cultivation of ideas or concepts) versus Culturanismo (or gongorismo, cultivation of obscurity and linguistic difficulty). Bouterwek mentions Góngora’s satirical verse, but Mary Shelley focuses on the fact that he repents writing such verse. QUEVEDO For Quevedo Mary Shelley had access to his life by Pablo Antonio de Tarsia. Quevedo was not unknown to her contemporaries. The Sueños (1624) were translated into English by Sir Roger L’Estrange during the seventeenth century. In his ‘Vision of Judgement’, published in The Liberal, Byron signed the poem ‘Quevedo Redivivus’ (Quevedo Reborn), a register perhaps of the recognition the poet had in the early nineteenth century, which was generally favourable. Bouterwek suggests, ‘He may without hesitation be pronounced the most ingenious of all Spanish writers next to Cervantes’. Sismondi (likely echoing Bouterwek) also makes the connection, though more tentatively: ‘He is the only man perhaps, whose name deserves to be placed by the side of that of Cervantes.’55 Mary Shelley read Quevedo’s Sueños in a French translation in May 1819 (MWSJ, II, p. 669). xxxii

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As opposed to his rival Góngora, Quevedo was much more to her liking, as is captured in a letter to Leigh Hunt written in 1846: ‘Did you ever read any of Quevedo? the Spanish wit? – whose dry humour is very pointed – His account of the different awakenings of different characters for the day of Judgement is one among many specimens’ (MWSL, III, p. 300). CALDERON As Mary Shelley makes clear in her first sentence, she feels constrained by space, so the life is a brief one. And yet, of all the Spanish writers besides Cervantes, it is the writings of Pedro Calderón de la Barca with which she had the most previous familiarity (see Introduction). For the Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1824) she edited his ‘Scenes from the Magico Prodigioso of Calderon’ from MS., sometimes filling in uncompleted lines, and also his ‘Letter to Maria Gisborne’, in which he pays tribute to Calderón. She continued to read Calderón, quoting from the drama of La vida es sueño and El príncipe constante in The Last Man (1826). She was also familiar with the letter from P. B. Shelley to Maria Gisborne of 16 November 1819 in which he enthusiastically describes his reading of the Spanish playwright.56 For Calderón’s life she had Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel’s Fama Vida. The edition of Calderón’s works that Mary Shelley used has not been identified but it would seem to have contained Vera Tassis’s memoir; it may possibly be the one that P. B. Shelley bought in January 1822, though that itself awaits identification. Some of her regard for Calderón reflects her frustrated wish to embark on editions of his poetical and prose works (still in 1837 forbidden by her father-in-law, long after his suppression of Posthumous Poems). This life allows Mary Shelley to name P. B. Shelley publicly and simultaneously creates a more private opportunity to commune with the spirit of his writings. EARLY POETS OF PORTUGAL: RIBEYRO; SAA de MIRANDA; GIL VICENTE; FERREIRA The relative brevity of these entries is evidence that Mary Shelley is approaching her page limit and that she has limited knowledge of the Portuguese language. While her sources, Bouterwek and Sismondi, give considerable attention to these four sixteenth-century poets, including examples of their writings, her treatment of them is cursory. Her chief interest here appears to be in the power of poetry to create a national identity; following Bouterwek, she attributes the development of the Portuguese language to the poetical genius of the Portuguese people, though she concedes that the actual national boundaries were established through war.

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CAMOENS The fame of Luis de Camões, or Camoëns as he was called by Mary Shelley and her contemporaries, lies with three plays, his epic poem Os Lusiadas (1572) and a body of lyric poetry in which he gives voice to melancholy suffering. His epic and lyric works captured the interest of British writers and critics in the early nineteenth century. English translations of the Lusiads by Sir Richard Fanshawe (1655) and by William Julius Mickle (1776) already existed. Lord Strangford’s Poems from the Portuguese of Luis de Camoens (London 1803; reprinted six times between 1804 and 1825) and Felicia Hemans’s Portuguese translations (Oxford, 1819) made his lyric poetry accessible to British readers.57 John Adamson’s twovolume Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Luis de Camoens was published in 1820. Lord Strangford suggested that with respect to originality he ‘has, perhaps, a juster claim than any of the moderns, Dante alone excepted’ and that he ‘was the first who wrote with elegance in his native tongue’.58 Byron admired his verse, and he merits a mention in Wordsworth’s ‘Scorn not the Sonnet’ (1827). Among the above, Mary Shelley made use of Adamson, Strangford, Fanshawe and Mickle and an article by Robert Southey reviewing Adamson in the Quarterly. Her evaluation of the translations by Fanshawe and Mickle agrees with the judgements voiced by Southey.59 Her own prior knowledge of Camoëns may not have been extensive; she makes a reference to the story of Inés de Castro in Canto III of the Lusiads in an 1821 letter to Claire Clairmont but in a context that does not imply that she had read it (MWSL I, pp. 176–9). At the same time she contributes her own sympathetic perspective on the adversities the poet faced, and, when she deems it necessary, her own translations. In this final life her voice comes through in a series of observations in which she reflects obliquely about herself and Percy Bysshe Shelley. LISA VARGO Notes 1

The Clairmont Correspondence, ed. Marion Kingston Stocking, 2 vols (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), I, pp. 119–26; quoted in Jeanne Moskal’s essay ‘“To speak in Sanchean phrase”: Cervantes and the Politics of Mary Shelley’s History of a Six Weeks’ Tour’ in Mary Shelley in Her Times (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), p. 27. For more details of British involvement with the Iberian peninsula during the Napoleonic Wars and the shifting meaning of the category ‘Spain’, the reader is referred to this essay, to which I am considerably indebted. 2 Ian Jack, English Literature: 1815–1832 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), pp. 397–8. 3 See the telling extract from Anne Plumtre (Moskal, p. 24). 4 Ian Jack, pp. 397–8. 5 Claire Tomalin, The Life and Death of Mary Wollstonecraft (New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1974), pp. 36–7. 6 I owe this last piece of information to Pamela Clemit. Godwin’s ‘Fragment of a Romance’ appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, pt 1 (1833), 32–41; see also Burton R. Pollin, ‘William Godwin’s “Fragment of a Romance”’, Comparative Literature, XVI (1964), 43–4.

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Moskal, pp. 19–22. Drake and Finello, pp. 29–30, 33–4. 9 See MWSJ, II, pp. 632, 640, 669. 10 See PBSL, II, p. 105; Timothy Webb’s account in The Violet in the Crucible of P. B. Shelley’s reading of Calderón and of Calderón’s influence on him is still unsurpassed. See especially Webb, pp, 204–7, 210–11, 225, 230–1 and 237–75. For an updating, see The Faust Draft Notebook, eds Nora Crook and Timothy Webb, vol. XIX of The Bodleian Shelley Manuscripts (London and New York: Garland Publishing, 1997), pp. xxxv–xl, lxxvi–lxxvii. 11 For the Spanish scenes in Perkin Warbeck (composed 1827–9) she read several Spanish histories, some of it almost certainly in the original language. It is not known when she acquired Portuguese but probably not before leaving Italy. She may have begun by attempting to read short extracts of Portuguese poetry with a parallel prose translation like those found in Sismondi’s De la littérature du midi de Europe. 12 Years later, after reading Huber’s Stories of Spanish Life (1837), which vividly depicts the massacres of liberals in 1823, she commented that the blood-thirstiness of a restored despotism was no less frightful than that of the French Revolutionary Terror (MWSN, vol. 2, p. 279). 13 Webb, pp. 231–2. 14 ‘The English in Italy’, MWSN, vol. 2, pp. 151–2. Britain remained neutral when France invaded Spain in 1823. She noted that Canning, the Foreign Secretary, seemed uncomfortable with ‘the part he was forced to play’ (MWSL, I, pp. 416–17). 15 Palacio, p. 502. 16 Greg Kucich, ‘Mary Shelley’s Lives and the Reengendering of History’ in Mary Shelley in Her Times (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000), p. 208. 17 P. R. Harris, A History of the British Museum Library, 1753–1973 (London: The British Library, 1998), p. 282. 18 William Godwin, The Life of Geoffrey Chaucer (1803), I, xix, quoted in Palacio, pp. 502–3. 19 J. Mordaunt Crook, The British Museum (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), p. 154. P. R. Harris, The Reading Room (London: The British Library, 1979, rpt. 1986). 20 See Harris, A History of the British Museum Library, pp. 766–7 and Arundell Esdaile, The British Museum Library (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1946), p. 53. 21 Harris, A History of the British Museum Library, p. 154. 22 Harris, The Reading Room, p. 7. A new Reading Room opened in 1838 with enlarged accommodation; the new rooms rapidly became overcrowded and noisy, with a musty smell (Harris, A History of the British Museum Library, p. 154). 23 Earl of Ilchester, Chronicles of Holland House, 1820–1900 (1938), pp. 204–5. 24 Perhaps a bit too close: a Longman ledger records a stray payment for ‘Night work’ involving Spanish Lives – probably overtime undertaken to meet the deadline. Spanish Lives came out in a run of 2,500 on 1 Nov. 1837, a smaller run than other titles in the half-yearly batch (which included titles on Geology, Brewing, and Animals in Menageries) most of which received runs of 3,000. But 2,500 runs soon became the norm, as Lardner’s Cyclopædia after 1838 began to complete existing commitments and ceased to commission new titles. The volume sold 1,649 copies in its first half year, leaving 769 copies after review and complimentary copies had been distributed. Dr Lardner was sent his 6 copies on 31 Oct. (Mrs Shelley was not sent her 6 until 20 Nov.) Sixty-two review copies were sent to newspapers on 7 Nov. – another reduction. For her work she seems to have been paid the sum of £205. The relevant ledger entry reads ‘Lit Men Italy Vol. 3 & Editor £255’, and £50 of that was Lardner’s. Normally her fee was £200, so the extra £5 might have compensated her for extra expenses such as book purchase. Spanish Lives exhausted its run in 1855 and was given a small reprint of 250. By then the cost had been lowered to 3s 6d a volume. 25 For a summary of her activities as a biographer in the 1830s, particularly her efforts to write a life of P. B. Shelley, see Paula R. Feldman, ‘Biography and the Literary Executor: The Case of Mary Shelley’, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, LXXII (1978), 287–97. 26 William Godwin, ‘Of History and Romance’, Appendix to Caleb Williams, ed. Gary Handwerk and A. A. Markley (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2000), p. 458 and Political and 8

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Philosophical Writings of William Godwin, vol. 5, ed. Pamela Clemit (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1993), p. 294. 27 ‘Introduction’, Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, ed. Pamela Clemit and Gina Luria Walker (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2001), p. 13. 28 William Godwin, Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2001), p. 43. 29 Morse Peckham, ‘Dr. Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedia’, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, XLV (1951), 41. 30 Her reading between 1814 and 1822 includes Robertson’s The History of America, Marmontel’s Les Incas and Las Casas’s Brevissima relación de la destruyión de las Indias, (MWSJ, II, pp. 640, 670). 31 ‘Boscan’, pp. 27, 40. 32 Moskal, p. 22. 33 See Palacio, p. 519. 34 Palacio, p. 508; MWSL, II, p. 246. 35 Longman Archive, Reel 29. 36 Of the three most likely candidates known to have written for the Cabinet Cyclopædia, Thomas Roscoe, Samuel Astley Dunham and Robert Southey, Roscoe is the most plausible. Lardner is unlikely to have rejected anything by Southey, the Poet Laureate, or to have paid him so little, or to have failed to publicise him. Dunham, admired by Southey for his knowledge of the Spanish medieval period, wrote a number of volumes for the Cyclopædia, including a 5volume history of Spain and 3 volumes of the British Literary Lives, ending up as one of Lardner’s most prolific authors. Nothing of his is known to have been rejected. Roscoe had made a translation of Sismondi’s Littérature du midi. His Spanish Novelists (Bentley, 1832), prefaced by some brief biographical notices, was a sequel to his Italian Novelists (1825). In 1835 he published an account of his travels to Spain and translated Lazarillo de Tormes. He translated M. Fernandez de Navarrete’s life of Cervantes in 1839. 37 For P. B. Shelley’s struggles with Calderón and his Catholicism, see Timothy Webb, The Violet in the Crucible, pp. 209–11. 38 See Palacio, pp. 522–9, 686. I have added several to his list. 39 Athenaeum (21 Oct. 1837), p. 790, col. 3. 40 Sunday Times, No. 785 (5 Nov. 1837), p. 1, col. 6. 41 MWSL, II, p. 292, 293; Longman Archive, Reel 29. Palacio notes a belated (1927) and brief commendation of the Portuguese Lives for going to the trouble, in a work of popularisation, of consulting the best authors (Palacio, p. 521n.). 42 Bouterwek, I, p. 155. 43 Bouterwek, I, p. 193. 44 See William Walling, Mary Shelley (New York: Twayne, 1972), pp. 128, 159. Mary Shelley is likely to have made far more of the native American patriot, Caupolican. 45 Betty T. Bennett, ‘Newly Uncovered Letters and Poems by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’, Keats–Shelley Journal, XLVI (1997), 66. 46 Longman Archive, Reel 29. This is on p. 337 of the ledger, col. 2, entry for 1836. It lists items paid for but still unpublished, going back to 1828, some of which (such as ‘Roscoe’s Lit Lives’) have pencilled in ‘cancel’ on the extreme right-hand column against them. ‘Life Ercilla’ however, has ‘Lives Italy Vol. 3’ lightly pencilled against it, indicating that it was published. The pencilling in must have been made before ‘Rabelais’ and ‘La Fontaine’ were published in French Lives I (1838), as they are simply listed without further details. 47 Pellicer and Ríos were already known to British Hispanists as contributors of biography and introductory material to the Reverend John Bowle’s 1781 edition of the novel; this, as Drake and Finello have documented, was one of the first serious attempts at a critical edition (Drake and Finello, p. 7). 48 Drake and Finello, pp, 27, 29–30, 34. 49 Moskal, p. 22. 50 See Francis C. Hayes, Lope de Vega (New York: Twayne, 1967), p. 21, who draws on the same biographical accounts as Mary Shelley. A parody of the Catholic ritual, ‘I believe in Lope

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de Vega, all powerful poet of heaven and earth’ had to be suppressed by the Inquisition (which made him a judge). His funeral lasted nine days. 51 Albert Rennert, Life of Lope de Vega (Glasgow, 1904), p. vii. 52 Hayes, pp. 20, 75–81. 53 Hayes, p. 19. 54 Wiffen, pp. 53–6 and Bouterwek, I, pp. 475–85; Bouterwek, I, pp. 414–15. 55 Bouterwek, I, p. 464; Sismondi, IV, p. 74. 56 PBSL, II, pp. 154–5; published by Mary Shelley in Essays, Letters from Abroad [etc.] by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1839), II, pp. 244–6. Calderón’s influence on his poetry can be seen in ‘Ode to the West Wind,’ Prometheus Unbound, The Cenci, and ‘Charles the First’ as well as in those works already mentioned. See also Webb, pp. 205–7, 225). 57 Aubrey F. G. Bell, Luis de Camões (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1923), p. 107. 58 Strangford, pp. 26–7. 59 See Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 20.

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Mary Shelley’s participation in the Lardner enterprise was a financially useful task for a professional woman of letters, who was almost obsessively taking on more and more work between 1835–9. Yet she appears to have found it relatively soothing as well. She wrote to Leigh Hunt, ‘I am now writing French Lives. The Spanish ones interested me – these do not so much – yet it is pleasant writing enough – sparing one’s imagination yet occupying one & supplying in some small degree the needful which is so very needful.’1 Unlike writing fiction, she did not have to generate all her subject matter; and unlike writing her father’s life or editing her husband’s poetry, she did not have to activate poignant memories. Furthermore she was extremely fluent in French and known to be so: the actor William Macready met her in 1835 at Dr Lardner’s and worried that he had used a French phrase incorrectly in front of her. (He was intensely relieved to find he had spoken correctly).2 In 1827 she had considered translating Augustin Thierry’s History of the Norman Conquest.3 She was also well grounded in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century French literature, having read authors such as Molière, Corneille, Mme de Graffigny, Marmontel, d’Holbach, Fénelon, Rousseau, Voltaire and Bernardin de St Pierre during her marriage to P. B. Shelley; references to a Molière character or a La Rochefoucauld maxim came naturally to her.4 Although she needed to consult biographical works and use reference aids, much intellectual capital was already there. Instead of the outright creativity of fiction, the task required her to utilise her considerable skills of exposition, narration, distillation, selectivity and compression. Her essays nevertheless are also personal documents: her interpretations and explicit judgements tell us a great deal about her most deeply considered moral and religious views, and elements in some of the French Lives undoubtedly have concealed autobiographical resonance. The two volumes of the French Lives are the culmination of her work for Lardner, and represent the final stage of a sustained overview of four literatures. Few British women of letters in the 1830s could command this extensive range and write so confidently about four national cultures. She should be considered alongside Lady Morgan, whom she greatly admired, who dramatised her Irish heritage into fiction, but also wrote on France, Italy and Belgium; or Frances Trollope, the controversial analyst of American manners and morals, who also wrote on the xxxix

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Low Countries and Italy. Anna Jameson, with whom she had also recently become acquainted, by the 1830s had written only on Canada and Germany. Jameson, the future historian of symbolism in painting, would later take all European art as her canvas, but this evolution was still to come. Likewise the Strickland sisters, Agnes and Eliza, were only to embark on their survey of English queen consorts (necessitating their understanding of French, Flemish, Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese sources and cultural attitudes) in 1840. Furthermore, unlike Morgan and Trollope, who were predominantly travellers making relatively selective reference to art or literature, she was required to be sufficiently familiar with her subjects’ works to be able to write authoritatively on them as well as to compose their lives. Her task required a fairly deep engagement with historical context and biographical material, coupled with appropriate literary judgement. However, although she has the ability to make comparative judgements between national cultures, reminding the French for instance of their debt to Spanish drama, she was not equally sympathetic to them all, and never reveals her native cultural limitations as much as in her estimations of French classicism. Here she has the characteristic English – and Romantic – reverence for Shakespeare’s freedom from the dramatic rules, compared with ‘French tragedy as an artificial and contracted offspring of a school, instead of being the free and genuine child of nature and genius’ (‘Corneille’, p. 349). She was never drawn to France in the way that she was to Italy. In spite of the personal tragedies she had experienced there, Italy, its culture, language and authors, would always command her heart as no other country could. She was more intimately at home in francophone Geneva than France, though by no means uncritical of its peculiarities as a Calvinist republic, which brought authenticity to her understanding of its famous son, Rousseau.5 But as a cultivated Englishwoman, she knew the classic authors, and regularly read the memoirs of the ancien régime and revolution as they appeared.6 And, as a sentimental traveller, for her France was forever associated with the first journey abroad with P. B. Shelley in 1814; simply to land at Calais had then been to become ‘an incarnate romance’.7 It was, too, during her visit to Paris in 1828 that she had caught a glimpse of the alternative life that she might have led, lionised by a circle that included Mérimée and Stendhal. ‘[H]ad I been french’ she later reflected ‘I had been courted and flattered – & sympathized with.’8 Mary Shelley worked on the French Lives between the last quarter of 1837 and July–August 1839, which entailed composing about 700 pages of printed work rapidly and efficiently. Her journals and surviving letters give us very little sense of her progress, but, on the reasonable assumption that she began French Lives I as soon as she completed Spanish Lives, she had approximately nine months to finish that volume, i.e. from about mid-October 1837 until mid-July 1838. It has been doubted that she could have written all of French Lives I in the time available,9 especially since she appears to have fitted in ‘Rousseau’ and the 100-page long ‘Voltaire’ as well, and indeed we now know that she did not write them all. xl

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They were always advertised as being by ‘Mrs. Shelley &c.’ or ‘Mrs. Shelley and Others’, though as ‘&c.’ can be expanded to either ‘Another’ or ‘Others’ there need have been only one Other. In a letter to Lardner of 14 May 1838 she speaks of wanting to progress with ‘my share of the volume’, implying that she had at least one co-contributor. Finally, the Longman ledgers show that ‘Rabelais’ and ‘La Fontaine’, two lives with common features not shared with the other biographies, had been commissioned and written at some time between 1830–2 by an as yet unidentified author. Even so (since both external and internal evidence converge to demonstrate that she wrote all the rest) it meant working to tight deadlines. But she was both familiar with the materials and free of other commitments. She had suspended operations on the ‘Life of William Godwin’ and thus had no other major project during this period; 1837 was a year of relative tranquillity after a run of stormy years. Her journal entry for 31 December 1837 shows her looking forward to ‘spending each days [sic] as it comes in useful occupation’.10 She fell ill once in April 1838, but not apparently for long. French materials were far more readily available than Spanish ones, and to speed her labours Longman took out a special subscription for her to a specialist circulating library.11 She may, as with the ‘Life of William Godwin’, have had someone to help her with copying extracts. Under such conditions the schedule is certainly a possible one. And there is evidence of pressure. She wrote a rather distracted and harried letter to the printer, Spottiswoode, of 4 March 1838, when he was printing ‘Rousseau’, having already printed ‘Voltaire’; the letter concerns thirty-one pages of the ‘Rousseau’, one page of which had gone astray but then been found.12 The already mentioned letter to Lardner asks him to ‘poke’ the printers as she had not yet received a single proof: ‘I leave town in a fortnight & want in the interim to get as forward as I can with my share of the volume […] Pascal is done – I begin to see land’, adding a fervent wish ‘If Beffara [needed for ‘Molière’] would come, which is still absent’.13 She had probably finished by about 14 July, since French Lives I was advertised to appear on 1 August, 1838 and duly appeared. Mary Shelley got her six free copies on 28 July and received the usual fee of £200.14 Why she undertook ‘Voltaire’ and ‘Rousseau’ from French Lives II before finishing French Lives I is a puzzle, but their completion would have given her a head start with French Lives II, the progress of which is just as puzzling. Lardner and herself were paid the usual author-and-editor fee of £200 + £50 on 6 December 1838. This indicates completion, but publication did not take place until nine months later. A rather large printer’s bill of July 1839 for corrections to French Lives II (£29. 17s) might be relevant to this suspension of operations. Possibly the need for major alterations had been discovered in December 1839, but only after she had embarked on editing the four volumes of the Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Upon completion of that magnum opus in July 1839, she did return to French Lives II and may have made some late revisions then. A letter to the printer of 20 July 1839 informs him that the second volume will end with Madame xli

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de Staël and asks for revised (i.e. page) proofs as soon as possible so that it can appear on 1 August.15 Not surprisingly, French Lives II missed its August publication date and appeared on 1 September instead.16 Despite Longman’s despatch of about sixty copies each of the two volumes of French Lives to newspapers, only one brief notice of French Lives I in Britain has so far been found, so it would seem that she received virtually no public reaction to her conscientious labours. The Sunday Times simply noted ‘This number contains the history of the literary and scientific persons of France. The biographies are given with fairness and conciseness’.17 In America French Lives was pirated by Lea and Blanchard of Philadelphia in two volumes as French Writers of Eminence (1840) with ‘By Mrs Shelley and Others’ on the title page. It was briefly reviewed by Poe in Graham’s Lady’s and Gentleman’s Magazine, of which he was co-editor, for the January 1841 issue. Poe considered that the essays would be useful and accessible, as well as affordable, to those making their first forays into French literature. ‘A more valuable work, when considered solely as an introduction to French literature, has not, for some time, been issued from the American press.’ Less positive was the assertion that readers should be aware Mrs Shelley had not authored all the items – and that if she had done, it would not enhance her reputation.

Sources and Methods Perhaps Poe’s enormous admiration of Frankenstein blinded him to the merits of anything by Mrs Shelley in a different genre, for the French Lives are all written with a sprightly narrative thrust and an agreeable tone. They often flatter the reader by assuming easy familiarity with the distinguished personages of French culture, while enough information is usually given about the key figures, or about French social or political customs, to prevent the reader from being intimidated. Reported speech is often quoted as direct conversation, helping to recreate the historical context vividly. Mary Shelley proved expert at distilling complex and sometimes turgid material: her summaries of Mme Roland’s and Mirabeau’s memoirs are good examples of this, as are her economical and judicious discussions of the complicated quarrels between Rousseau, Diderot, Grimm and Mme d’Epinay. Often her personal enthusiasm is allowed to emerge, as when she dips in and out of Mme de Sévigné’s letters, or can’t resist quoting extensively from Molière or Boileau passages that amused her. But there is also a Johnsonian gravitas at work, for instance when she describes Condorcet’s philosophical optimism in the face of Jacobin terror, or chides Mme de Staël for being of the Byronic school ( vol. 3, pp. 480–1). If she did no original work in archives, she was often able to consult printed primary sources which reproduced documentary evidence from public or private archives. ‘Molière’ is a good example. The pamphlet by L. F. Beffara that she xlii

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awaits impatiently in her letter to Lardner had helped inaugurate a new, more accurate account of his life, reproducing documents showing that he married his mistress’s sister, not her daughter. Mary Shelley evidently wanted to read this evidence for herself, but may have had to settle for the extensive extracts from it reproduced in the biography by Taschereau. Taschereau also quoted from several memoirs of the period, which she in turn cites, this time without further acknowledgement, giving the impression she has sought out these memoirs herself. Though not acceptable in modern practice, this short cut was commonly used in her own time. Similar practice is at work in her essay on Mirabeau, where she collates opinions originally collected in Dumont’s memoir, and on Rousseau, where she quoted many of the contemporary commentators cited by Musset-Pathy. In this instance she seems also to have further explored these sources independently. Invariably Mary Shelley sought out a good, often recent edition, of the author she was discussing. She invariably eschewed English editions and did all her own translations. Often the editions used contained an introductory Life. She also paid attention to their textual commentary and annotation: her ‘Boileau’ shows this clearly. Sometimes she could use the same sources for more than one life: Louis Racine’s biography of his father also contained material on Boileau, his great friend; Mme de Staël’s account of the French Revolution served for her own life and provided a glimpse of Mirabeau; Dumont’s memoir of Mirabeau also described Mme Roland’s salon. Where accounts differed, she tried to adjudicate between them, for example in differentiating accounts by Gourville, Cardinal de Retz, and La Rochefoucauld of epsiodes of the Fronde or civil war; or in using Lafayette’s memoirs to clarify claims made by Mirabeau’s adopted son and biographer, Montigny. When, in researching Valperga or Perkin Warbeck, she had found that sources disagreed, the conventions of romance-writing allowed her to invent freely (since the sources might all be wrong). With biography, however, she was obliged to weigh and come to conclusions. In the case of the historian, Godwin had written, ‘events are taken out of his hands and determined by the system of the universe’.18 For an overview of seventeenth-century French culture she often consulted Voltaire’s Age of Louis XIV; to make sense of the complicated civil war, she drew on G. P. R. James’s Life and Times of Lewis the Fourteenth, published as recently as 1838. She cited Bayle’s Philosophical Dictionary a couple of times, but more for a judgement than for factual material. In dealing with the revolutionary era, her most useful reference work was the Biographie Universelle et Portative des Contemporains, which gave her a factual skeleton to help make sense of de Staël’s autobiographical writings, information on the latter’s parents, and almost all of the article on Condorcet. Adolphe Thiers’s 1823 History of the French Revolution was her main narrative source for the period, which she used alongside Carlyle’s more flamboyant and poetic account.

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Grand Siècle, Enlightenment and Revolution: Mary Shelley and French Culture There are important differences of purpose and emphasis between the two volumes of the Lives. In the first, she fills the Lardner brief more obviously in the selection of writers. Indeed, some of them were inherited rather than selected by her. It would seem that Lardner – or his literary advisor – had in mind a representative spread across various genres. Rabelais, La Fontaine, Corneille and (probably) De Sévigné had already been chosen, the first no doubt because of his status as the father of French literature, the second as a comic fabulist. The three great dramatists, Corneille, Molière and Racine, could not be omitted, while de Sévigné represented the art of letter-writing. This leaves an essayist (Montaigne), a writer of maxims (La Rochefoucauld), a critic (Boileau), and two important religious thinkers (Pascal and Fénelon). Pascal served additionally as a representative scientist and philosopher, and La Rochefoucauld had also been a prominent actor in the French civil war or Fronde. But all were unequivocally writers. To treat of the Grand Siècle inevitably entailed discussing an aristocratic and monarchical state, the ancien régime. The child of republicans, Mary Shelley had to confront the realities in the careers of men of letters in this epoch, which depended closely on their obtaining recognition and patronage from the court. Mid-seventeenth-century France also witnessed the temporary political collapse of the monarchy during the civil wars known as the Fronde, which was brought about through often irresponsible aristocratic leadership. In French Lives I, she therefore had to contemplate the spectacle of an imperious aristocracy, with inflated notions of honour, pursuing their selfish ends. Yet merely to censure and deplore ran counter to her own principle: to combine justice with candour, revealing whatever there might be of the good beneath the disfiguring outward show. The idea of aristocratic influence was central to political debate in the 1820s and 30s in Britain, when the Whigs and their more radical supporters had revived the pressure to reform Parliament. The 1832 Reform Act had regularised the allocation of seats to follow population redistribution, as well as creating a uniform franchise which effectively linked the middle classes to the aristocratic landed interest, while drawing a line against more democratic reform. Lord Brougham, the Whig Lord Chancellor of the reforming cabinet, and a great supporter of popular education, generated a pamphlet controversy in 1835 against the aristocracy, arguing that the work of reform was only beginning. The Philosophical Radicals such as George Grote and J. S. Mill, who were instrumental in founding University College London where Lardner lectured, took a much stronger line against aristocratic influence, following Bentham and James Mill in regarding it as the embodiment of ‘sinister interests’.19 Yet co-existing with this political animus against aristocracy in 1830s Britain – perhaps arising because of it – was a wider cultural fascination with the courts of xliv

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Louis XIV in France, and Charles II in England. One form this fascination took was a vogue for historical paintings set in France or England. Initiated by Bonington and Maclise and continued by Henrietta Ward, Augustus Egg, C. R. Leslie and William P. Frith, it persisted throughout the century in the Royal Academy exhibitions. Along with the age of chivalry, the Renaissance, or the times of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the ancien régime was a frequent locale for stories and illustration in the annuals. (The ‘Convent of Chaillot’, attributed in this edition to Mary Shelley, is a good example of the genre.) Historians of the French seventeenth century such as G. P. R. James, who wrote the Lives of the most Eminent Foreign Statesmen for Lardner, also capitalised on their ‘feel’ for the period by writing fiction, such as Richelieu, published in 1829. Such recreations of the period also took in the periods of civil disorder – the Fronde and the English civil war – preceding the re-establishment of monarchical authority, historical episodes with parallels to the French experience of revolutions and restorations between 1789 and 1830. Mary Shelley was thus faced with a challenge: to avoid seeming to endow the seventeenth century, a period of royal and aristocratic dominance, with nostalgic glamour, while achieving historical empathy. Her unease with the task may be seen in episodes where her authors seem fawning or disposed to compromise their integrity, and she spends some time, for instance, trying to exonerate Racine from ‘servility’. His friend Boileau is praised for being much less adroit at saying the right thing to powerful patrons. But she was too good an historian not to attempt to understand the circumstances in which her writers lived. Thus, of La Rochefoucauld, whose urbanity was worlds apart from her tendency to sentiment, she could admit that he was a perfect example of a highly sophisticated society: ‘no obscure man […] but the leader of a party, a soldier, a man of gallantry and of fashion; one such as is only produced, in its perfection, in a society highly cultivated’ (p. 350). Nonetheless her judgement is stern: ‘To detail the conduct of a nobility emancipated from all legal as well as all moral and religious restraint, – bent only on the acquisition of power, – influenced by hatred and selfishness, – is no interesting task […] Turbulent, dissolute, and unprincipled, they acted the parts of emancipated slaves, not of freemen asserting their rights.’ (p. 359) Even so, although she can find no noble motive for his conduct, she does discern a redeeming feature of his character in his capacity for friendship and fatherhood, especially in his long association with Mme de Lafayette. She works hard to show that he could give credence to disinterested virtue, and that he did not make a philosophical system out of self-interest, only perceived it to be a frequent human motive (pp. 373–4). Her portrait of Mirabeau, and his vindictive father, who frequently procured his arrest through lettres de cachet, serves as an indictment of the personal tyrannies of the ancien régime. Yet she argues that Mirabeau would have been happier pursuing the traditional métier of the aristocrat, a military career, when he might have rivalled either the great seventeenth-century general Turenne or Napoleon (vol. 3, p. 430). An unexpected observation, it is xlv

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nevertheless consistent with her understanding of a certain kind of character and of a human imperative: to exercise one’s talents. In her second volume, however, she was engaging directly with Enlightened and Revolutionary France as the child of Wollstonecraft and Godwin, for whom the revolutionary epoch had been the defining event of their lives and intellectual attitudes. Wollstonecraft had been in France during the opening stage of the Revolution and had attempted a history of it, while Godwin and friends like Holcroft had risked hanging or transportation for their Jacobin sympathies. She couldn’t avoid engagement with the nature of modern France, any more than men and women born during 1939–45 and its aftermath can avoid engagement with World War II and its associated political movements. She was not a doctrinaire republican; she knew that she was not an ideologue by temperament, as her parents and husband had been. In response to Trelawny’s complaints that she would not speak out in public, she declared in her journal (in October 1838, between the two French Lives), ‘I have never written a word in disfavour of liberalism’. She felt that the post-Reform Act parliamentary constitution provided both stability and a better opportunity for political participation than the platform of the Philosophic Radicals (‘rude, envious and insolent’) and their Chartist sympathisers, who wanted to press further for annual parliaments and the secret ballot.20 Like her father in his last decades, who had opposed the ballot because it abetted concealment and subverted moral independence, her views in the 1830s were Whig rather than radical. Her mother, too, had had sympathies with moderate Girondists like Helen Maria Williams, who were prepared to work with constitutional monarchy, and to the more domestic constructions of femininity this liberalism fostered.21 In fact, Mary Shelley’s support for constitutional rights and national selfdetermination, and the criticism of ‘priestcraft’, are in some respects easier to accommodate to the cardinal points of continental liberalism than to the political categories of 1830s Britain. She found an immediate affinity with a liberal circle in Paris on her visit of 1828, where she met Benjamin Constant among others, and this must either have reinforced or fostered this particular kind of liberalism.22 In 1830, when the struggle to reform parliament began, she viewed English politics through a continental, comparative perspective, praising the moderation of the July Revolution and hoping it would spur on Parliamentary reform at home.23 Significantly, her chief source on the French Revolution for French Lives II was Adolphe Thiers, who became a minister under the July Monarchy. With French Lives II, she stretched the definition of ‘Eminent Literary Men’ not just by including two more women but by her choice of a quartet of French revolutionary personalities who were political actors more than, or as much as, writers: Condorcet and Mirabeau, Mme Roland and Mme de Staël. Even in her portrait of the most literary of them, de Staël, it is her actions – her courage in the Reign of Terror or her refusal to temper her criticisms of Napoleon – that she wishes to emphasise; she values the autobiographical writings, which shed light on her heroine’s actions, over her critical and fictional works. xlvi

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The choice of this quartet of revolutionary subjects represents a concerted attempt to disassociate the early ideals of the French Revolution from its subsequent extremism and state-authorised bloodshed. All four were prepared to work within a framework of constitutional monarchy, either as a pragmatic means toward an eventual republic, or as a stage in an indefinite progress toward perfect freedom, or as an inherently desirable form of government. Two of her subjects, Condorcet and Mme Roland, were victims of the Jacobin Reign of Terror, when the government acted against suspected opponents through an emergency tribunal and the notorious guillotine, while Mme de Staël is shown to have bravely managed to save some of her friends from these violent episodes. Her fourth hero, Mirabeau, exemplifies the call for monarchy to respect the rights of men and citizens (vol. 3, p. 410) while working with monarchy to safeguard France from extremism. Like Mme de Staël, Mirabeau admires the English constitution (vol. 3, p. 421) and tries to use it as a model. Aside from this quartet, she wrote the lives of just two of the famous French Philosophes, Voltaire and Rousseau, possibly the two most notorious to an English audience. She passed over Montesquieu, the liberal constitutionalist who had praised the English monarchy, and probably the least controversial figure.24 She had used D’Alembert’s Éloges in some of the seventeenth-century lives, yet did not give him an individual entry, although he would have been a useful exemplar of scientific achievement. Her exclusion of Diderot is accounted for by her distaste for his style, ‘the most affected and tiresome in the world’ (vol. 3, p. 344), while Helvétius and d’Holbach were undoubtedly left out because of their philosophical materialism, unacceptable both to Mary Shelley (a believer, after P. B. Shelley’s death, in the immortality of the soul in some form) and to Lardner’s intended audience. Nonetheless, she bravely offered a much more sympathetic portrait of them than was current in other recent encyclopaedias, and in doing so she was obliged to touch on questions of religious orthodoxy. Nowhere does she more clearly show herself a child of the Enlightenment than in her treatment of Catholicism in both volumes. Granted, she also expatiates on the religion of the heart, as in her essay on Pascal, which deplores the rigours of Jansenist austerity. ‘Man was born to be happy through the affections – to enjoy the beauty and harmony of the visible creation – to find delight in the exercise of his faculties, and the fulfilment of his social duties’. Again ‘asceticism has no real foundation in the beneficient plan of the Creator’ (vol. 3, pp. 71, 80). But even though she is frequently ready to criticise Catholicism and distinguish it from (implicitly Protestant) Christianity, the historian in her can see Pascal as an example of Catholic rigour. She is also more patient than Voltaire with the allegedly miraculous cure of his sister, arguing that a man of Pascal’s integrity would not falsify the story. On the other hand she is at one with Voltaire in criticising excessive dogmatism and excessive religious emotion, or as the Enlightenment would characterise it, ‘enthusiasm’. The theological controversies over Jansenism are ‘a disgrace upon the cause of religion in France’ (vol. 3, p. 82). Her explanation of the xlvii

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conflicting opinions is partly indebted to Voltaire’s account, and she rather relishes the way Pascal undermines ‘jesuitical […] truckling to vice’ (vol. 3, p. 85). The man who best exemplifies religion in action is Fénelon, and he is approached partly through the analysis and admiration of Voltaire and D’Alembert – two of the Enlightenment’s leading anti-clericals. But in their eyes, and Mary Shelley’s, he is a model of religious toleration and of benevolent pastoral care. His support for the mystical quietism of Mme Guyon is ‘proof the wisest and best are liable to error’ (vol. 3, p. 208). The ‘error’ is excessive religious emotion, ‘ecstatic transports, which defeat the chief aim of religion, which is to regulate the mind’ (p. 208). However, Mary Shelley has none of Voltaire’s acidity in exposing the power of the Catholic church. With admirable historical dispassionateness, she contextualises Fénelon’s submission to the Pope’s condemnation of his book in terms of his own beliefs, not hers (pp. 217–18). Fénelon thus becomes the bridge between the first and second volumes of French Lives, representing a religious ideal that also counters the case made by materialist Philosophes against religion, and the ethics of self-interest fostered by this materialism. Though the Philosophes were a diverse group, Carlyle’s collective name for their writings as ‘The Acts and Epistles of the Parisian Church of Anti-Christ’ is a good example of the tendency to demonise them as all equally hostile to religion.25 Many English men and women of the 1830s would have agreed with Dr. Johnson’s verdict of the influence of Voltaire and Rousseau: ‘It is difficult to settle the proportion of iniquity between them.’26 A further example of the censure they typically attracted is David Brewster’s Edinburgh Encyclopædia entries on Voltaire and Rousseau. That on Voltaire in 1830 described his works as ‘more specious and brilliant than solid or correct’ and rejoiced that his attacks on religion ‘have now lost their power, and the doctrines of the Gospel stand on ground as high as before’.27 The entry on Rousseau borrowed heavily from J. E. Smith’s article in Rees’s Cyclopædia, often following Smith line for line but altering Smith’s mild strictures to strong censure.28 Rousseau was proud, affected, unrepentant, lacking in real genius; Émile contained ‘insidious and open objections to Christianity’.29 Mary Shelley’s Lardner entries attempt a more sympathetic picture. She knows that Rousseau has ‘errors’ but she tries to show how they arose from his personality and experiences. She confronts the problem of Voltaire head on, acknowledging that he has been called the Apostle of Infidelity. But, she argues, it is too easy to berate him, and he had ‘his uses’ (vol. 3, p. 241). She insists that the Catholic practices he criticised were not identical with Christianity, and that he stood for an essentially important principle: ‘Liberty for the soul’ ( p. 242). She cleverly points out that Voltaire’s admiration for freedom of thought was based on his experience of England and was thus an English virtue (p. 254), while conceding that Voltaire’s cast of mind had a limited capacity to understand the sublime (p. 241). Her essays on Racine, Boileau, Pascal and Fénelon had already demonstrated the strength of institutionalised religion in seventeenth century xlviii

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France, which made Voltaire’s anti-clericalism understandable, and she exhorts her readers that real disciples of the Gospel would find his attacks powerless to injure real religious practice (vol. 3, p. 318). She believed that intellectual and moral progress had been made since the seventeenth century, and that more progress could be made in her own time by equipping the masses with knowledge so that they could use their increased political freedom wisely. ‘The proper task of the lawgiver and philanthropist is to enlighten nations, now that masses exert so great an influence over governments.’ (vol. 3, p. 232.) Such convictions made her an ideal Lardner contributor.

Biography and Concealed Autobiography If exploring the Enlightenment and the revolutionary era was a way of examining her parental legacy, there were some themes implicit in Mary Shelley’s biographies with more personal resonance than others. One is suicide. Romanticism had enshrined the solitary conscience – and solitary suffering – above social and religious taboos on suicide. To take one’s life, like Goethe’s Werther or the poet Chatterton, could now be justified as the logical outcome of a tragic passion, or a response to life’s failure to accommodate genius. When the lover of Mme de Staël’s heroine Delphine – from whom she has been parted by a combination of mutual misunderstanding and female machination – is shot by the French emigré army, she takes her life almost as a matter of principle, an ending that generated sustained controversy. The Reign of Terror had revived the practice of the political suicide, in imitation of Roman republican Stoicism. Mary Shelley is not altogether consistent in her judgements when her subjects contemplate or commit suicide. In ‘Mirabeau’, it is clear she commends the considerate prison governor Le Noir who halts Mirabeau’s despair and restores his will to live (vol. 3, p. 399). She has nevertheless also shown the extent of the circumstances prompting such despair: the consistent malignity of his father, who has caused his imprisonment, and his parting from his young, pregnant mistress. His situation would have made such an act comprehensible, if not excusable. Similarly, she puts discussion of Rousseau’s possible suicide in the context of his recurrent paranoia and physical pain. In contrast Mme Roland’s despair and contemplation of suicide in prison is seen as a political as much as a personal strategy, a courageous recourse at a time of political disillusion. Mary Shelley cites Mme Roland’s journal: ‘to live is basely to submit to a ferocious rule, and to give it the opportunity of committing fresh atrocities’, implicitly commending this stoic courage, but commending still more the fact that her impending trial makes her determined to live in order to speak out against revolutionary miscarriages of justice (vol. 3, pp. 453–4). Instead, it is Roland’s husband who exemplifies a noble, Stoic political suicide when he takes his life in an act of paternal devotion, since being guillotined would also have deprived his daughter by the additional confiscation of the family’s assets (vol. 3, p. 455). xlix

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Yet de Staël is by no means exonerated for creating a heroine whose suicide is partly occasioned by political circumstances. Rather, she is severely reproved for originating the ‘Byronic school’, which positively wallows in despair and recommends suicide. The writer’s duty by contrast is to encourage the hope that however vexatious one’s personal tragedies, there are moral lessons to be learnt from them, and a ‘higher wisdom’. An author should provide medicine, not poison – a passionately considered manifesto of the writer’s role as secular consoler (vol. 3, pp. 480–1). And, of course, behind these views of the ethics of suicide lies the knowledge of her own mother’s suicide attempts, the suicide of her half-sister, Fanny Godwin, and that of her husband’s first wife Harriet. Several other of the Lives have traces of concealed autobiography. Rousseau’s abandonment of his children to probable death in the Foundling Home elicits a cardinal article of faith and a critique of his conjectural anthropology, as outlined in the Second Discourse, ‘On the Origins of Inequality’. Here Rousseau had pictured ‘natural man’ as essentially solitary, forming only brief sexual connections without emotional engagement, and leaving the strong, savage woman to rear her children on her own. Mary Shelley robustly rebutted this: ‘man has ever been found […] the protector of women, and the source of his children’s subsistence; and among all societies, however barbarously constituted, the gentler and nobler individuals among them have loved their wives and their offspring with constant and self-sacrificing passion’. Moreover, whether civilisation advances or returns to its primitive origins, ‘in all let us hold fast by the affections: the cultivation of these ought to be the scope of every teacher of morality, every well-wisher to the improvement of the human race’ (vol. 3, p. 337). The ‘natural and imperative duties of life, even in the most primitive states of society’ lie in fatherhood and motherhood, though Rousseau’s moral failure shows that ‘a father is not to be trusted for natural instincts towards his offspring’ (p. 334). Rousseau’s ethos of independence, ‘that regards the just claims of our fellow-creatures as injurious and intolerable, and that casts off the affections as troublesome shackles’, is judged to be ‘one of the greatest errors that the human heart can nourish’ (p. 365). She is always interested in exemplary mothers, and sees Mme de Sévigné in this light. Modern observers are apt to sympathise with de Sévigné’s married daughter, Mme de Grignan, who resented her mother’s controlling affection. Mary Shelley does not see that this affection was suffocating; instead she blames the daughter for a hardness of character and an unamiability which led her to find her mother’s concentration on her burdensome. As this mellowed, ‘We find a perfect harmony between mother and daughter subsist during the latter years of the life of the former, and repose succeed to the more stormy early intercourse.’ (vol. 3, p. 107.) This was to idealise a relationship that even Sévigné’s contemporaries thought was obsessive and pathological; yet growing up without her biological mother, and finding the second Mrs Godwin far from congenial, Mary Shelley writes her own script of what a mother’s love would be like and how a daughter would, ideally, respond. Mme Roland’s constant concern for her daughter is similarly emphasised. l

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In contrast, the easy rapport she describes between de Sévigné and her son, even while it has a factual basis, reflects most probably Mary Shelley’s affection for her own son, and her hopes that they would be companions as adults. Her preoccupation with the nature of English education for young men also comes out in her essay on Rousseau. Young Percy Shelley was sent to Harrow School, one of the leading ‘public’ schools. This situation is implicitly present when she considers Rousseau’s preference for the private tutor. She concurs with Prosper Barante’s judgement (which was also Wollstonecraft’s) that the educational novel Émile would have been more useful had it outlined a programme of public education: ‘[P]ublic education is doubtless the best fitted to form the character of social man. Properly carried on, it prevents all need of having recourse to those plans and impostures which deface Rousseau’s system. The little world of boys brings its own necessities and lessons with it: the chief care devolving on the master, to prevent the elder and stronger from domineering over the young and weak.’ (vol. 3, p. 366.) If Mary Shelley’s picture of mothers and daughters reflects an unsatisfied craving in her life, her portrayal of the father and daughter relationship of Jacques Necker and Mme de Staël has its echoes in her great love for her father, which she herself admitted was when she was young an ‘excessive & romantic attachment’.30 In writing on de Staël, one of her main sources was the remarkably penetrating biographical notice composed for the first collected edition by de Staël’s cousin by marriage, Albertine Necker de Saussure. The latter makes plain the way the young Germaine functioned as a rival to her mother for her father’s affection, and Mary Shelley is not abashed to enlarge on this in her sketch. ‘Love for this father was the master-passion of madame de Staël’s life’ she writes, following Necker de Saussure closely. But there is surely also a close similarity, in her vignette of Necker as an old man, to her own close intellectual companionship with Godwin after she returned to England: ‘He was her dearest friend – the prop of her fortunes; her adviser, her shelter, her teacher, her approver – the seal of her prosperity and her glory.’ (vol. 3, p. 481.) Except, of course, that Mary Shelley was often the financial supporter of the ever-impecunious Godwin.31 Her superbly concentrated essay on Condorcet functioned as a portrait of a personality type characteristic of the Revolutionary era, of which both her father and her husband were instances: the type of the Utopian intellectual systematiser and idealist. Her sources for Condorcet’s life were slight, and her essay is on one level a translation of a biographical entry. Yet it transcends the commonplace by being not a recital of facts but a sustained consideration of Condorcet’s intellectual character and moral disposition. If she knew Brewster’s encyclopædia entry, it was also a determined refutation of Condorcet as a dangerous free-thinker and democrat.

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Mary Shelley and Early Victorian Feminism The 1830s was a difficult decade for women who wanted to draw attention to their rights and needs. Organised feminism – insofar as it existed – was largely associated with Owenite socialism or French St Simonianism, and thus with controversial attitudes to marriage, sexuality and the family; not with ‘reasonable’ campaigns about education, employment or the needs of ‘surplus women’ which characterised the 1850s.32 In 1828 Mary Shelley had been enormously impressed with the American Utopian socialist Frances Wright, but demurred from joining in her Nashoba adventure, both because she doubted whether a commune would work practically, and because she couldn’t risk Sir Timothy Shelley’s disapproval.33 While she was involved with the Lardner Lives, she helped Caroline Norton draft her pamphlet on mothers’ rights. Norton, a Whig, had been forced to leave the marital home and lose custody of her children through a marital scandal manufactured by her Tory husband. But Norton’s language was not that of women’s rights in any Wollstonecraftian sense. She wanted the Whigs to legislate for the instances where men did not act as the chivalrous protectors of women; she carefully upheld the idea that the norm was a married couple headed by a male head of household. A mother’s sacred rights were one thing; polemical feminism quite another.34 Thus, when in 1838 Mary Shelley refused Edward Trelawny’s request to write a pamphlet on women’s rights for the Philosophical Radicals, there was no contradiction between this refusal and her assertion that she had ‘ever befriended women when oppressed’.35 The question remains as to how far Mary Shelley shows herself as a friend to women in her French Lives. Collective biographies of eminent women or women’s influence were a distinct literary genre, with roots in Enlightenment conjectural history, attempted by Mary Hays, by Anna Jameson and a few years later in 1840 by Lady Morgan.36 Searching for a marketable book project, in 1830 she had suggested to Murray one on ‘Celebrated women – or history of Woman – her position in society and her influence upon it’.37 French Lives offered her scope for just such a project. Seventeenth-century France was particularly noted for the emergence of literary women such as Mme de Lafayette, Mlle Scudéry, the précieuses, and the important salonières. The idea that France honoured literary women was widely held, despite the greater actual participation of British writers in the literary market-place.38 The opportunity certainly existed for anyone writing on the Grand Siècle to celebrate female accomplishment. Yet her treatment of the précieuses in ‘Molière’ differs very little from Walter Scott’s light mockery, which she essentially paraphrases. This may be linked to prejudices against the artificiality of French literary culture, or a reluctance to revive literary reputations that were completely unfashionable, but it does not suggest desire to rehabilitate all literary women at all times. She seems most at home celebrating the more private virtues of de Sévigné: her chaste widowhood; her loyalty as a friend; her maternal devotion. She is portrayed as someone who is a kind of scientist of the inner life, praised for ‘her penetration into the human heart, and her sympathy with all that lii

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is upright and good’. (vol. 3, p. 127, note) But in including de Sévigné she was probably pushing at an open door as, it seems, Lardner had previously commissioned an (unused) ‘Sevigné’. So she had a precedent for stretching the brief to include eminent women, and her assertion that ‘we could not omit a name so highly honourable to her country as that of madame de Sévigné, in a series of biography whose intent is to give an account of the persons whose genius has adorned the world’ (vol. 3, p. 93) was unlikely to have encountered many dissenters, especially since literary lives had more obvious appeal to a female market than, say, Lives of Eminent British Lawyers. It is noteworthy that the only other biographical title which includes women subjects is also a literary one: Lives of British Dramatists, by Samuel Astley Dunham and Robert Bell, included Aphra Behn, Susannah Centlivre and Hannah Cowley. Looking more closely at the very various roles of women in the Lives, it is hard to see a clear pattern. In ‘Montaigne’, the early scholar and feminist Marie le Jars de Gournay is noted as a learned lady who was unjustly treated by pedants (p. 316), while in ‘Corneille’, three women are singled out as important: his muse, Mme du Pont; his sister and dramatic consultant, Marthe, and his patroness, Henriette d’Orléans. Mary Shelley deplores Jacqueline Pascal’s asceticism, which led her to the convent after showing literary promise, but this is also consistent with her criticism of asceticism in her brother’s life, and its restrictive influence on Racine. When she wrote Condorcet’s life, she did not take the opportunity to discuss his wife, Sophie de Condorcet, the translator of Adam Smith, beyond a very brief mention. Yet the biographical dictionary she had used as her main source on Condorcet contained a separate article devoted to her. In ‘Madame Roland’, she concludes by stating the belief that Roland would have conformed to her husband’s wishes had he desired her to moderate her political activity: arguably another endorsement of private virtues. The most consistent ‘feminism’ displayed throughout French Lives II lies in her examination of French attitudes toward love, marriage, and sexuality. She is not censorious about the sexually liberated Ninon de L’Enclos, showing that she was also a cultured and generous woman. The fact that salonières like Mme d’Houdetôt or Mme d’Epinay take lovers is sympathetically explained as a consequence of French arranged marriages; similarly, Sophie de Ruffey’s elopement with Mirabeau is put into the context of the ancien régime practice of marrying girls just out of the convent to much older men. The shrewish complaints of Rousseau’s low-born wife Thérèse are not ignored, but she is excused for her behaviour because she has been deprived of her normal maternal functions by Rousseau’s inhuman consignment of their children to the Foundling Home. And rather than detract from her picture of de Staël’s political stature, she simply omits any discussion of her love affairs, and the fact that none of her children was fathered by the Baron de Staël, though she was certainly aware of the real story. This historical sympathy for the varied circumstances of women’s relationships mirrors her personal practice of understanding and assisting those of her women friends who transgressed moral norms. liii

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Yet despite her caution and discretion, there is one resounding statement on behalf of women’s right to an intellectual life. This is when she discusses Rousseau’s fictional heroine, Julie. She has already excused Julie for her love affair with St Preux. When she marries the elderly Wolmar, whom she does not love, Mary Shelley cannot see this as a moral achievement, as Rousseau intended. Then she adds, alluding to the domestic idyll portrayed by the novel, ‘His ideas also of a perfect life are singularly faulty. It includes no instruction, no endeavours to acquire knowledge and refine the soul by study; but is contracted to mere domestic avocations’ (vol. 3, p. 366). For Mary Shelley, it was imperative for women to be culturally and intellectually active. Like Wollstonecraft, she does not develop the logic of her position and articulate a future where all women, including servants and peasants, will have equal access to education, yet nothing that she says denies this future goal, and her frequently expressed belief in the power of education to further the ‘march of mind’ implies it. Many of Lardner’s intended audience of self-improvers with modest educations would have been women. In contributing to an enterprise designed to broaden the ‘march of mind’, Mary Shelley was helping women, alongside men, to take their intellectual and cultural selfdevelopment into their own hands.39

NOTES ON FRENCH LIVES I [MONTAIGNE TO ROCHEFOUCAULD} MONTAIGNE ‘Montaigne’ is likely to have been one of Mary Shelley’s own proposals. She heard P. B. Shelley read Montaigne’s Essays in October 1816 and read them herself in bursts during 1818, 1819 and 1822 (MWSJ, II, p. 663). Both regarded the Essays as among the ‘most delightful and instructive books in the world’ (MWSN, vol. 2, p. 297). A Shelley booklist of c. 1819–20 records a four-volume edition of Montaigne and a three-volume edition of ‘Voyages de Montaigne’, evidently the Voyage en Italie (Bodleian adds. c. 5 fol. 156r). The former may have contained letters, traditionally included, and Étienne de la Boétie’s ‘On Voluntary Servitude’ as Claire Clairmont translated this work in March–April 1820 (CCJ, p. 509). The editions of the Essais used by Mary Shelley still awaits futher research for identification, but the one she used for Journal du Voyages en Italie is reasonably certain (see footnotes for further discussion). She focuses on passionate friendship and education, while Montaigne’s rambling tour in search of health looks backward to P. B. Shelley’s journeys in Italy and forward to her own Continental ‘Rambles’ of the 1840s. (The Shelleys spent the summer of 1818 at Bagni di Lucca, a few doors away from where Montaigne had stayed.) Unlike some eighteenth-century commentators, she treats Montaigne as a harbinger of religious tolerance rather than as a proto-sceptic; thus Montaigne (the first Life in French liv

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Lives I) is linked to Fénelon (the last). She pays little attention to his development of the essay genre, but praises his style. ‘Montaigne’ is also drawn from an unidentified biographical source and the prefatory introductions of Montaigne’s first editors (Marie de Gournay, de Querlon). To date, it is the only Cyclopædia biography for which a citation of her as the author during her lifetime has been located; William Hazlitt the Younger, in the Preface and Notes to his landmark edition of The Complete Works of Montaigne (London: J. Templeman, 1842), mentions ‘Mrs Shelley’s’ commentary respectfully no fewer than three times. As Hazlitt was an acquaintance (two of Mary Shelley’s letters to him survive), he may have confirmed the attribution personally with her.40 N. C. RABELAIS [not by Mary Shelley] No allusion to Rabelais exists in any of Mary Shelley’s known writings, but Thomas Moore wrote to her in 1841 in terms which assume some acquaintance with his work on her part. Godwin introduces Rabelais as one of the choice wits of the age who frequent the mansion of Marguerite Damville’s father in St Leon. If her writing was often fastidious, her reading was not. So it is possible to conceive of her reading Rabelais or even writing a brief biography. But even if there were not conclusive evidence of another’s authorship, this ‘Rabelais’ would be at best a suspect item, only plausibly hers if ‘La Fontaine’ was as well. The absence of any reference to the more philosophical episodes such as the Abbey of Thélème and the surreptitiously smuggled-in reference to the bawdy ‘Hans Carvel’s Ring’ (versified by Matthew Prior, not Dryden) would still remain contraindicative puzzles. ‘Rabelais’ appears to be hastily done. It contains much padding out with booklore together with loose ends such as a detail about the transliteration of Greek. Unlike ‘La Fontaine’, there are no hints that Mary Shelley may have collated this Life with her own work. It is out of chronology. She might have insisted that, if the volume were to be advertised in her name, an article by another should not be the first. Possibly, too, it was thought imprudent to lead off the volume with an author who was a sealed book to the many on account of his notorious ‘buffooneries’. Nevertheless, Rabelais needed to be included because of his status as a father of French literature. As a near-contemporary article put it ‘Montaigne, Lafontaine, Molière, descend from him’ (‘Of Rabelais’, Fraser’s Magazine, XX (Nov. 1839), 514). The Longman Archive records that £20 was paid for ‘Rabelais’ and ‘La Fontaine’ together in 1830. The choice of the episode of Grippe-Menaud for illustration might suggest an author with a legal backgound. Henry Roscoe, a barrister with literary leanings, brother of Thomas Roscoe and author of the Lardner Lives of Eminent British Lawyers is a (speculative) possibility. Common authorship with ‘La Fontaine’ is indicated by the use of the Abbé Niceron’s encyclopaedic Mémoires pour servir a l’histoire des hommes illustres dans la république des lettres lv

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(1729–45) and their similar attitudes towards comic bawdy – indeed, its only links with any other of the French Lives are with ‘La Fontaine’. N. C. CORNEILLE Lardner’s Accounts Ledger in Longman’s archive shows that £35 had been paid for a ‘Corneille & [?]Sevgniey’ before 1836, possibly as early as 1832. ‘Corneille’ has what looks like some cross-referencing to ‘La Fontaine’ (see vol. 3) and if ‘La Fontaine’ was released to Mary Shelley, then it is possible that the earlier biography of Corneille was as well. Apart from this dubious evidence, there is no sign of an ur-text by another being remodelled here; this biography bears her stamp throughout, both in style and content, and has her characteristic marginal glosses. The four plays that are singled out for especial discussion (Le Cid, Cinna, Horace and Polyeucte) had been read at Bagni di Lucca in 1818 (MWSJ, I, p. 213). Reflections on the flourishing of the arts under a despotism, the foregrounding of the debt of French drama to the Spanish, compliments to Lord Holland, Sheridan Knowles and Bulwer – all these evidence her hand, as also do phrases such as ‘epidemic transport’ – found in P. B. Shelley’s preface to The Revolt of Islam (Laon and Cythna) – and ‘want of keeping’. Corneille’s high reputation had declined during the latter part of the eighteenth century, largely owing to Voltaire. Mary Shelley both preserves a continuity with English Augustan taste, which had celebrated ‘Corneille’s noble fire’ (Pope), and participates in a Romantic rehabilitation of him as a dramatist more energetic and sublime than Racine. Since she quotes from Corneille’s poetry at one point, she would appear to be using a ‘Works’ but may have used a ‘Dramas’ as well, and there were many late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century ‘Œuvres’ or ‘Théâtre’ of Corneille. Major collected editions included various combinations of the following biographical and critical apparatus: the ‘Vie’ by Corneille’s nephew Fontenelle, Corneille’s ‘Examens’ (comments) on his own works, Voltaire’s ‘Prefaces’ and critical annotations to Corneille, the ‘Observations de Scudéri sur le Cid’ and the most admired plays of Corneille’s brother Thomas, all of which Mary Shelley alludes to or cites. Two such editions are the magnificent 1795 DidotAîné quarto ten-volume Théâtre de Corneille and the 1817 twelve-volume octavo Œuvres de P. Corneille edited by A. A. Renouard. However, she appears to be supplementing the ‘Vie’ with details from some other sources. She evidently had access to corrections of some of Fontenelle’s inaccuracies. Jules Taschereau’s Histoire de la vie et des ouvrages de P. Corneille (Paris: Alexandre Mesnier, 1829) draws attention to these and gives references. As she used Taschereau’s Molière, she may have also used his Corneille, but in this case possibly principally as a bibliographical source. N. C.

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ROCHEFOUCAULD ‘Rochefoucauld’ gave Mary Shelley the opportunity to confront (as Hume, Godwin, Hazlitt, P. B. Shelley and the Utilitarians all had done) the long-running philosophical question as to whether humans are primarily motivated by self-love. The essay points forward to her interpretation of the Enlightenment in French Lives II. It is not known when she first read his Maximes, but a letter of 1825 shows her referring easily to them. Mary Shelley consulted memoirs of the period for her information on La Rochefoucauld’s life, comparing his account and that of his secretary Gourville with those of the Cardinal de Retz and his secretary, Guy Joli. She very probably read the last two in an 1817 edition which combined them, thus facilitating critical comparison. It is very likely that she used the edition of La Rochefoucauld’s Maximes which included the biographical notice by Suard, with its citations of Mme de Maintenon’s portrait and Bayle’s obscure comment in a footnote, which the notice may have prompted her to look up herself. Finally she cited Mme de Sévigné’s letters for the later life and death of La Rochefoucauld. For historical background and some interpretative analysis of the complex civil war or Fronde, she used the very recently published historical account by G. P. R. James. CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR

Notes 1

MWSL, II, p. 293, letter to Leigh Hunt (?Dec. 1837–Mar. 1838). Cited from William Charles Macready’s Diaries 1833–1851, ed. William Toynbee, 2 vols (London 1912); see MWSJ, I, p. 612. 3 MWSL, I, pp. 540–1, letter to ?Charles Ollier, 16 January ?1827. 4 MWSJ, II, pp. 631–84, ‘The Shelleys’ Reading List’; MWSL, I, pp. 32 and 503. 5 Michael Rossington, ‘Republican Histories and Memories: the Shelleys and Geneva, 1814– 16’, from conference proceedings of ‘Geneva: An English Enclave’ in Travaux sur la Suisse des Lumières (Geneva: Editions Slatkine, forthcoming). 6 E.g. MWSL, II, p. 48, where she enthuses over the Comte de Ségur’s memoirs, but found those of Mme de Genlis too egotistical. 7 ‘The English in Italy’, MWSN, vol. 2, p. 148. 8 MWSL, II, p. 41; Letter to Jane Williams Hogg, p. 44; Letter to John Howard Payne, 8 June 1828; MWSJ, II, p. 555. 9 Johanna M. Smith, Mary Shelley (New York: Twayne, 1996), pp. 139–40. Smith was the first to challenge unequivocally in print the assumption (made by Palacio and, implicitly, by Crook in MWSN) that Mary Shelley wrote all the French Lives. 10 MWSJ, II, p. 551. 11 The name could be ‘Rolande’s’ but is more probably ‘Rolandi’s’. Rolandi of Berners Street, bookseller and publisher, may well have run a circulating library, as did Saunders and Otley (subscribed to by Longman for the Cyclopædia on a regular basis, as the ledgers show). As a publisher, Rolandi seems to have specialised in Italian writers, but could have imported French books too. It published Il primo vicerè di Napoli, which Mary Shelley discusses in ‘Modern Italian Romances’ (vol. 4). Payments to the library on behalf of Mrs Shelley are shown for £1 4s 2

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(10 Oct. 1838) and £1 15s (5 Sept. 1839), obviously retrospective payments (Longman Archive, Reel 26). 12 The figure of 31 pages suggests that copy was being sent to the printers in quantities approximating to the quires of the printed book. The Lardner Lives are made up of regular quires of 8 leaves; she had therefore sent about two quires’ worth of copy. Such evidence as survives from Frankenstein and Valperga MSS, and from letters, suggests that she wrote to size – for a three-volume novel c. 300 pages per volume, she would produce c. 900 pages of manuscript, in three parts, each of c. 300 pages. 13 Keats–Shelley Journal, XLVI (1997), p. 67. 14 Longman Archive, Reels 26, 29. Two separate sums of £50 are recorded as paid out to ‘Fr Lit Biog Vol 1’ on 8 Feb. and 6 Aug. 1838, and a final £150, the ‘Balance Lity Lives France Vol 1 Author and Editor’ (i.e. £100 to Mary Shelley and £50 to Lardner), on 11 Oct. 1838. Payment of £250 to the ‘Author and Editor for FrLives Vol 2’ in one lump sum recorded on 6 Dec. 1838. 15 MWSL, II, p. 317. The direction suggests that some Lives had been printed out of sequence. Possibly ‘Madame de Staël’, using material collected from 1829–30, was the first of the final four to be finished and sent. There appears to have been some confusion as to whether the French Lives were to be vols 4 and 5 of a 5-volume set or a 2-volume set on their own. With French Lives I the volume number on the signature line begins as VOL . IV , then abruptly changes to VOL . I at signature N (p. 177 of ‘La Fontaine’, original pagination). With French Lives II the signature line has VOL . II throughout. The French Lives were always listed separately in advertisements from the other three and the two sets were separately indexed. 16 Her 6 free copies of French Lives II were despatched 8 October 1839. A Mr. Hamilton was apparently paid £2 for an index, or possibly a chronology, for both volumes of French Lives. This may have been a sundry item, as the sum seems unduly low for a complete fee. French Lives I, like Spanish Lives, had a print run of 2,500 – average for Lardner volumes at this stage – and sold 1,575 copies in the first half year. The run was never quite exhausted. French Lives II had a print run of 2,000 copies. It sold 1349 copies in the first half year; in 1854 it had sold out, and a batch of 250 was reprinted (Longman Archive, Reels 26, 29). 17 The Sunday Times, no. 824 (5 Aug. 1838), p. 5 col. 1. 18 ‘Of History and Romance’ in Political and Philosophical Writings of William Godwin, vol. 5, ed. Pamela Clemit (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1993), p. 301. 19 Henry, Lord Brougham, ‘Thoughts upon the Aristocracy of England’ by Isaac Tomkins [pseud.] and ‘A Letter to Isaac Tomkins […] from Mr. Peter Jenkins’ (1835); William Thomas, The Philosophic Radicals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979); James Hamburger, James Mill and the Art of Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963). 20 MWSJ, II, entry for 21 Oct. 1838, pp. 553, 554, 555. 21 Janet Todd, Mary Wollstonecraft: A Revolutionary Life (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2000), pp. 218–22; Gary Kelly, Women, Writing, and Revolutionary France, 1790–1827 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). 22 See Stephen Holmes, Benjamin Constant and the Making of Modern Liberalism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984). For her introduction to French liberal circles, see MWSL, II, pp. xxi, 14n, 38–43; Sunstein, pp. 287–9; Miranda Seymour, Mary Shelley (London: John Murray, 2000), pp. 390–4; also, for a portrait of some of her French friends, M. Lesser, ed. Clarkey: A Portrait in Letters of Mary Clarke Mohl, 1793–1883 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). 23 MWSL, II, pp. 117–18, letter to General Lafayette, 11 Nov. 1830; pp. 123–4, letter to Frances Wright, 30 Dec. 1830. 24 Godwin by 1800 had come to disagree with Montesquieu on the question of nature vs nurture. Montesquieu held that environment was largely responsible for inequalities between persons whereas Godwin came to believe that some part was played by innate differences. Mary Shelley may have preferred to avoid this particular controversy, or might have simply thought Montesquieu an insufficiently significant or interesting figure. 25 ‘Diderot’ in Critical and Miscellaneous Essays III, Centenary Edition of Works of Thomas Carlyle. This essay appeared in the Foreign Quarterly Review for 1833.

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IN TR OD U CT ION : FR E NCH LIV ES 26 James Boswell, The Life of Johnson (1791), new edn, ed. C. Hibbert (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979), p. 132. 27 Edinburgh Encyclopædia (1830), vol. XVIII, p. 17. 28 Smith was a disciple of Rousseau but even so he admitted that La Nouvelle Héloïse contained ‘much improper matter’ alongside ‘many lessons of domestic prudence and virtue’. However he stoutly maintained that in Émile ‘No-one could more eloquently extol the morals of the gospel in the character of its Founder than he has done’ (Rees’s Cyclopædia (1827 edn), vol. XXX, Rousseau entry). 29 Edinburgh Encyclopædia (1830), vol. XVIII, pp. 477–*473. 30 MWSL, II, p. 215. 31 Pamela Clemit, ‘Mary Shelley and William Godwin: a literary-political partnership, 1823–36’ in Women’s Writing, 6:3 (1999), 285–95. 32 Clarissa Campbell Orr, ‘Cross-Channel Perspectives’, pp. 23–7 Wollstonecraft’s Daughters: Womanhood in England and France 1780–1920, ed. C. Campbell Orr (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996); John Killham, Tennyson and the Princess: Reflections of an Age (London: The Athlone Press, 1958). 33 See Sunstein, pp. 283–5; Seymour, Mary Shelley, pp. 383–6. 34 For Mary Shelley’s correspondence and friendship with Caroline Norton, see letters in MWSL, II, and MWSJ, II, pp. 614–16; see also Mary Poovey, Uneven Developments: The Ideological Work of Gender in mid-Victorian England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988); Clarissa Campbell Orr, ‘Caroline Norton’ in J. Todd, ed., Dictionary of British Women Writers (London: Routledge, 1989). 35 MWSJ, II, p. 557. 36 For an attempt to relate Mary Shelley to this genre based largely on the Italian Lives see Greg Kucich, ‘Mary Shelley’s Lives and the Reengendering of History’ in Mary Shelley in her Times, ed. Betty T. Bennett and Stuart Curran (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). For Enlightenment conjectural histories see Sylvana Tomaselli, ‘The Enlightenment Debate on Women’ History Workshop Journal, 20 (1985), 201–4, and ibid., ‘Reflections on the History of the Science of Woman’, History of Science, 29 (1991), 185–205. 37 MWSL, II, p. 115, letter to John Murray, 8 Sept. 1830. 38 Clarissa Campbell Orr, ‘Cross-Channel Perspectives’. 39 In her journal entry for 21 October 1838, significantly she speaks of ‘the cause of the advancement of freedom and knowledge – of the Rights of women &c’ in the same breath. The march of mind and the progress of women go hand in hand – not necessarily, or exclusively, a political process (MWSJ, II, p. 553). 40 See MWSL, II, pp. 277, 299; A J. H. Friswell in the preface to a popular edition of selected Essays of Montaigne (London: Sampson Low, 1869), repeats, with acknowledgements, her judgement on Étienne de la Boétie’s ‘On Voluntary Servitude’, while admitting that he had not read it.

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LITERARY LIVES SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LIVES

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Title Page Vignette: Designed and engraved, as with the Italian Lives, by H. Corbould and E. Finden. The date has not been altered. A ledger record shows that Finden was paid £31. 10s for the engraving on 26 October 1837, which may mean that the design was not decided upon before Mary Shelley undertook this volume. Unlike the vignettes for the two Italian Lives volumes, this title-page is completely relevant to the contents and it is also more imaginative and elaborate than the previous two. Clockwise from the top, the portraits are of Calderón, Camoëns (Camões) and Cervantes, standing respectively for Hispanic drama, Portuguese epic and the Spanish novel. The design shows understanding of some of the key points of the volume; that so many of the writers were also soldiers is symbolised by the accoutrements of the sword and the pen on either side of the portrait group, while the masks of tragedy and comedy, the laurel leaves of poetic fame (perhaps alluding to Lope’s Laurel de Apolo) and a Quixotic windmill are also incorporated. The choice of Calderón rather than Lope de Vega to represent drama could mean that Mary Shelley was consulted as to her preference. Camoëns’s medallion is taken from a portrait that shows him as one-eyed. The portrait derives from the frontispiece to Adamson’s Memoirs of Camoëns, or a common source.

4

( OF ITALY ST'AfN AND PORTl:GAL)

\JJ.nn r:t..o·n:::

VRINTi:J) FO[( LONG.?.BX: ORM£,, BROWN mr:r:n~ J: L ONG.MAN'S, f'AlTRNOsn:n Ji(J,'{: A.ND TA:'iLOH., 1:t•PF,R GOWH/. S.:fRf:',}'.T 183'/

.mm,r

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CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION:

Page

MOSEN JORDI

[6]

13

THE CANCIONEROS

[9]

16

[11]

18

[11]

19

ALPHONSO X. AND ALPHONSO XI. AND

HIS

COURT

HIS

COURT

J UAN

DE

MENA

[14]

21

J UAN

DE

ENZINA

[17]

24

BOSCAN

[21]

27

GARCILASO DE LA VEGA

[36]

43

DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA

[58]

67

LUIS DE LEON

[70]

77

HERRERA

[83]

90

[89]

96

CASTILLEJO

[92]

98

THE EARLY DRAMATISTS

[95]

100

ERCILLA [Not by Mary Shelley]

[103]

107

CERVANTES

[120]

119

LOPE DE VEGA

[189]

170

VICENTE ESPINEL – ESTEBAN DE VILLEGAS [238]

209

GONGORA

[243]

215

QUEVEDO

[255]

227

CALDERON

[278]

245

J ORGE

DE

MONTEMAYOR

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[288]

254

RIBEYRA

[290]

256

S AA

[291]

257

GIL VICENTE

[292]

257

FERREIRA

[292]

257

[295]

259

EARLY POETS OF PORTUGAL

DE

MIRANDA

CAMOENS

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LIVES OF

EMINENT LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN. INTRODUCTION. MOSEN JORDI .

–

CANCIONERO .

ALPHONSO XI . AND HIS COURT .

– –

ALPHONSO X . AND HIS COURT .

–

JUAN DE MENA .

IN every other country, to treat of its literary men is at the same time to give a history of its literature. In Spain it is otherwise. We have no trace of who the poets were who produced that vast collection of ballads and romances, which, full of chivalry and adventure, love and war, fascinate the imagination, and bestow immortality on heroes – some real, some fictitious – who otherwise had never been known. To understand the merits of the later writers, to know on what their style and spirit was formed, it is necessary to give some account of the early, and also of the anonymous, poetry of Spain. Nor will it be foreign to the subject, nor uninteresting, slightly to trace the progress of literature in the Peninsula from its earliest date. From a thousand causes Spain is the land of romance. There never was any one who has travelled in that country, whatever might be his political opinions, or his view of human nature and society, but admired and loved the Spaniards. There is an originality, an independence, / an enthusiasm, in the Spanish character that distinguishes them from every other people. Despotism and the Inquisition, ignorance and superstition, have been unable to level the noble altitude of their souls; and even while the manifestations of genius have been crushed, genius has survived.a From early times Spain was the birthplace of men of eminence in literature. We know little of the aborigines, and nothing of their language, except that from the earliest times they appear to have been gifted with that love of song that a

Mary Shelley begins her account in the spirit of a slight variation on John Bowring’s essay in the Retrospective Review, III (1821), 195–6, which observes that the existing body of early Spanish poetry is larger than that of English poetry. She focuses not on the works but on their authors, in keeping with her belief that great figures have the ability to teach and to inspire.

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survives to this day. Silius Italicus bears testimony to this taste, when with all the arrogance of assumed superiority he speaks of the verses sung by the Gallicians in their native dialect, “barbara nunc patriis ululantem carmina linguis,”a and Strabo alludes to immemorial ballads sung by the inhabitants of Betica.b When the Spaniards shared the refinements and learning of the capital, several names became distinguished. Lucan was a native of Cordova. We can fancy that we trace the genuine Spanish spirit in this poet – earnestness, enthusiasm, gaudiness, and an inveterate tendency to diffuseness. The two Senecas were natives, also, of the same town.*c The Spaniards with fond pride collect other names which the tide of time sweeping by, has cast on the shore, too obscure for fame, but sufficiently known to prove that the Spanish nation was always prolific in men who sought to distinguish themselves in literature. These recollections, however, belong to another race. / The Visigoths swept over the land, annihilated the Roman power, and, as far as any traces that have come down to us avouch, absorbed the aboriginal Iberian in their invasion.d Yet, though they conquered and reigned over the land, it is to be doubted how far they * “Duosque Senecas, unicumque Lucanum, Facunda loquitur Corduba.” Martial. ep. lxii. lib. i.

And Statius records the same fact:– “Lucanum potes imputare terris, Hoc plus quam Senecam dedisse mundo, Aut dulcem generasse Gallionem. Ut tollat refluos in astra fontes Grajo nobilior Melete Bætis.” Genethliacon.

– Retrospective Review, vol. iii. [pp. 196–7]e

a Silius Italicus: Tiberius Catius Asconius Silius Italicus, (c. 26–c. 101), Latin poet. Quotation taken from the Retrospective Review, III (1821), 196, which translates it as ‘men who liked to sing Barbarian songs in their crude native language’ (Punica, III. 346). b Strabo (64 BC–after AD 24): Greek geographer whose surviving Geography (c. 7 BC) is in seven books; the Shelleys acquired a Strabo in 1817. Betica, the present-day Andalusia, the region of southern Spain where Cordoba is located. c Marcus Annaeus Lucanus (39–65), Latin poet famed for his epic Pharsalia and who committed suicide after provoking the anger of the emperor Nero. The Senecas were his grandfather and uncle. P. B. Shelley rated Lucan very highly and placed him among the mourners in Adonais. d The Visigoths invaded in the 5th century. e Quoted in the Retrospective Review, III (1821), 196–7. Martial, I. ep. 61 (62 is the Retrospective Review’s error). ‘Eloquent Cordova speaks of its two Senecas and its single and preeminent Lucan’ (Epigrams of Martial (London: G. Bell, 1914), p. 57); Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) (c. AD 40–c. 104) was a native of Bilbilis in Spain and was acquainted with Seneca the Younger and Lucan. He wrote more than 1,500 epigrams; Statius, ‘Genethliacon Lucani ad Pollam’, Silvae, II. vii. 30 – 4: ‘[Baetica] thou can’t account mankind in debt to thee for Lucan! This is more than to have given Seneca to the world, or to have borne the sweet-tongued Gallio. Let Baetis, more renowned than Grecian Meles, flow backward and be exalted to the stars’ (Statius. With an English translation by J. H. Mozley, I (London: William Heinemann, 1928), pp. 130–1).

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actually amalgamated with the natives. And it is conjectured that one of the causes why the Moors, after conquering Don Roderic in battle, so soon possessed themselves of city and district, and founded what at first was a sway as peaceful as universal, was occasioned by the distinction still subsisting between Iberian and Goth, which led the former the more readily to submit to new masters.a The Goths were an illiterate people. There is an anecdote recorded in proof of their barbarism on this point. Queen Amalasunta, who appears to have possessed a more refined and exalted mind than the men of her time, was eager to confer on her son Alaric the graces and accomplishments of literature.b The warriors of the land opposed her purpose, – “No,” they cried, “the idleness of study is unworthy of the Goth: high thoughts of glory are not fed by books, but by deeds of valour. He is to be a king whom all should dread. He shall not be compelled to fear his instructors.”* Another proof of the ignorance and small influence of the Goths is their having adopted the language of the conquered country. All that has come down to us from them, with the exception of a few inscriptions, is in the Latin language, and several poems were written in that tongue. Still the Goths loved warlike songs and music. To their days some would trace the redondilla, while it has also been conjectured that the peculiar rhythm of these national ballads had its origin in the camp songs of the Roman soldiers.† At length the Gothic power fell – the Moors entered, overran, and conquered Spain. At first the resistance they met was not at all proportionate to what we / should consider to have been the resources of the Spanish nation. But a noble spirit of resistance was awakened. Difference of religion kept alive what difference of language and habits originated. The enthusiastic patriotism which had gathered as waters in a mountain tarn, overflowed from the heights to which it had retreated, and finally poured over the whole land. From the struggle that ensued a thousand deeds of heroism had birth, and those circumstances were developed, which became the subjects to be consecrated by those beautiful ballads and songs, “in which,” to use the appropriate language of a modern critic, “truth wears the graceful garb of romance, and romance appears the honest handmaid of truth.”c Spain owed much to the Moor, however, from other causes. The Arabs were a learned and refined race. They built cities, palaces, and mosques; they founded universities, they encouraged learning. The most eminent scholars came from the * Retrospective Review, vol. iii. [p. 200] † Boutervek.[I, p. 20] a Retrospective Review, III (1821), 199. Roderic, the last Visigoth king of Spain, was defeated by the Moors in 711 and is the subject of Robert Southey’s poem Roderick, the Last of the Goths (1814), read by Mary Shelley in 1815 (MWSJ, II, p. 677). b Amalasunta (d. 535), the subject of an early play by Metastasio, survived her son and became joint ruler. Sadly, her unpopularity among her Gothic subjects increased. Their opposition brought out the less exalted side of her character and she was eventually murdered. c Quoted from the Retrospective Review, III (1821), 203.

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East to grace their schools, and introduced a spirit of inquiry and a love of knowledge which survived their power. Abdorrhaman III. founded the university at Cordova. He established schools and collected a library, it is said, to the extent of six hundred thousand volumes. The blessings of civilisation was fostered by the Omajad dynasty. Mahometanism never flourished with such true glory as under the Spanish caliphs.a One of the most remarkable circumstances of this era is, the prosperity and learning of the Jews settled in Spain. Persecuted by the Goths*, this hapless nation / doubtless welcomed the Moors gladly; and finding toleration under their rule, and their schools open to them, they flocked to the universities of Cordova and Toledo in such numbers, that one Jewish writer tells us that there were twelve thousand Israelitish students at Toledo; and they gave evidence of the perseverance, sagacity, and talent which belong to that people, and which, fostered by the blessed spirit of toleration, bore worthy fruit. A succession of Hebrew scholars may be traced from the tenth to the fifteenth centuries. De Castro gives an account of seven hundred different works. Every Jew could read. The higher classes flourished in glory and prosperity, so that many of the noblest Spanish families include Jewish sprouts in the tree of their genealogy. Even to this day the Jews’ sons of those driven from Spain to this country remember their Spanish renown, and have preserved a recollection of its language.c Of the Arabic authors of Spain the greater portion were natives of Andalusia. The number of their poets was very considerable. Of the Romances Moriscos * “Through the decree of the fifth council of Toledo, each Gothic king swore, before he was crowned, to extirpate the Jews. Ferdinand and Isabella renewed the nefarious oath, and thus generated the spirit which caused Lope de Vega to recur with satisfaction to the old Gothic law:– “The sceptre was denied of yore, To the elected king, until he swore With his own royal hand To purge the fertile land Of the vile tares that choke the genuine grain, And write the holy law upon the crown of Spain.” “Vedando el consilio Toledano, tomar el cetro al rey sinque primero limpiase el verdadero trigo con propria mano, de la cizana vil que le suprime la Santa Ley en la corona inprime.”

Retrospective Review, vol. iii.b a

Retrospective Review, III (1821), 204 and 206. Abd-er-Rahman III (891–961) Emir of Cordoba from 912 who made the city a cultural centre through his patronage of the arts. The Omajad dynasty ruled in southern Spain 756–1031. b Ibid., p. 207. The prose passage is paraphrased rather than quoted. c Information in these two paragraphs is from the Retrospective Review, III (1821), 207–9.

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doubtless many originated in Arabic poetry.a The old Roman rhythm, the Gothic love of music, the Arab chivalry, and the noble spirit generated by a generous love of freedom, were the sources of these romances. Before we recur to them however, we will mention the connection between the troubadour and Provençal poetry with the Valentian. It is a singular anomaly, we may almost call it, in literature, that a dialect become a written one, adorned by poets and spoken through extensive provinces, should have become the dead tongue of modern times. The French, Italian, and Castillian absorbed the genius that once took form in a tongue which, whether it be called Provençal, Limousin, or Valentian, is still the same, and in it were written the earliest modern verses. Petrarch and Dante raised their native tongue in opposition; but the poetry they studied as anterior to their own was the / Provençal. The peculiar tone of troubadour poetry; the refined and somewhat abstract mode in which love is treated, was adopted by Petrarch, and by Dante also, in his sonnets and canzoni. The rhythm and the subjects were more artful and scientific than the songs of Castille, and thus at one time it was held in higher regard by the Spanish sovereigns who wished to introduce learning and poetry among their subjects. John I. of Arragon invited many Provençal and Narbonne poets to settle at Barcelona and Tortosa. He established an academy in the former city for the cultivation of poetry.b The Spanish troubadours became celebrated; Mosen Jordi de Sant Jordi is one of the first and best-known.c Petrarch read and, perhaps, imitated him.* * In the Retrospective Review, vol. iii., in the article on the poetical literature of Spain, the whole of Sant Jordi’s Song of Contraries (Cancion de Opositos), is given, from which Petrarch adopted, it is alleged, whole lines. Nothing is less derogatory to a poet of the highest genius than the fact that he picked up here and there lines and ideas, amalgamating them with his own, and adorning them with alien splendour. It is honourable, however, to Sant Jordi, to be stolen from; the spirit of the two poems is different and the lines scattered and disconnected. Those of Petrarch are – and they are some of his finest– “Pace non trovo e non ho da far guerra, E volo sopra ’l cielo, e giaccio in terra, E nulla stringo e tutto il mondo abraccio, E ho in odio me stesso e amo altrui. Se non e amor, cosè dunque ch’io sento?”

Sant Jordi, describing the struggles of his mind, has these similar lines:– “E no strench res, e tot lo mon abras, vol sovel cel, e nom movi de terra.” a Moriscos: Muslim converts to Christianity. Translations of these poems were known in Mary Shelley’s day through John Gibson Lockhart (1794–1854), translator of Ancient Spanish Ballads (1823), Blackwood’s Magazine contributor and biographer of his father-in-law Sir Walter Scott. See the Retrospective Review, IV (1821), 35. b John I ruled from 1379–90. Mary Shelley is drawing upon the Retrospective Review IV (1821), 43. c Jordi de Sant Jordi (c. 1385–c. 1424), a poet in the court of Alfonso V of Aragón, who wrote Petrarchan love songs; see Ward, p. 532 (Ward is the source of much of the ancillary information concerning Spanish writers in these notes).

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Though protected and encouraged by the sovereigns of Arragon, and read and lauded, and even imitated, by the nobles of their courts, the Valentian never became / the national poetry of Spain, and we turn from poets who will find better place among the early French writers to the genuine productions of Castille. We have seen that it was during the Moorish wars, under the successors of Don Pelayo, that these romances had birth.a The kings of the various provinces of Spain, ever at war with the Moors, were, of course, in a state of great dependence on their warrior nobles. They needed their subjects to form expeditions against the enemy or to resist their encroachments. Often, also, the Spanish princes were at enmity with each other; and civil discord, or the war of one Christian kingdom against the other, caused temporary alliance with the Mahometans. This brought the chivalry of the two nations into contact. The Spaniards learned the arts of civilisation from their conquerors – they learned also the language of love. In the midst of these romantic wars, there sprung up a species of poetry which in its simplicity and truth resembles the old English ballads, but which, from the nature of the events it commemorates, is conceived in a loftier and more chivalrous tone. The most ancient of these is a poem on the Cid, written an hundred And both Italian and Provençal bear the same translation. I nothing grasp – and yet the world embrace: I fly o’er highest heaven, though bound to earth.

As also–

And

“Hoy he de mi, e vull altra gran he.” I hate myself – others are dear to me. “E no he pace – e no tench gium ganeig.” I’m not at peace, but cannot war declare.

Petrarch’s poem describes a lover’s struggles; Sant Jordi’s, the combats of an inquisitive, troubled mind – something of a Faustus spirit, though he sums up all, not by selling himself to the devil, but concluding piously,– But right oft flows from darkness-covered wrong, And good may spring from seeming evil here.b a

Pelayo, a page or bodyguard of the Visigoth king Roderick, survived the final defeat (711) of the Visigoths by the Moors at the Battle of Guadalete. With Asturian and Visigothic refugees, he set up and ruled over (c. 718–c. 737) a tiny kingdom with its capital at Cangas de Onís. His descendents were the kings of Oviedo. Stories of Pelayo symbolised Christian resistance in medieval Spanish history and literature. b Quotations and translated lines, including those from Petrarch, from The Retrospective Review, IV (not III), pp. 46–9. The Petrarch lines are discontinuous, being ll. 1–2, 4, 11 from Rime Sparse, 134 and l. 1 from Rime Sparse, 132. Unlike the more dispassionate Bowring, who simply reports Petrarch’s borrowings, Mary Shelley warmly advocates a genius’s right to break normal rules. The line ‘E no he pace – e no tench gium ganeig’ is in the Retrospective Review ‘e no he pau, e no tench quim garreig’ – an extreme example of mistransmission from the original copytext.

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and fifty years before the time of Dante: its versification is barbarous. It was written in the infancy of language; but it displays touches of nature, and a vivacity of action, that show it to have been the work of men of an heroic and virile age.a By degrees the romances or ballads of Spain assumed a lighter and more tripping rhythm, fitter to be easily remembered and to be accompanied by music. These metrical compositions were called redondillas.* Boutervek / imagines that * “All verses consisting of four trochaic feet appear to have been originally comprehended under the name of redondilla, which, however, came at length to be in preference usually applied to one particular species of this description of verse. It is difficult to suppose that the redondillas have been formed in imitation of bisected hexameters, as some Spanish authors have imagined; they may with more probability be considered a relic of the songs of the Roman soldiers. In such verses every individual could, without restraint, pour forth the feelings which love or gallantry dictated, accompanied by his guitar, as little attention was paid to correctness in the distinction of long or short syllables, as in the rhyme. When one of the poetic narratives, distinguished by the name of romances was sung, line followed line without constraint, the expression flowing with careless freedom, as feeling gave it birth. When, however, romantic sentiments were to be clothed in a popular lyric dress, to exhibit the playful turns of ideas under still more pleasing forms, it was found advantageous to introduce divisions and periods, which gave rise to regular strophes (estancias and coplas). Lines, for the sake of variety, were shortened by halving them; and thus the tender and impressive melody of the rhythm was sometimes considerably heightened. Seduced by the example of the Arabs, something excellent was supposed to be accomplished when a single sonorous and unvarying rhyme was rendered prominent throughout all the verses of a long romance. Through other romances, however, pairs of rhymeless verses were allowed to glide amidst a variety of rhymed ones. At length, at a later period, it was observed that, in point of elegance, the redondilla was improved by the change, when, instead of perfect rhymes, imperfect ones, or sounds echoing vowels but not consonants, were heard in the terminating syllables. Hence arose the distinction between consonant and assonant verses, which has been converted into a rhythmical beauty unknown to other nations. The period of the invention of the redondillas was also nearly that of the dactylic stanzas called versos de arte mayor, because their composition was considered an art of a superior order. As the inventors of these stanzas were ignorant of the true principles of prosody, the attention paid to purity in the rhythm of the dactyles was even less than in the rhymes of the redondillas. This may account for these verses falling into disuse, as the progressive improvement of taste, which allowed the redondillas to maintain their original consideration, was not reconcileable with the half-dancing half-hobbling rhymed lines of the versos de arte mayor.” – Boutervek, Introduction. (Translation.)b Lord Holland observes, in the Appendix No. 3. to his “Life of Lope de Vega:” – “Of rhymes the Spaniards have two sorts; the consonante, or full rhyme, which is nearly the same as the Italian; and the asonante which the ear of a foreigner would not immediately distinguish from a blank termination. An asonante is a word that resembles another in the vowel on which the last accent falls, as well as the vowel or vowels that follow; but every consonant after the accented vowel must be different from that in the corresponding syllable. Thus, tòs and amor, pecho, fuego, alamo, paxaro, are all asonantes. In modern compositions, where the asonante is used, every alternate verse is blank, but the poet is not allowed to change the asonante till the poem is concluded. The old writers, I believe, were under no such restriction.”c a Literary epic of Castile composed c. 1140, consisting of 3,730 lines in three parts which tell the exploits of the Cid, Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, in the court of Alfonso VI. b Bouterwek I, pp. 20–5, edited for length. c Holland, Appendix 3, pp. 290–1, slightly altered.

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they may be considered as a relic of the songs of the Roman soldiers.a There was something / singularly popular in their freedom from constraint, and catching in their effect on the ear. The sonorous harmony of the Spanish language gave them dignity; they were easy to compose, easy to remember; they required only a subject, and the words flowed, as it were, with the facility of a running stream. There are several volumes, called the Cancionero general and Romancero general, filled with these compositions. The most singular circumstance is, that they are nearly all anonymous. No doubt, as language improved, they were altered and amended from oral tradition, and no one had a right to claim undivided authorship. Their subjects were love and war, and came home to the heart of every Spaniard: the sentiments were simple, yet heroic; the action was always impassioned, and sometimes tragic. Doctor Bowring, who has a happy facility in rendering the poetry of foreign nations into our own, has been more felicitous than any other author in translating these compositions. His volume is well known, and we will not quote largely from it, as we are tempted.b One poem, which Boutervek pronounces to be untranslateable through its airiness and lightness, we present as a specimen of that talent, so peculiar to the redondilla, of catching and portraying a sentiment,

M. Gunins, a German annotator, followed by Mr. Lockhart, expresses his opinion that “the stanza was composed in reality of two long lines, and that these have been subsequently cut in four, exactly as we know to have been the case in regard to another old English ballad stanza.” See Mr. Lockhart’s Introduction to his Ancient Spanish Ballads. Thus, instead of printing it, as is usual,– “Fizo hazer al Rey Alfonso el cid un solene juro, delante de muchos grandes, que se hallaron en Brugos”–

this ought to run– “Fizo haser al Rey Alfonso, el cid un solene juro, delante de muchos grandes, que se hallaron en Brugos.” The u, in the penultimate syllable of juro, and in Brugos, makes the assonance of the redondilla. We need not mention to the Spanish reader the peculiar mode of printing Spanish poetry without the distinction of capitals at the beginning of lines; nor the peculiar punctuation – a note of interrogation reversed invariably being placed at the beginning of the sentence that ends with one; necessary to the otherwise obscure construction of the Spanish: as for instance,– “¿Buelas al fin, y al fin te vas llorando?”c a

Bouterwek I, p. 21. John Bowring (1792–1872), founder of the Westminster Review and a friend of Mary Shelley; referring to his Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain (London: Taylor & Hessey, 1824). c See Lockhart, Introduction (1841 edn, n.pag.). The German annotator ‘Gunins’ (an error that appears to have arisen from a misreading of Mary Shelley’s handwriting) is Jakob Grimm (1785–1863), folklorist and philologist who with his brother Wilhelm collected volumes of folk tales as well as Sylva de Viejos Romances (1815). b

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as it were, by sketches and hints, where the reader fills up the picture from his own imagination, and is pleased by the very vagueness which incites him to exert that faculty.a “‘Lovely flow’ret, lovely flow’ret– Oh! what thoughts your beauties move! When I pressed thee to my bosom, Little did I know of love; Now that I have learnt to love thee, Seeking thee in vain I rove.’ ‘But the fault was thine, young warrior, Thine it was – it was not mine; He who brought thy earliest letter, Was a messenger of thine; And he told me – graceless traitor– Yes! he told me – lying one– That thou wert already married In the province of Leon; Where thou hadst a lovely lady, And, like flowers too, many a son.’ / ‘Lady! he was but a traitor, And his tale was all untrue, In Castille I never entered– From Leon too, I withdrew When I was in early boyhood, And of love I nothing knew.’”*b * “‘Rosa fresca, Rosa fresca, tan garrida y con amor, cuando os tiene en mis brazos no vos sabia servir no, y agora que vos serviria no vos puedo yo haber no.’ Vuestra fué la culpa, amigo vuestra fué, que mia no, enviastes me una carta con un vuestro servidor, y en lugar de recaudar el digera otra razon, que erades casado, amigo, alla en tierras de Leon, que teneis muger hermosa y hijos como una flor.’

a b

Bouterwek I, p. 74n. After this point the correct spelling ‘Bouterwek’ appears. Translation by Bowring, p. 130.

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In addition to these ballads we must mention the romances of chivalry. There is an undying discussion as to the nation in which these works originated. According to Spanish writers, the real author of the first or genuine Amadis was Vasco Lobeira, a native of Portugal, who flourished at the end of the thirteenth century, and lived till the year 1325.a Perverted as history and geography are in this and other similar works, they are full of invention, and alive with human feeling. Heroic deeds are blended with fairy machinery, borrowed from Arabian tales; every thing is brought in to adorn and to exalt the character of the knight, in war and in love. Even now Amadis preserves its charm; how great must have been its influence among nobles whose lives were dedicated to the hardships of war, and whose own hearts were the birthplace of passion, as sincere and vehement as any that warmed the heart of fictitious cavalier. Already, however, had various kings and nobles of Spain cultivated letters. The first authors whose names / appear were less of poets than many whose works appear in the various Cancioneros. Elevated in rank, they addicted themselves to study from a love of knowledge. Eagerly curious about the secrets of nature, or observant of the philosophy of life, they were desirous of instructing their countrymen. They deserve infinite praise for their exertions, and the motives that animated them; but their productions cannot have the same interest for us as the genuine emanations of the feelings. The heart of man, its passions and its emotions, endures for ever the same, and the poet who touches with truth the simplest of its chords remains immortal; but our heads change their fashion and furniture. We disregard obsolete knowledge as a ruin, out of proportion and fallen to pieces; while the language of the passions, like vegetation for ever growing, is always fresh. Alphonso X., surnamed the Wise, loved learning. He rendered a great service to his country by the cultivation he bestowed on the Castillian language. His verses bear the marks of the attention he paid to correctness, and by his command the Spanish language was substituted for Latin in public instruments. Through him the Bible was translated into Castillian, and a Chronicle of Spain was commenced under his directions. He favoured the troubadours, and himself aspired to write verses. There is an entire book of Cantigas or Letras, composed in the Gallician dialect, by him. El Tesoro is his principal work; it detailed his alchymical secrets, and is written in Castillian, in versos de arte mayor: much ‘Quien os lo dijo, Señora, no vos dija verdad, no– que yo nunca entré in Castilla ni en las tierras de Leon, sino cuando era pequeño que no sabia de amor.’”b a Bouterwek I, pp. 49–50. Amadís de Gaula, an early romance of chivalry ascribed to Vasco de Lobeira in the 15th-century chronicle of Gómez d’Azurana. b Bouterwek I, p. 74n.

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of this work remains still undeciphered. To him also is attributed a poem called Las Querellas, of which two stanzas only are preserved, and those so superior in versification to the Tesoro, that it is doubted whether they can be the production of the same man and age. The most useful work that owed its existence to his superintendence was the Alphonsine Tables, containing calculations truly extraordinary for that period.a Alphonso XI. followed in his footsteps in the cultivation of the Castillian language. He is said to have / composed a General Chronicle of Redondillas, which is lost. It was in the time of Alphonso XI. that Don Juan Manuel wrote his Count Lucanor, a series of tales put together somewhat in the style of the “Seven Wise Masters.”b An inexperienced prince, when in any difficulty, applies to his minister for advice, who replies by relating some tale or fable, concluded by a maxim in verse, as the moral of the story. These show his knowledge of the world; and one, in opposition to that of the Grecian sage, who said, men were to treat their friends as if they were one day to become their enemies, deserves to be recorded in honour of the more noble-minded Castilian; “Quien te conseja encobrir de tus amigos, engañarte quiera assaz, y sin testigos.”c

“Whoever counsels you to be reserved with your friends, wishes to betray you without witnesses.” Count Lucanor is praised for the artless simplicity of its style, joined to acuteness of observation. In addition, Manuel composed a Chronicle of Spain, and other prose works, as well as several poems. The civil wars and rebellions that desolated Spain at this time checked the literary spirit, and prevented the cultivation of learning. Juan Ruiz, arch-priest of Hita, and Ayala, the historiographer, are almost the only names we find in addition to those already mentioned. Juan Ruiz wrote an allegorical satire in Castillian Alexandrines.d With John II., who reigned from 1407 to 1454, began a brighter æra. Politically, his reign was disastrous and stormy. The monarchy was threatened with destruction, and the king had not sufficient firmness to make himself respected. His love of poetry and learning, sympathised in by many of his nobles, secured a Alphonso X: King of Castile (1221–84) who was a poet, patron, scholar, and editor. He is known for his code of law, his planetary tables and as the founder of Castilian national literature. He composed over 400 Cantigas de Santa María, which were sung to music (Ward, pp. 14–16). Mary Shelley is drawing on Quintana, pp. 10–12. b Príncipe Don Juan Manuel (1282–1348), author of Conde Lucanor, a collection of Arabic fables (completed 1335) and whose name appears on some of the Cancionero General. Manuel is mentioned in Lockhart’s introductory essay to his collection of Spanish ballads. The ‘Seven Wise Masters’, or Dolopathos, from which some of Boccaccio’s tales originate, was a collection of Indian stories, translated into Latin in the 12th century. c Quoted in Bouterwek I, p. 39. Mary Shelley’s translation. d Juan Ruiz (?1283–?1350) author of Libro de buen amor, a poem of 1,728 stanzas.

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him, however, the affections of his adherents; and in the midst of civil commotion, despite his deficiency of resolution, there gathered round him a court faithful to his cause, and civilised by its love of letters. The marquess of Villena had already distinguished himself; he was / so celebrated for his acquirements in natural and metaphysical knowledge that he came to be looked on as a magician. He was admired also as a poet. He wrote an allegorical drama, which was represented at court. He translated the Æneid, and extended his patronage and protection to other poets by instituting floral games. To instruct them, he wrote a sort of Art of Poetry, termed La Gaya Ciencia. In it he praises, as Petrarch had done at the Neapolitan court, the uses of poetry. “So great,” he says, “are the benefits derived from this science on civil life, banishing indolence and employing noble minds in useful inquiries, that other nations have sought and established among themselves schools for this art, so that it became spread through various parts of the world.” The zeal of this noble elevated the art he protected; he inspired others, as well born as himself, with equal enthusiasm, and was the patron of those less fortunate in worldly advantages. He died at Madrid in 1434.a His friend and pupil, the marquess of Santillana, was a better poet. Quintana remarks of him that “he was one of the most generous and valiant knights that adorned his age. A learned man, an easy and sweet love poet, just and serious in sentiment.”b His elegy on the death of the marquess of Villena is the most celebrated of his poems. Other names occur of less note: Jorge Manrique, who has left a fragment of poetry more purely written than belongs to his age, Garci Sanchez of Badajos, and Marcias.c This last is less known for his poetry, of which we possess only four songs, than for his melancholy death. He loved one who refused to, or, disdaining, him, married another. But still he was unable to conquer his fatal attachment. The husband obtained that he should be thrown into prison; but this did not suffice for his vengeance, nor are we surprised when we know the delicate sense of connubial honour entertained by the Spaniards. He, the husband, concerted with the alcaide of the tower in which Marcias was imprisoned, and found means to / throw his lance at him as he stood at a window. Marcias was at this moment singing one of the songs he had composed upon the lady of his love; the a Information and quotation from Bouterwek I, pp. 80–1, who is followed by Sismondi, I, ch. vi.; De la Gaya Ciencia offered a body of rules to write verse derived from Provençal troubadour poetry. b Quintana, p. 23, slightly altered; the Marques of Santillana (1398–1458), humanist, literary critic, and poet best known for his songs in the troubadour style and his letter to the Condestable de Portugal on the early poetry of Spain; see Retrospective Review VI (1822), 21 and Bouterwek I, pp. 82–90 (see also Ward, p. 531 and D. W. Foster, The Marques de Santillana (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1971)). c For Jorge Manrique (1440–79), Garci Sánchez de Badajoz (?1460–?1526) and Macías o Namorado (‘Matthias the enamoured’, fl. post-1450) see Quintana, p. 23. Manrique, soldier and poet, wrote Las Coplas de Jorge Manrique por la muerte de su padre (1476); Sanchez: author of Cancionero general (1511); Macías, archetypal unhappy love-poet mentioned by Santillana in El inferno de los enamorados and Lope de Vega’s Porfiar hasta morir (1638); the ‘four songs’ refer to five of his poems included in Cancionero de Baena (c. 1455).

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lance pierced him to the heart, and he died with the tale of passion still hovering on his lips. These circumstances, and probably the enthusiastic and amiable qualities of the poet, rendered him an object of reverence and regret to his countrymen. He was surnamed the Enamorado, and his name, grown into a proverb, is still the synonyme in Spain for a martyr to devoted love.a His contemporary, Juan de Mena, has commemorated his death in some of the sweetest and most poetic verses of his Labyrinto. Juan de Mena is often called the Ennius of Spain.b He is the most renowned of the writers of that early age. He was born at Cordova in about the year 1412. Cordova, the seat of the most famous Moorish university, had just been recovered by the Christians. Juan de Mena was sprung from a respectable though not noble family; at the age of twenty-three he fulfilled some civil office in his native city, of which in after times he spoke with affection, as we find these lines in one of his poems:– “Thou flower of wisdom and of chivalry, Cordova, mother mine! forgive thy son, If in the music of my lyre, no tone Be sweet and loud enough to honour thee. Models of wisdom and of bravery I see reflected through thy annals bright. I will not praise thee, praise thee though I might, Lest I of flattery should suspected be.”*

Juan de Mena studied, however, at the university of Salamanca, and, induced by a love of inquiry and desire to gain knowledge, made a journey to Rome. Sismondi says, “On becoming acquainted with the poetry of Dante, his imagination received no inspiration, and his taste was spoilt. His greatest work is called El / Labyrinto, or Las Trescients Coplas; it is an allegory, in tetradactyls, of human life.”c A man is more likely to be incited by the spirit of his age than a single poem. * “O flor de saber y cabelleria, Cordoba madre, tu hijo perdona, si en los cantares, que agora pregona no divulgré tu sabiduria. De sabios, valientes loarte podria qui fueron espejo muy maravilloso; por ser de ti mismo, seré sopechoso, diran que los pinto mejor que debia.”

a

Wiffen’s Life of Garcilaso.d

Quintana, p. 24. Juan de Mena (1411–56) friend of the Marqués de Santillana and known for creating the first ‘pure’ Spanish poetry. El Laberinto de Fortuna (written 1444) is a Dantesque allegory. c Sismondi, III, pp. 241–2. d Misidentified as Wiffen (J. H. Wiffen, Works of Garcilaso de la Vega (1823)); the Spanish and English passages are in the Retrospective Review III (1821), p. 208. b

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Dante and his contemporaries had most at heart the instructing of their fellowcreatures. The great Tuscan poet, in his Divina Commedia, had the design of comprehending all human knowledge; and the literary men of those days considered visions the proper poetical mode of conveying the secrets of nature and of morals. It is no wonder that Juan de Mena, whose poetic genius was certainly not of the highest description (it might be compared to that of Bruno Latini, the master of Dante), was more led away by the theories and tenets he must have heard continually discussed in conversation in Italy, and endeavoured, as his highest aim, rather to instruct his countrymen in the mysteries of life and death, nature and philosophy, than to express actions and feelings in such harmonious numbers as he heard frequently carolled among the hills, or sung at night beneath some beauty’s window. The romances we now prize, as the genuine and poetic expression of the passions of man, could not in his eyes aspire to the height of the muse, whom he sought to gift with the power of penetrating and explaining the mysteries of life and death – the globe and all that it contains. In this manner, however, he excited the respect of the patrons of learning. King John and the marquess of Santillana both honoured and loved him; he was named one of the king’s historiographers, an institution originating with Alphonso X., and those appointed to it were expected to continue the national chronicles down to their own time. Juan de Mena lived in high favour at the court of John II., and constantly adhered to him. He died in 1456, at Guadalaxara in New Castille, and the marquess of Santillana erected a monument to him. Quintana speaks of the Labyrinto as “the most interesting monument of Spanish poetry in that age, which left all contemporary writers far behind him.”a But after all, it is a mere specimen of the poetic art of those days: / not like Dante, could he put a human soul into his allegory, which wins and enchants with ever renewing interest, nor adorn visible objects with that truth and delicacy, and vividness of description, in which art Dante has been unsurpassed by any poet of any age or country. Juan de Mena’s allegory is heavy, his details tiresome, the interest absolutely null, and his poetical invention, such as it was, subordinate to false learning. He intends to sing of the vicissitudes of fortune, ruled, as they are, by the seven planets, to whom Providence gives such power. He invokes Apollo and Calliope, and then apostrophises Fortune, asking leave to blame her when she may deserve censure. He then, in imitation of all vision-writers, loses himself, when a lady of wonderful beauty appears, and presents herself to him as his guide. The lady is Providence: she bids him look, and he goes on to describe what he saw:– Turning my eyes to where she bade me gaze, Behold, three ponderous wheels I saw within; And two were still – nor even moved their place; The other swiftly, round and round, did spin. a

Quintana, p. 19, slightly altered.

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Below them on the ground I saw the space O’erspread by nations vast, who once had been, And each upon the brow engraven wore The name and fate the which on earth they bore. And in one wheel that stood immoveable I saw the gatherings of a future race; And that, which to the ground was doomed to fall, A dark veil cast upon the hideous place, Covered with all her dead. – I was not able The meaning of the sight. I saw to trace; So I implored my guide that she would show The meaning of the vision there below.*a /

The wheels of course represent the past, present, and future, each governed by the seven planets. Providence points out the various personages distinguished in the wheel of the past and the present; and the poet has thus occasion to make great display of knowledge on every subject, and deduces from time to time maxims upon the conduct of life and the government of nations; and thus, as Dante intended in his Commedia, does Juan de Mena introduce instruction on all the sciences then known. In common with every writer of his class, he thinks more of what he has to say, than of the melody of his verification; sometimes his subject suggests lines at once animated and sonorous; at other times they are tame or turgid. He is not backward in giving moral lessons, either to prince or people; yet Quintana regards this work probably with too much partiality when he says that we shall always dip into it with pleasure. We regard it with some curiosity, and more respect, and with but little liking.b * “Bolviendo los ojos a do me mandava, vi mas adentro muy grades tres ruedas, las dos gran firmes, immotas y quedas mas la del medio boltar no cessava. Vi que debaxo de todos estava caida por tierra grand gente infinita, que avia en la fronte cada qual escrita, el mombre y la suerte por donde passava. Y vi que en la una que no se movia, la gente que en ella avia de ser, y la que debaxo esperava caer con turbido velo sumorte cubria. Y yo que de aquello muy poco sentia, fiz de mi dubda complida palabra; a mi guiadora, rogando que me ahra aquesta figura que yo no entendia.” a El Laberinto. Translation by Mary Shelley (Palacio, p. 686). The text is taken from Sismondi, III, p. 143, who quotes these two stanzas (which he calls 56 and 57) to illustrate the versification. b See Quintana, pp. 19–22. Mary Shelley concurs with Sismondi’s judgement.

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One other name we will mention, since it is connected with the Spanish theatre; and dramatic writing became in progress of time the most truly national as well as original and perfect form in which the genius of Spanish poetry embodied itself. Juan de Enzina wrote the first Spanish plays. It is true that Villena wrote an allegorical drama, which is lost, and other compositions took the form of dialogue; but Enzina, who was a musical composer, converted mere pastoral eclogues into real dramas.a He was born at Salamanca, in the reign of Isabella. He travelled to Jerusalem, in company with the marquis de Tarifa, and he lived some time at Rome, as maestro da capella, or director of music, to pope Leo X. These travels and residences at a distance from his native country, must have stored his mind with ideas; but though Italy had reached the zenith of her poetic glory at that time, he became no pupil of hers. Perhaps he found Spanish metres, and the Spanish poetic diction did not lend itself to any but the Spanish style; and he never dreamt, as Boscan afterwards so admirably succeeded in doing, of / enlarging the sphere of Spanish poetry by introducing Italian modes of rhythm: his songs and lyrics are in the style of the cancioneros; and the very quips and cranks in which he indulged have the rough humour and extravagant imagination of Castile, not the pointed wit or airy lightness of Italy. Among other things, he published a song of contraries, or absurdities, (disparates,) which has made his name proverbial in Spain.b He converted Virgil’s eclogues into ballads, and applied to the sovereigns and nobles of Spain the compliments Virgil addressed to the emperor Augustus. His sacred and profane eclogues were acted at court at Christmas-eve and carnival: these are lost. Some of his songs, calculated to become popular from their spirit, and the tone they seized, which was suited to the hour, remain. There is one translated by Dr. Bowring, which is a Farewell to the Carnival (Antruejo), which, in the Spanish at least, has all the zest and animation of a drinking song:– “Come let us eat and drink to-day, And sing, and laugh, and banish sorrow, For we must part to-morrow. In Antruejo’s honour – fill The laughing cup with wine and glee, And feast and dance with eager will, And crowd the hours with revelry, For that is wisdom’s counsel still– To day be gay, and banish sorrow, For we must part to-morrow. Honour the saint – the morning ray Will introduce the monster death; There’s breathing space for joy to-day, a b

Drawing upon information in Bouterwek I, pp. 130–1. See Bouterwek I, p. 131.

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To-morrow ye shall gasp for breath; So now be frolicsome and gay, And tread joy’s round and banish sorrow, For we must part to-morrow.”*a /

Meanwhile the state of Spain had wholly changed. The struggle with the Moors had ended, and its civil dissentions were no more. The union of the crowns of Aragon and Castile under Ferdinand and Isabella placed the country under one sovereign; and the conquest of Granada put an end to the last Moorish kingdom. The Spaniards, with their constitutional Cortes, made a noble struggle for civil liberty at the beginning of the reign of Charles V.; but they failed, and an absolute monarchy, guarded by the most nefarious of all institutions, the inquisition, was established; the vaunted privileges of the grandees of Spain became matters of court etiquette, instead of lofty manifestations of their equality with their sovereign; the conquest of America brought money to the country, which was quickly drained from it by the wars in Italy; while the Lutheran heresy again set alight those cruel fires which were at first destined for aliens, – such Jews and Moors might be termed. Liberty of thought, as well as of action, was destroyed; and though the terrors of the inquisition were displayed more in Flanders than in the Peninsula itself, that arose from the circumstance that in the one country it was resisted, while in the other it was submitted to with a prostration of soul unknown to any other country or age.b For a time, however, the energies of the nation were rather turned aside than checked by these events. The noble spirit of Padilla existed in the Spanish bosom, * “Hoy comamos y bebamos, y cantemos y holguemos que ma‘ana ayunaremos. Por honra de San Antruejo paremonos hoy bien anchos, embutamos estos panchos, recalquemos el pellejo que costumbre es de concejo que todo hoy nos hartemos, pues manana ayunaremos. Honremos a tan buen santo que ma‘ana viene la muerte, comamos, bebemos huerte que ma‘ana habra quebranto comamos, bebamos tanto hasta que nos reventemos, pues mañana ayunaremos.” a

Bowring, p. 189. Mary Shelley draws upon Bouterwek I, pp. 148–60, though the emphasis on the destruction of liberty of thought and action reflect her own politics. b

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though turned from its elevated patriotism.a The achievements of Charles V. awoke enthusiastic loyalty; while his enterprises gave birth to a series of warriors and heroes.b Their vast acquisitions in what they named the Indies, added to the splendour of the Spanish name. Glory, if not liberty; pride, though not independence, awoke in them a courageous and daring, though stern and cruel spirit, which led to those successes which spread a lustre over their name and age. But at the same time it must be observed, that these very wars and conquests drained Spain of those ardent and enterprising spirits, who, / if they had not been so employed, had probably exerted themselves to free their country, and to withstand those encroachments of royalty, and the church, which, after the lapse of a few years, acted so detrimentally on the prosperity of Spain. The crown of Castile also rose in eminence over that of Aragon, and the Castilian became the language of the court. Writers, in whatever province their birthplace might be cast, adopted Castilian as the classic language of the country. Juan de Enzina, though he had sojourned in Italy, became imbued by none of its spirit.c It could not always be thus. The Neapolitan wars in the time of Ferdinand caused numbers of Spaniards to visit Italy. From the very beginning of the reign of Charles V., these wars increased in importance, and the intercourse between the two countries became more frequent and intimate. The time therefore was at hand when Spain would learn from Italy that poetic art in which she was yet a child, though a child of genius. At this epoch we commence the lives of the literary men of Spain. They came out many at once, like a constellation. The first in the list were born either quite at the end of the fifteenth, or at the very commencement of the sixteenth century, and accordingly were contemporaries of Charles V.d /

a

Padilla: Fray Pedro de Pádillo (fl. 1585–99). Bouterwek points out that Padilla wrote pastoral poetry but at the same time ‘followed the old national custom’ of making the war in the Netherlands the subject for his romances (I, p. 258). b Charles V (1500–58) son of Philip the Handsome of Habsburg and Juana the Mad (‘La Loca’), grandson of Ferdinand and Isabella, who had united Spain. In 1516 he inherited the Habsburg lands (the Netherlands and Germany) and Spain, becoming Holy Roman Emperor in 1519. His reign was notable for the Spanish colonisation of America and for the advent of Martin Luther. Charles is known for his Christian faith, his chivalry, his reformation of the Spanish court and his encouragement of a Spanish cultural revival, as well as for his wars. c Juan de Enzina (1469–1529), member of the court of the Duke of Alba (see ‘Boscán’) and musical director for Pope Leo X in Rome; ordained a priest in 1519. He wrote songs and lyric romances in the Castilian style and composed Arte de Poesia Castellana (Treatise on Castilian Poetry). His surviving poetry is preserved in the Cancionero de Palacio (Songbook of the Palace), c. 1500 (Bouterwek, I, pp. 130–1). d Adapted from Bouterwek, I, pp. 146–7.

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BOSCAN. 1500–1543. THE first Spanish poet who introduced the Italian style was Mosen Juan Boscan Almogaver. He was a man of mild and contemplative disposition, and thus fitted to receive the shackles of rules of taste from others, at the same time that, being a genuine poet, he could animate the harmony and grace of his versification with earnest sentiments and original thought.a Restrain himself as he would, the genius of the Spanish language and early association, forced him into greater vividness and simplicity of expression than his Italian prototypes; and at the same time, being a Catalonian, the very language of Castile, which, as having become the classic language of his country, he adopted, was to a certain degree a foreign tongue,b and he could more easily abandon the peculiar rhythm of its national poetry for versification, such as was to be found in the productions of the Provençal poets, to which his native country and dialect were akin.c Little is known of the life of Boscan beyond its mere outline. He was born at Barcelona at the close of the fifteenth century, of a noble and ancient family. He followed the career of arms in his youth, and travelled during a few years.d He married donna Ana Giron de Rebolledo, a lady of distinguished birth; and he commemorates their domestic happiness in his verses, dwelling on the detail with all the fondness and pride that springs from a thankful enjoyment of a tranquil life.e After his marriage he resided almost constantly at his native town of Barcelona, though sometimes he attended the court of the emperor Charles V., where he was held in high consideration. At one time, strange to say, he filled the office of governor to the youthful duke of Alva, whose cruelties have / gained for him such ill renown. That he was so, is rather a blot in his character with us; among a

See Bouterwek, I, p. 168. Boscán wrote in Castilian, the language of the court, rather than in his native Catalan. c The literature of the Occitan region of south eastern France, which flourished from the 11th to 14th centuries; noted for its celebration of courtly love. d Translated from Sedano, VIII, p. xxxi. According to a modern biography, Boscán was born c. 1487–92 into a distinguished Barcelona family, and had two sisters. His father, a public official, died in 1492. Raised by his mother and a paternal uncle, he became a model courtier, and, while still young, ‘ayo,’ or moral tutor to the future Duke of Alba (p. 28, note a). See David H. Darst, Juan Boscán (1978), pp. 15–16. e They married some time between 1533 and 1539. Ana Girón de Rebolledo of Valencia was born between 1514 and 1519. The couple had three daughters: Mariana, Beatriz, and Violante (Darst, Boscán, pp. 28–9). b

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his countrymen it is otherwise. Spanish writers regard the duke of Alva as a hero.a His crimes had place in a distant land – in his own he was distinguished for his magnificence and his talents, while his very bigotry was considered a virtue. When, therefore, Sedano mentions this circumstance, he speaks of it with pride, saying, “Boscan’s rank, joined to his blameless manners and his talents, caused him to be chosen governor to the great duke of Alva, don Fernando, which office he filled with success, as is proved by the heroic virtues that adorned the soul of his pupil, which were the result of Boscan’s education.”b From early youth Boscan was a poet; at first he wrote in the old Spanish style; but he was still young when his attention was called to the classic productions of Italy, and he was incited to adopt the Italian versification and elegiac style, so to enlarge the sphere of Spanish poetry.c It was in the year 1525 that Andrea Navagero came as ambassador from Venice to the court of the emperor Charles V. at Toledo. The Venetian was of noble birth, and so addicted to study as to injure his health by the severity of his application.*d A state of melancholy ensued, only to be alleviated by travel. He was familiar with Greek and Latin literature, and cultivated a refined taste that could scarcely be satisfied by the most finished productions of his native land, while he exercised the severest judgment, even to the destruction of his own. At Toledo he fell in with Boscan and Garcilaso. Their tastes, their love of poetry and of the classics, were the same; and the superior learning of the Italian led him to act the preceptor to his younger friends. Through his arguments they were led to quit the composition of their national redondillas, and to aspire to introduce more elegance and a wider scope of ideas into their native poetry. Boscan, in his dedication of a volume / of his poems, which included several of Garcilaso’s, to the duchess of Soma, thus mentions the circumstances that led them to contemplate this change: “Conversing one day on literary subjects with Navagero the Venetian ambassador (whom I wish to mention to your ladyship as a man of great celebrity in these days), and particularly upon the different genius of various languages, he inquired of me why, in Castilian, we never attempted sonnets and other kinds of composition used by the best writers in Italy; he not only said this, but urged me to set the example. A few days * Wiffen’s Life of Garcilaso de la Vega: who gives us translations of some very pleasing Latin verses by Navagero.e a Fernando Alvarez de Toledo y Pimentel, 3rd duke of Alba (or Alva) (1507–82), Spanish soldier and statesman, renowned for his cruelty as governor-general of the Netherlands (1567– 73) where his Council of Troubles (or ‘Council of Blood’) condemned thousands to death and inspired rebellions; mentioned in Bouterwek I, p. 165; see Sedano, VIII, p. xxxii for the kind of favourable view Mary Shelley refers to. b Translated from Sedano, VIII, p. xxxii. c Bouterwek, I, p. 163. Italianate forms adopted by Boscán and other Spanish poets include ottavas reales (royal octaves, an epic form of verse with stanzas of eight 11-syllable lines, rhyming abababcc), sonnets, and tercets. d Andrea Navaggiero (1483–1529) scholar, editor of Latin poets, diplomat; he met Boscán in 1526, not 1525. e Navaggiero’s verses are found in Wiffen, pp. 385–91.

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after I departed home, and musing on a variety of things during a long and solitary journey, frequently reflected on Navagero’s advice, and thus at length began the attempt. I found at first some difficulty, as this kind of versification is extremely complex, and has many peculiarities different from ours; but afterwards, from the partiality we naturally entertain towards our own productions, I thought I had succeeded well, and gradually grew warm and eager in the pursuit. This, however, would not have been sufficient to stimulate me to proceed, had not Garcilaso encouraged me, whose judgment, not only in my opinion, but in that of the whole world, is esteemed a certain rule. Praising uniformly my essays, and giving me the highest possible mark of approbation in following himself my example, he induced me to devote myself exclusively to the undertaking.”a Every thing combines to give us the idea of Boscan as a good and a happy man, enjoying so much of prosperity and rank as would make him feel satisfied and complacent, and endowed with such talents as rendered poetry a pleasing occupation, and the fame he acquired delightful.b Blessed with a mild and affectionate disposition, happily married, living contented, he possessed advantages that must have added greatly to his happiness, through the good fortune which gave him accomplished and noble friends, addicted to the same studies, delighting in the same pursuits, sympathising in his views, and / affording him the assistance of their applause and imitation. What we know of Boscan, indeed, is principally through the mention made of him by his friends. Garcilaso de la Vega, superior to his friend as a poet, was one of those gallant spirits whose existence is a poem, and was closely allied to him in friendship. It was through Garcilaso’s advice and encouragement that Boscan translated Castiglione’s Libro del Cortigiano, – a book then just published, and which enjoyed the highest repute in Italy.c The translation was accompanied by a dedication written by Garcilaso, which Sedano praises as “an exquisite piece of eloquence,” in which he speaks of his friend with the fond praise which genuine affection inspires.d Several of Garcilaso’s sonnets, an epistle, and an elegy, are addressed to Boscan, and all breathe a mixture of friendship and esteem delightful to contemplate. He mentions him also in his second eclogue.e When describing the sculpture on a vase of the God of the river a Quoted with some minor changes from Wiffen, pp. 124 – 5. The manifesto appears as a preface to the Italianate verses in Book Two of Boscán’s works. See Las Obras de Boscan y algunas de Garcilasso de la Vega repartidas en quatro libros (Barcelona: Garles Amorós, 1543). b More recent critical opinion is divided on the subject of whether Boscán was writing from life or from poetic convention (Darst, Boscán, p. 52). c See Sedano, VIII, p. xxxv. The much-translated Book of the Courtier promoted ideals of graceful behaviour, especially effortlessness (sprezzatura) and ‘honourable love’. It advised on the best form of Italian to speak and write, the relation between the courtier and his prince and the qualities of the ideal court lady (notably modesty). Its author, Count Baldassare Castiglione (1478–1529), arrived in Spain in 1525 as papal nuncio of Clement VII and became Navaggiero’s friend and companion. Boscán probably knew Castiglione well also (see Darst, Boscán, pp. 26–7). d Sedano, VIII, pp. xxxvi–vii. e ‘To Boscán’, ‘To Boscán From Goletta’, ‘Epistle to Boscán’, ‘Elegy II To Boscán, Written at the Foot of Mount Etna’, ‘Eclogue II’ (Wiffen, pp. 351, 356, 300–2, 293–9, 196–205).

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Tormes, he describes don Fernando, duke of Alva, as being depicted among other heroes of the age, and Boscan, in attendance, as his preceptor. It must be remembered, that when this elegy was written, the duke was in the bloom of youth, and regarded as the man of promise of his age; while his life was yet unstained by the crimes that render him hateful in our eyes.a It is a sage named Severo who is gazing on the urn of old Tormes. “Next as his looks along the sculptures glanced, A youth with Phœbus hand in hand advanced; Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face, Inform’d with wisdom, modesty, and grace, And every mild affection, at a scan The passer-by would mark him for a man, Perfect in all gentilities of mind That sweeten life and harmonise mankind. The form which lively thus the sculptor drew, Assured Severo in an instant knew, For him who had by careful culture shown Fernando’s spirit, lovely as his own; Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease, The pure politeness that aspires to please, The candid virtues that disdain pretence, And martial manliness, and sprightly sense, With all the generous courtesies enshrined In the fair temple of Fernando’s mind. / When well surveyed his name Severo read, ‘B OSCAN !’ whose genius o’er the world is spread, In whose illumined aspect shines the fire That, stream’d from Delphos, lights him to the lyre, And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away.”*

Besides Garcilaso, Boscan enjoyed the friendship of a man, far different in the qualities of his mind, but of high powers of intellect, and of a noble though arrogant and proud disposition.b The epistles in verse that passed between Boscan and don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza prove the friendship that subsisted between them, and the esteem in which Boscan was held; at the same time they present a delightful picture of the tranquil happiness which the poet enjoyed. Mendoza’s epistle is imitated from Horace; it is written in praise of a tranquil life. At the conclusion it describes the delights of a rural seclusion, ornamented by all the charms * Wiffen’s translation of Garcilaso’s poems. [pp. 248–9] a The River Tormes flows through western Spain. The reference to the Duke of Alba occurs in Silva III of Eclogue II (Wiffen, pp. 246–8). b See ‘Mendoza’; his epistle to Boscán was included in the works of Boscán and Garcilaso (1543).

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of nature; and he introduces his friend as enjoying these in perfection, attended on by his wife, who plucks for him the rarest grapes and ripe fruit, – the fresh and sweet gifts of summer, – waiting on him with diligence and joy, proud and happy in her task.a Boscan, in his reply, dilates on the subject, and fills up the picture with a thousand graces and refinements of feeling drawn from nature, and which coming warm from the heart, reach our own.b I am tempted to introduce a portion of this epistle. The fault of the Spaniards in their literature is diffuseness; I have therefore endeavoured in some degree to compress the rambling of the poet, while I suppress no sentiment, nor introduce a new idea. Little used to versification, my translation wants smoothness; but presenting, as it does, a picture of domestic life, such as was passed at a distant age and in a distant land, yet resembling so nearly our own notions of the pleasures of home, I think it cannot fail to interest the reader. Boscan commences, in imitation of Horace, by commending the tranquillity enjoyed in a middle station of life. He then goes on to adorn his canvass with a picture of conjugal attachment and happiness:– / ’Tis peace that makes a happy life;* And that is mine through my sweet wife; Beginning of my soul and end, I’ve gain’d new being from this friend,– She fills each thought, and each desire, Up to the height I would aspire. This bliss is never found by ranging; Regret still springs from saddest changing; Such loves and their beguiling pleasures, Are falser still than magic treasures, Which gleam at eve with golden colour, And change to ashes ere the morrow. But now each good that I possess, * “Y asi yo por seguir aquesta via, heme casado con una muger que es principio y fin del alma mia. Esta me ha dado luego un nuevo ser, con tal felicidad que me sostiene llena la voluntad y el entender. Esta me hace ver que ella conviene á mi, y las otras no me convenian; á esta tengo yo, y ella me tiene. En mi las otras iban y venian, y a poder de mudanzas a montones a These are the first three verse epistles in Spanish. Mendoza’s epistle is based on the opening 35 lines of Horace’s 6th epistle (Darst, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (1987), pp. 47–51). b Juan Boscán, ‘Epistola a Don Diego de Mendoza’ (Sedano, VIII, pp. 373–87). The translation is by Mary Shelley herself. Palacio observes that the translation combines accuracy, a poetic sense and a personal accent, changing ‘my wife’ to ‘my sweet wife’ (Palacio, p. 528).

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Rooted in truth and faithfulness, Imparts delight to every sense; For erst they were a mere pretence, And long before enjoy’d they were, They changed their smiles to grizly care. Now pleasures please – love being single– Evils with its delights ne’er mingle. My bed’s become a place of rest, Two souls repose on one soft breast; And still in peace my simple board Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford. Before, to eat I scarce was able, Some harpy hover’d o’er my table, Spoiling each dish when I would dine, And mingling gall with gladsome wine / Now the content that foolish I Still miss’d in my philosophy, My wife with tender smiles bestows, And makes me triumph o’er my woes; While with her finger she effaces Of my past folly all the traces, de mi puro dolor se mantenian. Eran ya para mi sus galardones como tesoros por encantamientos, que luego se volvian en carbones. Ahora son bienes que en mi siento firmes, macizos, con verdad fundados, y sabrosos en todo el sentimiento. Solian mis placeres dar cuidados y al tiempo que Ilegaban a gustarse ya llegaban a mi casi dañados. Ahora el bien es bien para gozarse, y el placer es lo que es, que siempre place, y el mal ya con el bien no ha de juntarse. Al satisfecho todo satisface y asi tambien a mí por lo que he hecho quanto quiero y deseo se me hace. el campo que era de batalla el lecho ya es lecho para mí de paz durable dos almas hay conformes en un pecho. La mesa en otro tiempo abominable y el triste pan que en ella yo comia, y el vino que bebia lamentable; infestandome siempre alguna harpia que en mitad del deleyte mi vianda con amargos potages envolvia. Ahora el casto amor acude y manda que todo se me haga muy sabroso, andando siempre todo como anda.

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And graving pleasant thoughts instead, Bids me rejoice that I am wed. *

*

*

And thus, by moderation bounded, I live by my own goods surrounded. Among my friends, my table spread With viands we may eat nor dread; And at my side my sweetest wife, Whose gentleness admits no strife,– Except of jealousy the fear, Whose soft reproaches more endear. Our darling children round us gather, Children who will make me grandfather. And thus we pass in town our days, Till the confinement something weighs; Then to our village haunt we fly, Taking some pleasant company– While those we love not never come Anear our rustic leafy home; For better ’t is t’ philosophise, De manera, Señor, que aquel reposo que nunca alcance yo por mi ventura con mi filosofar triste y penoso, Una sola muger me le asegura, y en perfeta sazon me da en las manos vitoria general de mi tristura. y aquellos pensamientos mios tan vanos ella los va borrando con el dedo, y escribe en lugar de elios otros sanos. *

*

*

Dejenme estar contento entre mis cosas comiendo en compa‘ia mansamente comidas que no sean sospechosas. Conmigo y mi muger sabrosamente esté, y alguna vez me pida celos con tal que me los pida blandamente. Comamos y bebamos sin recelos la mesa de muchachos rodeada; muchachos che nos hagan ser abuelos. Pasarémos asi nuestra jornada ahora en la ciudad, ahora en la Aldea, porque la vida esté mas descansada. Quando pesada la Ciudad nos sea irémos al Lugar con la compaña A donde el importuno no nos vea. Alli se vivira con menos maña, y no habrá el hombre tanto guardarse

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And learn a lesson truly wise, From lowing herd and bleating flock, Than from some men of vulgar stock; / And rustics, as they hold the plough, May often good advice bestow. Of love, too, we may have the joy– For Phœbus as a shepherd boy Wander’d once among the clover, Of some fair shepherdess the lover; And Venus wept in rustic bower, Adonis turn’d to purple flower; And Bacchus midst the mountains drear, Forgot the pangs of jealous fear; And nymphs that in the waters play, (’T is thus that ancient fables say), And dryads fair among the trees, Fain the sprightly fawns would please. So in their footsteps follow we, My wife and I, – as fond and free,– Love in our thoughts and in our talk, Direct we slow our saunt’ring walk, To some near murm’ring rivulet; Where ’neath a shady beech we sit, Hand clasp’d in hand, and side by side, del malo o del grosero que os engaña. Alli podrá mejor filosafarse, con los bueyes y cabras y ovejas que con los que del vulgo han de tratarse. Alli no serán malas las consejas que contarán los simples labradores viniendo de arrastrar las duras rejas. ¿ Será pues malo alli tratar de amores Viendo que Apolo con su gentileza Anduvo enamorado entre pastores? ¿ y Venus no se vió en grande estrecheza por Adonis vagando entre los prados? segun la antiguedad asi lo reza? ¿ y Baco no sintió fuertes cuidados por la cuitada que quedó durmiendo en mitad de los montes despoblados? Las ninas por las aguas pareciendo, y entre las arboledas las Driadas se ven con los Faunos rebullendo. Nosotros seguiremos sus pisadas; digo yo y mi muger, nos andaremos tratando alli las cosas namoradas. A do corra algun rio nos iremos, y a la sombra de alguna verde haya a do estemos mejor nos sentaremos.

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With some sweet kisses too beside. Contending there, in combat kind, Which best can love with constant mind. As the stream flows among the grass, Thus life’s clear stream with us does pass: We take no count of day nor night, While, minist’ring to our delight, Nightingales all sweetly sing, And loving doves, with folded wing, Above our heads are heard to coo; And far’s the ill-betiding crow. We do not think of cities then, Nor envy the resorts of men,– / Of Italy, the softer pleasures, Of Asia too, the golden treasures, All these are nothing in our eyes; The while a book beside us lies, Which tells the tales of olden time, Of gods and men the hests sublime,– Æneas’ voyage by Virgil told, Or song divine of Homer old, Achilles’ wrath and all his glory, Or wandering Ulysses’ story, Propertius too, who well indites, And the soft plaints Catullus writes; These will remind me of past grief, Tenderme ha alli la alda de su saya y en regalos de amor habrá porfia qual de entrambos hará mas alta raya. El rio correrá por do es su via nosotros correremos por la nuestra sin pensar en el noche ni en la dia El ruiseñor nos cantara a la diestra y vendra sin el cuerbo la paloma haciendo a su venida alegre muestra. No tendremos envidia al que está en Roma ni a los tesoros de los Asianos, ni a quanto por acá de la India asoma. Tendrémos nuestros libros en las manos y no se cansaran de andar contando los hechos celestiales y mundanos Virgilio a Eneas estará cantando, y Homero el corazon de Aquiles fiero, y el navigar de Ulises rodeando Propercio vendrá alli por compañero el qual dirá con dulces armonias del arte que a su Cintia amo primero. Catulo acudirá por otras vias,

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Till, thinking of the sweet relief My wedded state confers on me, My bygone ’scapes I careless eye. O what are all those struggles past, The fiery pangs which did not last, Now that I live secure for aye, In my dear wife’s sweet company? I have no reason to repine– My joys are her’s, and her’s are mine; Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, And all our pleasures mutual are. Our eyes drink in the shady light Of wood, and vale, and grassy height; / We hear the waters as they stray, And from the mountains wend their way, Leaping all lightly down the steep, Till at our feet they murm’ring creep; And fanning us, the evening breeze, Plays gamesomely among the trees; While bleating flocks, as day grows cold, Gladly seek their shelt’ring fold. And when the sun is on the hill, And shadows vast the valleys fill, And waning day, grown near its close, Sends tired men to their repose; y llorando de Lesbia los amores sus trampas Ilorará y chocarrerias. Esto me advertirá de mis dolores– pero volviendo a mi placer presente tendrè mis escarmientos por mejores. Ganancia sacaré del accidente que otro tiempo mi sentir turbava trayendome perdido entre la gente. ¿ Que haré de acordarme qual estaba viendome qual estoy, que estoy seguro de nunca mas pasar lo que pasaba? En mi fuerte estaré dentro en mi muro sin locura de amor ni fantasia que mi pueda vencer con su conjuro. Como digo estarè en mi compañia en todo me hara el camino Ilano su alegria mezclando con la mia. Su mano me dara dentro en mi mano, y acudiran deleytes y blanduras de un sano corazon en otro sano. Los ojos holgarán con las verduras de los montes y prados que verémos y con las sombras de las espesuras.

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We to our villa saunt’ring walk, And of the things we see we talk. Our friends come out in gayest cheer, To welcome us – and fain would hear, If my sweet wife be tired – and smile– Inviting us to rest the while. Then to sup we take our seat, Our table plentiful and neat, Our viands without sauces drest, Good appetite the healthy zest To fruits we’ve pluck’d in our own bowers, And gaily deck’d with od’rous flowers, And rustic dainties, – many a one. When this is o’er and supper done, / The evening passes swift along, In converse gay and sweetest song; Till slumber, stealing to the eye, Bids us to our couches hie. El correr de las aguas oiremos y su blando venir por las montañas que a su paso vendrán donde estaremos El ayre moverá las verdes cañas y volveran entomes los ganados balando por llegar á sus cabañas. En esto ya que el sol por los collados sus largas sombras andara encumbrando, enviando reposo a los cansados, nosotros nos irémos paseando acia al lugar do está nuestra morada, en cosas que veremos platicando. La compaña saldrá regocijáda a tomarnos entonces con gran fiesta diciendo a mi muger si está cansada. Veremos al entrar le mesa puesta, y todo en buen concepto aparejado como es uso de casa bien compuesta. Despues que un poco habremos reposado sin ver bullir, andar yendo y viniendo, y a cenar non habremos asentado. Nuestros mozos vendrán alli trayendo viandas naturales y gustosas que nuestro gusto esten todo moviendo. Frutas pondrán maduras y sabrosas por nosotros las mas de ellas cogidas, embueltas en mil flores olorosas. Las natas por los platas estendidas acudirán y el blanco requeson, y otras que dan cabras paridas. Despues de esto vendrá el tierno lechon

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I will not tell what there we do, Even, dearest friend, to you; Enough that lovers ever share Delights when they together are. Thus our village life we live, And day by day such joys receive; Till, to change the homely scene, Lest it pall while too serene, To the gay city we remove, Where other things there are to love; And graced by novelty we find The city’s concourse to our mind. While our new coming gives a joy, Which ever staying might destroy, We spare all tedious compliment– Yet courtesy with kind intent, Which savage tongues alone abuse, Will often the same language use. Thus in content we thankful live, And for one ill for which we grieve, How much of good our dear home blesses; Mortals must ever find distresses, con el conejo gordo, y gazapito, y aquellos pollos que de pasto son. vendra tambien alli el nuevo cabrito que a su madre jamas habrá seguido por el tiempo de tierno y de chiquito. Despues que todo esto haza venido, y que nosotros descansadamente en nuestra cena hayamos bien comido, pasaremos la noche dulcemente hasta venir el tiempo que la gana del dormir toma al hombre comunmente. Lo que desde este tiempo alla mañana pasáre, pase ahora sin contarse, pues no cura mi pluma de ser vana: basta saver que dos que tanto amarse pudieron, no podran hallar momento en que puedan dejar siempre de holgarse. Pero tornando a proseguir el cuento, nuestro vivir será de vida entera viviendo en el aldea como cuento. Tras esto ya que el corazon se quiera desenfadar con variar la vida tornando nuevo gusto en su manera, a la ciudad será nuestra partida a donde todo nos será placiente con el nuevo placer de la venida. Holgarémos entones con la gente,

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But sorrow loses half its weight– And every moment has its freight / Of joy – which our dear friends impart, And with their kindness cheer my heart, While, never weary us to visit, They seek our house when we are in it: If we are out it gives them pain, And on the morrow come again. Noble Dural can cure our sadness, With the infection of his gladness: Augustin too – well read in pages, Productions of the ancient sages, And the romances of our Spain– Will give us back our smiles again; While he with a noble gravity, Adorned by the gentlest suavity, Recounts us many a tale or fable, Which well to tell he is most able; y con la novedad de haber llegado trataremos con todos blandamente. Y el cumplimiento que es siempre pesado a lo menos aquel que de ser vano, no es menos enojoso que escusado; Alaballe esterá muy en la mano, y decir que por solo el cumplimiento se conserva en el mundo el trato humano. Nuestro vivir asi estará contento, y alcanzaremos mil ratos gozosos en recompensa de un desabrimiento. Y aunque a veces no faltan enojos, todavia entre nuestros conocidos dulces serán mas y los sabrosos. Pues ya con los amigos mas queridos que será el alborozo y el placer y el bullicio de ser recien venidos. Que será el nunca hartarnos de nos ver, y el buscarnos cada hora y cada punto y el pesar de buscarse sin se ver. Mosen Dural alli estera muy junto, haciendo con su trato y su nobleza sobre nuestro placer el contrapunto. Y con su buen burlar y su llaneza no sufrirà un momento tan ruin que en nuestro gran placer muestre tristeza. No faltera Geronimo Augustin con su saber sabroso y agradable, no menos que en romance en el latin: el qual con gravidad mansa y tratable Contando cosa bien por el notadas, nuestro buen conversar hará, durable.

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Serious, mingled with jokes and glee, The which as light and shade agree. And Monleon, our dearest guest, Will raise our mirth by many a jest; For while his laughter rings again, Can we to echo it refrain? And other merriment is ours, To gild with joy the lightsome hours. But all too trivial would it look, Written down gravely in a book: And it is time to say adieu, Though more I have to write to you. Another letter this shall tell, So now, my dearest friend, farewell! /

Thus lived Boscan, enjoying all that human nature can conceive of happiness. One of his tasks, after the lamented death of Garcilaso, was to collect his poems, and to publish several in a volume with his own. The date of his death is uncertain: it took place, however, before the year 1543; so that he died comparatively young. In person he was handsome; his physiognomy attractive from the mildness and benevolence it expressed; and his manners distinguished by courtly urbanity and elegance.a As a poet, he does not rank so high as his friend Garcilaso; he is less of a poet, less ideal, less harmonious. His chief praise results from his coming forward as the reformer of Spanish poetry: yet he cannot be considered an imitator of the Italian style which he introduced. It is true he adopted from the Italians their versifiLas burlas andaran por el mezeladas con las veras asi con tal razon que unas de otras serán bien ayudadas, En esto acudira el buen Monleon con el qual todos mucho holgarèmos, y nosotros y quantos con el son El nos dirá, y nosotros gustaremos, el reira, y hara que nos riamos, Y en esto enfadarse ha de quanto harémos. Otras cosa habrá que las callamos, porque tan buenas son para hacerse que pierden el valor si las hablamos. Pero tiempo es en fin de recogerse. porque haya mas para otro mensagero, que si mi cuenta no ha de deshacerse no será, y os prometo, este el postrero.” a Sedano, VIII, p. xxxi. Las Obras de Boscan y algunas de Garcilasso de la Vega repartidas en quatro libros (Barcelona, 1543). Book one contains his earlier poetry, and book two features his Italianate works. The first edition marks the transition from Gothic to Roman type in 16thcentury printing in Spain. Boscán died before the collection appeared. His widow did the final editing and proofreading.

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cation and subjects; but nothing can be more essentially different in character and genius. The tender flow of Petrarch, the inimitable mode in which he concentrates his ideas, and presents them to us with a precision yet with grace and ideality, find no competition in Boscan’s poems. But there is more simplicity, more of the nerve of a man; less enthusiasm but a plainer and completer meaning in the Spaniard. He is less dreamy – to a certain degree, more common place; but then all is true, heartfelt, and living. We have not Petrarch’s diction. Garcilaso de la Vega approached that more nearly; but we have a full and earnest truth that carries us along with it.a Take for instance the most perfect of Petrarch’s canzone, “Chiare, fresche e dolci acque,”

and compare it with Boscan’s “Claros y frescos rios,” b

written in imitation. The Italian poet invests his love with ideal imagery that elevates its object into something ethereal and goddess-like. How graceful, how full of true poetic fire and love’s enthusiasm is that inimitable stanza! – / Still dear to Memory! when, in odorous showers, Scattering their balmy flowers To summer airs, th’ o’ershadowing branches bow’d, The while, with humble state, In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate, Wrapt in the roseate cloud! Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture’s hem, Now her bright tresses gem (In all that blissful day, Like burnish’d gold, with orient pearls inwrought): Some strew the turf, some on the waters float! Some, fluttering, seem to say, In wanton circlets tost, “Here Love holds sovereign sway.”c

Boscan’s poem has nothing of the ideal creativeness which sheds a halo round its object, making one feel as if Laura fed upon different food, and had limbs of more celestial texture than other women: but Boscan’s sentiments are true to nature. His tenderness is that of a real and fervent lover; without raising her whom he loves into an angel, he gives us a lively and most sweet picture of how his heart was spent upon thoughts of her; and when he tells us that during absence he meditates on what she is doing, and whether she thinks of him, pica

Bouterwek, I, p. 178. Contrasting Petrarch, Rime Sparse, 126, l. 1, ‘Clear, cool, sweetly running waters’ and Boscán, ‘Cancion’, l. 1, ‘Clear and fresh waters’ (Sedano, VIII, p. 87). c Petrarch, Rime Sparse, 126, ll. 40–52. Translation by Barbarina, Lady Dacre in Ugo Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch (London: John Murray, 1823), Appendix VII, p. 291. For Mary Shelley’s involvement with and use of this work, see vol. 1, ‘Petrarch’. b

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turing her gesture as she laughs, thinking her thought, while his heart tells him how she may change from gay to sad, now sleeping and now awake, there is, in the place of the ideal, sincerity, – in place of the wanderings of fancy, the fixed earnestness of a fond and manly heart.a Boscan imitated Horace as well as Petrarch. In the epistle from which a passage has been quoted, he abides by the unornamented style of the Latin poet; but he wants his terseness, his epigrammatic turns, his keen observation. His poem is descriptive, and sweetly so, of the best state of man, – that of a happy marriage; but while he presents a faithful picture of its tranquil virtuous pleasures, and imparts the deep serene joy of his own heart, his hues are not stolen from the rainbow, nor his music from the spheres: it is all calm, earthy, unidealised, though not unimpassioned.b One fault Boscan possesses in common with almost all other Spanish poets – he cannot compress: he runs on, one idea suggesting another, one line the one to follow / in artless unconstrained flow; but his poetry wants concentration and energy.c You read with pleasure, and follow the meanders of his thoughts; they are not wild, but they are desultory; and we are never startled as when reading Petrarch, by the rising, as it were, amidst melodious sounds, of some structure of ideal and surpassing beauty, which makes you pause, imbibe the whole conception of the poet, and exclaim, This is perfection! /

a

See Bouterwek, I, p. 168. Bouterwek I, p. 171. Mary Shelley expands Bouterwek’s comment that the ‘descriptions of domestic and rural life charm by their exquisite delicacy’ to embody her own belief in the importance of companionate marriage. c Bouterwek notes ‘the tediousness of some of the parts’ (I, p. 174) with respect to his descriptions. Mary Shelley agrees but takes her critical analysis much further. b

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GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 1503–1536. A POET of higher merit, a more interesting man, a hero, both in love and war, whose name seems to embody the perfect idea of Spanish chivalry, was Boscan’s friend, Garcilaso de la Vega. We possess a translation of his poetry by Mr. Wiffen, who has appended an elaborate life, as elaborate at least as the scanty materials that remain could afford; for these are slight, and rather to be guessed at from slight allusions made by historians, and expressions in his poems, than from certain knowledge; as all that we really learn concerning him is, that he was a gallant soldier and a poet, devoting the leisure he could snatch from the hurry and alarm of war, to the study and composition of poetry, in which art he attained the name of prince, and is, indeed, superior to all the writers of his age in elegance, sweetness, and pathos.a Garcilaso de la Vega was sprung from one of the noblest families of Toledo. His ancestry is illustrious in Spanish chronicles. They were originally natives of the Asturias, and, possessing great wealth, arrived at high honours under various sovereigns. One of them, by name also Garcilaso, received the name of De la Vega, in commemoration of his having slain a gigantic Moor on the Vega or plain of Granada.*b The miscreant having attached the Ave Maria to his horse’s tail, all the knights of Spain were eager to avenge the injury done / to our lady. Although a mere youth, Garcilaso triumphed, and was surnamed in consequence De la Vega, and adopted for his device the Ave Maria in a field d’or. The father of the * This anecdote is usually told as appertaining to the father of the poet; but the name was assumed by the family at an earlier date. There is a romance introduced in the Guerras Civiles de Granada, commemorating this action. Sedano and Wiffen are the authorities on which this biography is grounded. Bouterwek tells only what Sedano had done before him; in the earlier portion of his work, Sismondi is scarcely more than a rifacciamento of Bouterwek.c a Adapted from Wiffen, pp. 95–6. A modern study of the poet (Bernard Gicovate, Garcilaso de la Vega (1975), p. 31), confirms the paucity of biographical information. Garcilaso’s ancestors were known as scholars and as soldiers. b Wiffen, p. 100 and Sedano, II, p.xxi. c Sedano, II, pp. xxi–xxiv; Bouterwek, I, pp. 176–86; a good example of Mary Shelley’s collation of her authorities. She turns to Sismondi later, particularly for drama, on which Bouterwek was pronounced inadequate by Bowring in the Retrospective Review, VI (1822), 21. The elder Garcilaso, forbidden to fight the Moorish knight because of his youth, secretly left the Castilian camp, killed the Moor and brought back his bloody head.

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poet, named also Garcilaso, was fourth lord of Los Anos, grand commendary of Leon, a knight of the order of St. James, one of the most distinguished gentlemen of the court of Ferdinand and Isabella. His mother was donna Sancha de Toral, an heiress of a large estate in Leon, – a demesne, it would seem, where the poet passed his earlier days; for the fountain which ornaments it still goes by his name, and is supposed to be described in his second eclogue.* These eclogues were written at Naples; it may, therefore, be a piece of fond patriotism in the Spaniard, that attributes this description to a fountain in his native woods; but there is a pleasure in figuring the boy-poet loitering beside its pure waters, and so filling his imagination with images presented by its limpid waves and the surrounding scenery, that, in after years and in a foreign country, he could fondly dwell upon and reproduce them in his verse.a Garcilaso was born at Toledo in 1503, being a few years younger than the emperor Charles V. When, on his accession to the throne, that prince visited the Spain he was called by right of birth to reign over, Garcilaso was only fifteen. We are told, however, that his skill in martial and gymnastic exercises made him early a favourite with his sovereign, and he soon entered on that warlike career destined to prove fatal to him. His / poetic tastes, also, were developed while still a youth. He was passionately fond of music, and played with extreme sweetness on the harp and guitar.b * “Temperate, when winter waves its snowy wing, Is the sweet water of this sylvan spring; And when the heats of summer scorch the grass, More cold than snow: in your clear looking-glass, Fair waves! the memory of that day returns, With which my soul still shivers, melts, and burns; Gazing on your clear depth and lustre pure, My peace grows troubled and my joys obscure. *

*

*

*

This lucid fount, whose murmurs fill the mind, The verdant forests waving with the wind, The odours wafted from the mead, the flowers In which the wild bee sits and sings for hours, These might the moodiest misanthrope employ, Make sound the sick, and turn distress to joy.”c a

Information in this paragraph is adapted from Wiffen, pp. 100–2 and Sedano, II, p. xxi; the comment on the eclogues draws upon Mary Shelley’s own experiences in Italy. Gicovate also mentions the story about the fountain as a legend associated with the eclogue. The date of the poet’s birth is either 1501 or 1503. The poet’s father was ambassador to Italy between 1494 and 1499, which accounts for the almost ten year gap in the ages of Garcilaso and his elder brother Pedro Lasso de la Vega. His father died in 1512. His mother, Doña Sancha De Guzmán, was related to the Duke of Alba (Gicovate, pp. 27–8). b Information in this paragraph adapted from Wiffen, pp. 103–4. c Eclogue II. Silva I (Wiffen, pp. 196–7).

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The accession of Charles V. was signalised in Spain by disaster. The death of cardinal Ximenes deprived the youthful sovereign of his most illustrious counsellor, though perhaps of one he would have neglected.a His Flemish courtiers attained undue influence, and a nefarious system of peculation was carried on, – the treasures of Spain being exported to Flanders, which the Spaniards regarded with alarm and indignation. The election of Charles to the imperial crown and his intended departure for Germany was the signal of resistance.b This is the more deserving of commemoration in these pages, as the elder brother of Garcilaso took a distinguished part on the popular side.*c He was candidate for the distinction of captain-general of the Germanada or Brotherhood (an association, at first sanctioned by Charles, for the purpose of maintaining the privileges of the people), and even elected such, till a popular revolt reversed his nomination in favour of the heroic Padilla.d Not less heroic, however, was don Pedro, and in the cortes he boldly confronted the king, and declared that he would sooner be cut in pieces, sooner lose his head, than yield the good of his country to the sovereign’s arbitrary will. Of such gallant stuff was the Spanish courtier made, till Charles’s wars drained the country of her most valiant spirits, and the cruel share of the Inquisition ploughed up, and as it were sowed with salt, the soil, originally so fertile in genius and heroism. Don Pedro remained true to his cause to the last, though he did not carry his views so far as Padilla; and thus escaped the martyrdom of this generous patriot.e The conduct of Charles in publishing a general * Wiffen. a Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros (1436–1517), confessor of Queen Isabella and founder of the University of Alcalá de Henares (1508) was in his eighties when he became regent of Spain in 1516 owing to the madness of Charles’s mother Juana. He was known for his interest in foreign religious ideas, including those of Erasmus and Savonarola, and his intolerance against Moors and Jews (Kamen, pp. 47–8). b Charles acceded to the throne in 1516, becoming sole ruler in 1517. Mary Shelley refers to the period between 1516 and 1522 when two revolts broke out, precipitated by Charles’s levy of servicio (a money tax, some of which was intended to provide funds to go to the Netherlands as a result of his election as Holy Roman Emperor). Mary Shelley, with Wiffen, takes the standard if not completely accurate view that his Burgundian advisors were to blame and that the Spanish nobility were heroically defending their lands from exploitation by outsiders (see Kamen, p. 74). c Pero Lasso de la Vega (called Don Pedro by Wiffen) and Juan de Padilla led a revolt which began in Toledo in 1520. Intended to oppose the centralisation of the Spanish states, they demanded that Charles return to Spain, marry, and exclude foreign advisers in favour of the Cortes (at that time the name given to regional councils that counterbalanced the absolute power of the monarchy). The account is adapted from Wiffen, pp. 106–20, with special reference to page 108. d The Germanías were a brotherhood made up of the bourgeois and artisans who organised a militia in Valencia intended to defend the coast from Barbary pirates. Their attempted rebellion was quelled in 1524 and hundreds of rebels executed. Kamen suggests that the Germanía was an instance of class warfare of artisan against aristocrat (p. 80). e Mary Shelley differentiates the extremist rebel from the more moderate one. Padilla was defeated in 1521 at Villalar and he was executed (Kamen, pp. 76–9). Gicovate suggests that Pero escaped death because he wasn’t present at Villalar (p. 33). Garcilaso swore allegiance to the King and fought against the rebels, though he remained loyal to his brother.

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pardon, on his return to Spain, is among the few instances he has given of magnanimity. His reply to a courtier who offered to inform him where one of the rebels lay concealed, deserves repetition from the grandeur of soul it expressed. / “I have now no reason,” he said, “to be afraid of that man, but he has cause to shun me; you would do better, therefore, in telling him that I am here, than in informing me of the place of his retreat.”a War being soon after declared against France, Italy became the seat of the struggle. Garcilaso, though little more than eighteen, commenced his career of arms in this campaign. He was present at the battle of Pavia, and so distinguished himself, that he shortly after received the cross of St. Jago from the emperor in reward of his valour.b It would appear, that after this battle Garcilaso returned for a time to his native country. Since it was soon after, that Boscan, falling in with Andrea Navagero, ambassador from Venice to the Spanish court, in 1525, resolved on imitating the Italian poetry – as is recorded in his life, – and Garcilaso was his adviser and supporter.c At the age of four-and-twenty, in the year 1528, he married Doña Elena de Zuniga, a lady of Arragon, maid of honour to Leonora, queen of France, – a happy marriage – from which sprung three sons.d On the invasion of Hungary by Solyman, in 1532, the emperor repaired to Vienna to undertake the war in person. The campaign was carried on without any action of moment; but Garcilaso was engaged in various skirmishes, and saw enough of war to fill him with horror at its results.e At this time, however, he fell into disgrace at court. One of his cousins, a son of don Pedro Lasso, aspired clandestinely to the hand of donna Isabel, daughter of don Luis de la Cueva, maid of honour to the empress. We are ignorant of the reason wherefore Charles was opposed to this marriage, and the consequent necessity of carrying on the amour secretly. Garcilaso befriended the lovers.f The intrigue being discovered, the emperor was highly incensed; he banished the cousin, and exiled Garcilaso to an island of the Danube, an imprisonment which he commemorates in an ode, of which we may quote some stanzas from Mr. Wiffen’s translation, / which characterise the disposition of the man; no courtier a

Quoted with some differences from Wiffen, p. 120. The French invaded the disputed territory of the Navarre in 1521. Struggles continued in Italy, where the French were defeated in 1525 at Pavia, north of Milan. Charles’s forces took the king of France prisoner and Italy returned to Habsburg control. c See Wiffen, pp. 128–9. Boscán and Garcilaso likely met at Charles’s court in Valladolid in 1522 (Gicovate, p. 35). d Gicovate gives a marriage-date of 1525. Little is known about Elena or the nature of the marriage apart from the existence of documents establishing the amount of the dowries. Along with his six legitimate offspring, Garcilaso also had an illegitimate son with Isabel Freire (Gicovate, p. 37). e Wiffen, p. 131. The King of Hungary, Ferdinand, was brother of Charles V (Gicovate, p. 46); Solyman: Süleyman II (‘the Magnificent’), Sultan of Turkey (1520–66). f Wiffen, p. 132. Gicovate suggests that Charles had other plans for the heiress and that it is possible that Garcilaso knew nothing about his opposition to the marriage (p. 47). b

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or man of the world he, repining at disgrace and disappointment; but a poet, ready to find joy in solitude, and to adorn adversity with the rainbow hues of the imagination. “TO THE DANUBE. With the mild sound of clear swift waves, the Danube’s arms of foam Circle a verdant isle which peace has made her chosen home; Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife, And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life. Here evermore the smiling spring goes scattering odorous flowers, And nightingales and turtle doves, in depth of myrtle bowers, Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight, With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night. Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, ’neath foreign skies, Forced in arrest, and easy ’tis in such a paradise To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom. One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink ’Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think It was my complicated ills that caused my death, while I Know well that if I die ’twill be because I wish to die. *

*

*

*

*

River divine, rich Danube! thou the bountiful and strong, That through fierce nations roll’st thy waves rejoicingly along, Since only but by rushing through thy drowning billows deep, These scrolls can hence escape to tell the noble words I weep. If wrecked in undeciphered loss on some far foreign land, They should by any chance be found upon the desert sand, Since they upon thy willowed shore must drift, where’er they are, Their relics let the kind blue waves with murmured hymns inter. Ode of my melancholy hours! last infant of my lyre! Although in booming waves it be thy fortune to expire, Grieve not, since I, howe’er from holy rites debarred, Have seen to all that touches thee with catholic regard. Less, less had been thy life, if thou hadst been but ranked among Those without record, that haye risen and died upon my tongue; Whose utter want of sympathy, and haughtiness austere, Has been the cause of this – from me thou very soon shalt hear.”a

It is not known how long his exile endured, but certainly not long; he was recalled, and attended the emperor in his expedition against Tunis.b a

Quoted in Wiffen, p. 315, where it is given the title ‘Written in Exile’. Garcilaso’s exile lasted a few months between March and July of 1532. He wrote ‘Canción III’ during this time (Gicovate, p. 48). b

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The son of a potter of Lesbos, turning corsair, raised himself to notice and power under the name of Barbarossa. He possessed himself of Algiers by treachery, and then, protected by the grand signor, he attacked Tunis, and drove out the king Muley Hassan. Muley solicited the aid of the emperor, and Charles, animated by a desire to punish a pirate whose cruelties had desolated many a Christian family, put himself at the head of an armament to invade Tunis. Barbarossa exerted / himself to defend the city, and, in particular, fortified the citadel, named Goletta, and garrisoned it with 6000 Turks. Immediately on landing, the emperor invested the city; sallies and skirmishes became frequent, in one of which Garcilaso was wounded in the face and hand. Goletta fell, despite the vigorous defence; but Barbarossa did not despair: he assembled an army of 150,000 men, and, confiding in numbers, resolved to offer battle to the Christians. Garcilaso served on this occasion in a division of the imperial army, commanded by the marquis de Mondejar, a division at first left as a rear guard, but ordered afterwards to advance to support some newly raised Spanish regiments commanded by the duke of Alva. The marquis de Mondejar was badly wounded and carried from the field; Garcilaso, seeing the danger to which the troops were exposed in the absence of the general, rushed forward to support them by the example of his valour. His gallantry had nearly proved fatal: he was wounded and surrounded, and must have been slain, but for a Neapolitan noble, Federigo Carafa, who rescued him at the peril of his life. By great efforts he succeeded in dispersing the multitude, and bore him back in safety, half spent with toil, thirst, and loss of blood.* The day ended in the defeat of Barbarossa; Muley Hassan was restored to his throne; and Charles returned to Italy in triumph.a After this expedition, Garcilaso spent some time at Naples and Sicily. During his residence there, he is said to have written his eclogues and elegies, which are the most beautiful of his poems. There is something so truly poetic in the site, the clime, the atmosphere of Naples, that the most prosaic spirit must feel its influence. There Petrarch was examined by king Robert, and declared worthy of the laurel crown; there he delivered that oration on poetry that won the king to admire the heretofore neglected art, and inspired the young Boccaccio with that enthusiastic love for the Muses, which lasted to his dying day. There (and Garcilaso / seems to have felt deeply the influence of these poets) Virgil and Sannazar wrote. The Spanish poet particularly loved and admired Virgil. Imbued by his spirit, he emulated his elegance and harmony, while he surpassed him in tender pathos.b * Wiffen. a The above paragraph follows Wiffen, pp. 133–40. Khairuddin Barbarossa seized the island fortress Peñón in Algiers and eight Spanish galleys were destroyed near Ibiza in 1529 (Kamen, p. 71). The second Marques de Mondejar (1489–1566) was a brother of Mendoza. Garcilasco was wounded in his right arm and his mouth. b Garcilaso was in Naples between 1533–36; see ‘Petrarch’ and ‘Boccaccio’ (vol. 1) for the dealings of these named writers with Robert of Anjou, the King of Naples. Virgil, (Publius Ver-

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One of his elegies to Boscan is dated from the foot of Etna. It does not rank among the best of his poems; but it is agreeable to preserve proofs of friendship between these gifted men. It a little jars, however, with our feelings, that he in it alludes to some lady of his love, though he was now married; however, there is a sort of poetic imaginative hue thrown over this elegy, which permits us to attribute his love complaints rather to the memory of past times and the poetic temperament, than to inconstancy of disposition. Garcilaso’s poetry is refined and pure in all its sentiments, though full, at the same time, of tenderness. I subjoin a few stanzas from the elegy in question, such as give individuality and interest to the character of the poet:–a “Boscan! here where the Mantuan has inurned Anchises’ ashes to eternal fame, We, Cæsar’s hosts, from conquests are returned; Some of their toils the promised fruit to claim– Some to make virtue both the end and aim Of action, – or would have the world suppose And say so, loud in public to declaim Against such selfishness; whilst yet heaven knows They act in secret all the meanness they oppose. For me, a happy medium I observe, For never has it entered in my scheme, To strive for much more silver than may serve To lift me gracefully from each extreme Of thrifty meanness, thriftless pride; I deem The men contemptible that stoop to use The one or other, that delight to seem Too close, or inconsiderate in their views: In error’s moonlight maze their way both worthies find. *

*

*

*

Yet leave I not the Muses, but the more For this perplexity with them commune, And with the charm of their delicious love Vary my life, and waste the summer noon; Thus pass my hours beguiled; but out of tune The lyre will sometimes be, when trials prove The anxious lyrist: to the country soon gilius Maro) (70–19 BC) is supposed to have written much of the Aeneid at Naples. In December 1818 the Shelleys visited the spot pointed out as his tomb and the classic ground associated with the scenery of the Aeneid, bk VI. The Arcadia (1485) of Jacopo Sannazzaro (1458–1530) influenced Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia. Mary Shelley knew Sannazzaro’s description of Naples as ‘un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra’ (MWSN, vol. 6, p. 166) but otherwise makes little reference to him. a The information in this paragraph comes from Wiffen, p. 141.

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Of the sweet Siren shall I hence remove, Yet, as of yore, the land of idlesse, ease, and love. *

*

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But how, O how shall I be sure, that here My evil genius, in the change I seek, / Is not still sworn against me? this strong fear It is that chills my heart, and renders weak The wish I feel to visit that antique Italian city, whence my eyes derive Such exquisite delight, with tears they speak Of the contrasting griefs my heart that rive; And with them up in arms against me here I strive. O fierce – O rigorous – O remorseless Mars! In diamond tunic garmented, and so Steeled always in the harshness that debars The soul from feeling! wherefore as a foe Force the fond lover evermore to go Onward from strife to strife, o’er land and sea? Exerting all thy power to work me woe, I am so far reduced, that death would be At length a blessed boon, my refuge, fiend, from thee! But my hard fate this blessing does deny; I meet it not in battle; the strong spear, Sharp sword, and piercing arrow pass me by, Yet strike down others in their young career, That I might pine away to see my dear Sweet fruit engrossed by aliens, who deride My vain distress; but whither does my fear And grief transport me, without shame or pride? Whither I dread to think, and grieve to have descried. *

*

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But thou who in thy villa, blest with all That heart can wish, look’st on the sweet sea-shore; And, undistracted, listening to the fall And swell of the loud waves that round thee roar, Gatherest to thy already rich scrutoire Fresh living verses for perpetual fame, Rejoice! for fires more beauteous than of yore Were kindled by the Dardan prince, inflame Thy philosophic heart, and light thy laurelled name.”a

a

Elegy II, ‘To Boscán, Written at the Foot of Mount Etna’ (Wiffen, pp. 293–9).

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It may be supposed, that the learned Italians of those days welcomed a spirit congenial to their own, and were proud of a poet who transferred to another language that elegance of style and elevated purity of thought, the original growth of their native land. Cardinal Bembo thus writes of him to a friend, in a letter dated 15th of August, 1535:– “Signor Garcilaso is indeed a graceful poet, and his odes are all in the highest degree pleasing to me, and merit peculiar admiration and praise. In fine spirit he has far excelled all the writers of his nation; and if he be not wanting to himself in diligent study, he will no less excel other nations who are considered masters of poetry. I am not surprised that the marquis del Vasto has wished to have him with him, and that he holds him in great affection.”a Among cardinal Bembo’s Latin letters, there is one to Garcilaso, full of compliments, which show the high / esteem in which he was held. “From the verses which you have sent me, I am happy to perceive, first, how much you love me, since you are not one who would else flatter with encomiums, nor call one dear to you whom you have never seen; and, secondly, how much you excel in lyric compositions, in splendour of genius, and sweetness of expression. – You have not only surpassed all your fellow Spaniards, who have devoted themselves to Parnassus and the Muses, but you supply incentives even to the Italians, and again and again invite them to endeavour to be overcome in this contest and in these studies by no one but yourself; which judgment of mine some other of your writings sent to me from Naples have confirmed. For it is impossible to meet in this age with compositions more classically pure, more dignified in sentiment, or more elegant in style. In that you love me, therefore, I most justly and sincerely rejoice; and that you are a great and good man, I congratulate in the first place yourself, but most of all, your country, in that she is thus about to receive so great an increase of honour and glory. “There is, however, another circumstance which greatly increases the honour I have received; for lately, when the monk Onorato, whom I perceive you know by reputation, entered into conversation with me, and, amongst other topics, asked me what I thought of your poems, the opinion I gave happened to coincide exactly with his own; and he is a man of very acute perception, and extremely well versed in poetical pursuits. He told me that his friends had written to him of your very many and great virtues, of the urbanity of your manners, the integrity of your life, and accomplishments of your mind; adding that it was a fact confirmed by all Neapolitans that knew you, that no one had come from Spain to their city in these times, wherein the greatest resort has been made by your nation to Italy, whom they loved more affectionately than yourself, or one on whom they would confer superior benefits.”b / Garcilaso did not, however, long enjoy the leisure that he so well employed. Charles V., whose great ambition was to crush the power of France, and to possess a Quoted in Wiffen, pp. 141–2, and slightly edited here. Pietro Bembo (1470–1547), poet, courtier, and humanist, published editions of Petrarch (1501) and Dante. b Quoted in Wiffen, pp. 142–4; the ‘monk Onorato’ is Onorato Fascitelli (1502–64).

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himself of a portion of that kingdom, was resolved to take advantage of the disastrous issue of Francis I.’s attempt upon the duchy of Milan, and rashly determined to invade a country whose armies, however he might meet victoriously in other fields, he could not hope to vanquish in their own. He entered France from the south; and recalling Garcilaso, conferred on him an honourable command over eleven companies of infantry. Leaving Naples to join this expedition, he traversed Italy, and from Vaucluse wrote an epistle to Boscan in a lighter and gayer style than is usual with him;a while he dwells with affectionate pleasure on the tie of friendship that united them, saying, among other things,– “Whilst much reflecting on the sacred tie Of our affection, which I hold so high, The exchange of talent, taste, intelligence, Shared gifts and multiplied delights which thence Refresh our souls in their perpetual flow– There nothing is that makes me value so The sweetness of this compact of the heart, Than the affection on my own warm part. *

*

*

*

Such were my thoughts. But oh! how shall I set Fully to view my shame and my regret, For having praised so at a single glance, The roads, the dealings, and hotels of France. Shame, that with reason thou may’st now pronounce Myself a fabler, and my praise a bounce; Regret, my time so much to have misused, In rashly lauding what were best abused; For here, all fibs apart, you find but jades Of hacks, sour wines, and pilfering chambermaids, Long ways, long bills, no silver, fleecing hosts, And all the luxury of lumbering posts. Arriving too from Naples by the way– Naples – the choice, the brilliant, and the gay! Embrace Dural for me – nor rate my muse; October twelfth, given forth from sweet Vaucluse, Where the fine flame of Petrarch had its birth, And where its ashes yet irradiate earth.”b

a

Wiffen, p. 146. ‘Epistle to Boscán’ (Wiffen, pp. 301, 302). The poem was sent on 12 October 1534 (Gicovate, p. 65). Dural is identified by Wiffen as ‘Mosen Dural, a distinguished gentleman of Barcelona, and Grand Treasurer of the city’ (p. 402). Vaucluse, in south-eastern France, near Avignon, is particularly associated with Petrarch’s love poems. b

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To the period of this campaign Wiffen is inclined to attribute the composition of his third eclogue which, in point of merit, is the second, and which was avowedly written during a war – for, as he says,– “’Midst arms – with scarce one pause from bloody toil, When war’s hoarse trumpet breaks the poet’s dream, Have I there moments stolen, oft claimed.”a /

This expedition was disastrous in itself and fatal to the poet. An invading army is necessarily abhorred by all; and while it inflicts, also suffers the utmost horrors of war. The French generalb wisely acted on the defensive, and, having laid the country waste, left famine and disease to win the game. The emperor, unsuccessful in his attempts upon Marseilles and Arles, was obliged to retreat through a country roused to exasperation by the ills it had endured. His army, in consequence, was exposed to a thousand disasters, while the very peasants, hanging on its rear, or lying in ambush, cut off the stragglers, and disputed the passage of every defile. On one occasion, at Muy near Frejus,c the imperialists were held in check by a party of fifty rustics, who, armed with muskets, had thrown themselves into a tower, and harassed them on their passage. The emperor ordered Garcilaso to attack and carry it with his battalion. Eager in his obedience, Garcilaso led the way to scale the tower. The peasants observing that he wore a gaily embroidered dress over his armour, fancied that it was the emperor himself, and marked him out for destruction. He was the first to mount the ladder; a block of stone rolled from the battlements, struck him on the head and beat him to the ground. He was carried to Nice; but no care could avail to save him: he lingered for twenty days, and then died, November, 1536, at the age only of thirty-three. He showed, we are told, no less the spirit of a Christian in his death, than of a soldier in the hour of peril. His death was universally lamented; and the emperor displayed his sense of the loss he had sustained, by causing all the peasants who survived the taking of the tower, twenty-eight in number, to be hanged. Such a token of respect would scarcely soothe the ghost of the gentle poet; but it was in accordance with the spirit of the times. The body was interred at first in the church of Saint Dominique at Nice; but two years afterwards was removed to the tomb of his ancestors in a chapel of the church of San Pedro Martyr de Toledo.d / Garcilaso is always represented as the model of a young and gallant soldier, adorning his knightly accomplishments with the softer graces of a poet; as an imaginative enthusiast, joining sentiment to passion, and softening both by the elegancies of refinement. His tall figure was symmetrical in its proportions, and a

Wiffen, pp. 146–7. ‘When’ is ‘Where’ in Wiffen’s text. Mary Shelley has left out ‘again’ from the third line and omitted the final line, ‘Now taking up the sword, and now the pen’. b Marechal de Montmorency (1493–1567). The attempts on Marseilles and Arles occurred in 1536. c Le Muy near Fréjus, towns in the Béarn region of SE France. d Mary Shelley follows Wiffen, pp. 147–9; the comment about hanging the peasants is her own.

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his mien was dignified. There was a mingled seriousness and mildness in the expression of his face, enlivened by sparkling eyes, and dignified by an expansive forehead. He was a favourite with the ladies, while he enjoyed the friendship and esteem of many excellent men. Wiffen takes pleasure in adopting the idea of doctor Nott, and likening him to our noble poet, lord Surrey.a He left, orphaned by his death, three sons and a daughter. His eldest son incurred a similar fate with himself. He enjoyed the favour of the emperor, but fell at the battle of Ulpiano, at the early age of twenty-four. His second son, Francisco de Guzman, became a monk, and enjoyed a reputation as a great theologian. The youngest Lorenzo de Guzman, inherited a portion of his father’s genius, and was esteemed for his talent. He scarcely made a good use of it, since he was banished to Oran for a lampoon, and died on the passage. The only daughter of the poet, donna Sancha de Guzman, married D. Antonio Portocarrero de Vega.b We turn, however, to Garcilaso’s poetry as his best memorial and highest merit, at least that merit which gives him a place in these pages. When we remember that he died at thirty-three, we must regard his productions rather in the light of promise, than of performance. His muse might have soared higher, and taken some new path: as it is, he ranks high as an elegiac poet, and the first that Spain has produced. The most perfect of his poems is his second eclogue. Mr. Wiffen has succeeded admirably in transfusing, in some of the stanzas, a portion of the pathos and softness of the original. Emulating Virgil in his refinement and dignity, Garcilaso surpassed him in tenderness; and certainly the expression of regret and grief was never more affectingly / and sweetly expressed than in the laments that compose this eclogue. The poem commences with the poet speaking in his own person. He introduces the personages of the eclogue: Salicio, who laments the infidelity of his lady; and Nemeroso, who mourns the death of his. It is supposed that, under the name of Salicio, Garcilaso personifies himself, and commemorates the feelings which he experienced, when suffering from the inconstancy of a lady whom he loved in his youth. Nothing can exceed the living tenderness of the deserted shepherd’s complaints; and we feel as if the tone of fond grief could go no further, till the interest a See Wiffen, pp. 150–1. Henry Howard, Lord Surrey (?1517–47), poet and courtier, was executed on charges of treason. He studied Petrarch and wrote sonnets and translated two books of the Aeneid, using blank verse as his form. The point of the comparison is that like Surrey, Garcilaso was both soldier and poet and died young. Surrey’s poems were edited with those of Wyatt by G. F. Nott (1767–1841) between 1815 and 1816 (Wiffen, pp. 165–6). Nott occupied an apartment in the same building in Pisa as the Shelleys in early 1822. Mary Shelley heard him preach a sermon against atheism, an event which elicited one of Byron’s lampoons. The sermon was taken to be a hit at P. B. Shelley, but Nott called on Mary Shelley to disclaim any such intention (MWSJ, I, p. 400 and n.). b Mary Shelley follows Wiffen, pp. 149–51. His modern biographers tell a slightly different story. Two other children, Garcilaso and Francisco, were deceased. Iñigo de Zúñiga died in 1555 at 27 years at the battle of Ulpiano. Pedro de Guzmán joined the convent of San Pedro Mátir de Toledo at 14. Lorenzo was his natural son. His daughter Sancha was born in 1532.

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becomes heightened by the more touching nature of Nemoroso’s laments: under this name it is said that Garcilaso introduced Boscan. Boscan was a happy husband and father.a In his epistle to Mendoza, he mentions his former passions as a troubled dream, where all seemed love, but was really hate; and he does not allude to the death of any object of his affections. Mr. Wiffen, with the natural fondness of a translator and an antiquarian, delights in putting together the scattered and half lost fragments of his poet’s life, and to eke out the history of his mind by probable conjecture, and is inclined to believe that Boscan was intended, and that being dear friends, Garcilaso pleased his imagination and heart, in making them brother shepherds in his verses. It is an agreeable idea, and not improbable: the reader may believe according as his inclinations leads him.b But not to linger longer on preliminary matter, we select the most beautiful stanzas of the eclogue, which will confirm to the Spanish reader the opinion that Garcilaso is the most harmonious, easy, elegant, and tender poet Spain ever produced: soft and melancholy, he never errs, except in sometimes following the fashion of his country in reasoning on his feelings, instead of simply declaring them. Such fault, however, is not to be found in the following verses, wherein Salicio complains / of his Galatea’s inconstancy, recalling the while the dear images of her former tenderness.c “Through thee the silence of the shaded glen,* Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain, Pleased me no less than the resort of men: The breeze, the summer wood, the lucid fountain, The purple rose, white lily of the lake, Were sweet for thy sweet sake; For thee, the fragrant primrose, dropt with dew, Was wished when first it blew. O how completely was I in all this Myself deceiving! O the different part That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss * “Por tí el silencio de la selva umbrosa, por tí la esquividad y apartamiento del solitario monte me agradava: por tí la verde hierba, el fresco viento, el blanco lirio y colorada rosa y dulce primavera deseaba. ¡ Ay quanto me engañaba! ¡ Ay quan diferente era, y quan de otra manera a

These paragraphs echo judgments by Wiffen, pp. 155–6. See Wiffen, p. 156n. c “Eclogue I (not II; an error by Mary Shelley on p. 54). The translation is found in Wiffen, pp. 184–6 and pp. 188–94; Spanish text in Sedano, III, pp. 4–6, 8–10, 13. b

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Of seeming love, the traitor in thy heart! This my severe misfortune, long ago, Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by On the black storm, with hoarse sinister cry, Clearly presage: in gentleness of woe Flow forth, my tears! ’t is meet that ye should flow. How oft when slumbering in the forest brown, (Deeming it fancy’s mystical deceit) Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown! One day, methought that from the noontide heat I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus’ flood, And, under the curtain of its bordering wood Take my cool siesta; but, arrived, the stream, I know not by what magic, changed its track, And in new channels, by an unused way, Rolled its warped waters back; Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat extreme, Went ever following in their flight astray, The wizard waves: in gentleness of woe, Flow forth, my tears! ’t is meet that ye should flow. / In the charmed ear of what beloved youth, Sounds thy sweet voice? On whom revolvest thou Thy beautiful blue eyes? On whose proved truth

lo que en tu falso pecho escondia! bien claro con su voz me lo decia la siniestra corneja, repitiendo la desventura mia. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo. ¡ Quantas veces durmiendo en la floresta (reputandolo yo por desvarío) ví mi mal entre sueños desdichado! Soñaba, que en el tiempo del estio llevaba, por pasar alli la siesta. á bever en el Tajo mi ganado; y despues de llegado, sin saber de quál arte, por desusada parte y por nuevo camino el agua se iba. Ardiendo yo con la calor estiva, el curso enagenado iba siguiendo del agua fugitiva. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo. ¿ Tu dulce habla en cuya oreja suena? ¿ Tus claros ojos á quien los volviste? ¿ Por quien tan sin respeto me trocaste?

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Anchors thy broken faith? Who presses now Thy laughing lip, and takes thy heaven of charms Locked in the embraces of thy two white arms? Say thou, for whom hast thou so rudely left My love, or stolen, who triumphs in the theft? I have not got a bosom so untrue To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view My darling ivy, torn from me, take root Against another wall, or prosperous pine,– To see my virgin vine Around another elm in marriage hang Its curling tendrils and empurpled fruit, Without the torture of a jealous pang, Ev’n to the loss of life: in gentle woe, Flow forth, my tears; ’t is meet that ye should flow. *

*

*

*

Over my griefs the mossy stones relent Their natural durity, and break; the trees Bend down their weeping boughs without a breeze; And full of tenderness the listening birds, Warbling in different notes, with me lament, And warbling prophesy my death; the herds That in the green meads hang their heads at eve, Wearied, and worn, and faint, The necessary sweets of slumber leave, ¿ Tu quebrantada fé dó la pusiste? ¿ Quál es el cuello, que como en cadena de tus hermosos brazos añudaste? No hay corazon que baste, aunque fuese de piedra, viendo mí amada yedra, de mi arrancada, en otro muro asida, y mi parra en otro olmo entretegida, que no se estè con llanto deshaciendo hasta acabar la vida. Salid sin duelo lágrimas corriendo. * * * Con mi llorar las piedras enternecen su natural dureza, y la quebrantan: los arboles parece que se inclinan: las aves, que me escuchan, quando cantan, con diferente voz se condolecen, y mi morir cantando me adivinan: las fieras, que reclinan in cuerpo fatigado, dejan el sosegado sueño por escuchar mi llanto triste.

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And low, and listen to my wild complaint. Thou only steel’st thy bosom to my cries, Not even once turning thy angelic eyes On him thy harshness kills: in gentle woe Flow forth, my tears! ’t is meet that ye should flow. / But though thou wilt not come for my sad sake, Leave not the landscape thou hast held so dear, Thou may’st come freely now, without the fear Of meeting me, for though my heart should break, Where late forsaken, I will now forsake. Come then, if this alone detain thee, here Are meadows full of verdure, myrtles, bays, Woodlands and lawns, and running waters clear, Beloved in other days, To which, bedewed with many a bitter tear, I sing my last of lays. These scenes, perhaps, when I am far removed, At ease thou wilt frequent With him who rifled me of all I loved: Enough, my strength is spent; And leaving thee in his desired embrace, It is not much to leave him this sweet place.”

The impatience natural to the resentment of inconstancy ruffles though it does not distort these sweet stanzas. But there is more of soft melancholy in Nemoroso, more of the entire melting of the heart in sad unavailing regret.

Tu sola contra mi te endurciste, los ojos sun siquiera no volviendo á lo que tú hiciste. Salid sin duelos lágrimas corriendo. “Mas ya que á socorrerme aqui no vienes, no dejes el lugar que tanto amaste; que bien podrás venir de mí segura yo dexaré el lugar dó me dejaste: ven, si por solo este le detienes. Ves aqui un prado lleno de verdura, ves aqui una espesura, ves aqui una agua clara, en otro tiempo cara, á quien de tí con lágrimas me quejo, quiza aqui hallarás, pues yo me al ejo, al que todo mi bien quitarme puede: que pues el bien le dejo, no es mucho que el lugartambien le quede.”

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“Smooth, sliding waters, pure and crystalline,* Trees that reflect your image in their breast Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh shades, Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades; Mosses and reverend ivies serpentine,a That wreath your verdurous arms round beech and pine, And, climbing, crown their crest! Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed, / With what delicious ease and pure content, Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged, Enchanted and refreshed where’er I went! How many blissful noons here I have spent In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers, And with my own fond fancies, from a boy, Discoursed away the hours, Discovering nought in your delightful bowers, But golden dreams, and memories fraught with joy. *

*

*

Where are those eloquent mild eyes, which drew My heart where’er it wandered? where the hand, White, delicate, and pure as melting dew, Filled with the spoils, that proud of thy command, * “Corrientes aguas, puras, cristalinas: árboles, que os estais mirando en ellas: verde prado, de fresca sombra lleno: aves, que aqui sembrais vuestras querellas: yedra, que por los árboles caminas, torciendo el paso por su verde seno; yo me ví tan ageno del grave mal que siento, que de puro contento con vuestra soledad me recreaba, donde con dulce sueño reposaba: ó con el pensamiento discurria, por donde no hallaba sino memorias llenas de alegria. * * * ¿ Dó estan agora aquellos claros ojos, que lleveban trás sí como colgada mi anima dó quier que se volvian? ¿ Dó está la blanca mano delicada, llena de vencimientos y despojos que de mí mis sentidos la ofrecian? a cf. ‘And wild roses, and ivy serpentine’ (P. B. Shelley, ‘The Question’, l. 21, first published in Leigh Hunt’s The Literary Pocket for 1822 (1821)). Possibly Wiffen imitated P. B. Shelley, or Mary Shelley thought he had.

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My feelings paid in tribute? the bright hair That paled the shining gold, that did contemn The glorious opal as a meaner gem, The bosom’s ivory apples, where, ah! where? Where now the neck to whiteness overwrought, That like a column with genteelest scorn Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought? Gone! ah, for ever gone, To the chill desolate and dreary pall, And mine the grief – the wormwood and the gall! *

*

*

Poor, lost Eliza! of thy locks of gold, One treasured ringlet in white silk I keep For ever at my heart, which, when unrolled, Fresh grief and pity o’er my spirit creep; And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold, O’er the dear pledge, will like an infant’s, weep. / With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry The tears from off it, number one by one The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie; Mine eyes, this duty done, Give over weeping, and with slight relief I taste a short forgetfulness of grief.” Los cabellos, que vian con gran desprecio al oro, como á menor tesoro. ¿ Adonde estan? ¿ Adonde el blanco pecho? dó la coluna, que el dorado techo con presuncion graciosa sostenia? aquesto todo agora ya se encierra por desventura mia, en la fria desierta y dura tierra. * * * Una parte guardé de tus cabellos, Elisa, envueltos en un blanco paño, que nunca de mi seno se me apartan: descojolos, y de un dolor tamaño enternecerme siento, que sobre ellos nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan. Sin que alli se partan con suspiros calientes, mas que la llama ardentes, los enjugo del llanto, ye de consuno casi los paso, y cuento uno á uno: juntandolos con un cordon los ato: tras esto el importuno dolor me deja descansar un rato.”

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Although this quotation has run to a great length, I cannot refrain from adding the ode to the Flower of Gnido. It is more fanciful and airy, more original, yet more classic. Mr. Wiffen’s translation also is very correct and beautiful, failing only in not preserving all the exquisite simplicity of the original; but that is a charm difficult indeed to transfer from one language to another. Of the subject of the ode we receive the following account from the commentators. “The title of this ode is derived from a quarter of a city of Naples called Il Seggio di Gnido, or the seat of Gnido, the favourite abode then of the people of fashion, in which also the lady lived, to whom the ode was addressed. This lady, Violante San Severino, a daughter of the duke of Soma, was courted by Fabio Galeota, a friend of Garcilaso in whose behalf the poem was written.”a “TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.*b I. Had I the sweet resounding lyre, Whose voice could in a moment chain The howling wind’s ungoverned ire, And movement of the raging main, On savage hills the leopard rein, / The lion’s fiery soul entrance, And lead along with golden tones The fascinated trees and stones In voluntary dance; II. Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide, It e’er should celebrate the scars, Dust raised, blood shed, and laurels dyed Beneath the gonfalon of Mars; * “A LA FLOR DI GNIDO. Si de mi baja Lira tanto pudiese el són, que en un momento aplacáse la ira del animoso viento, y el furia del mar, y el movimiento: y en asperas montañas, con el suave canto enterneciese las fieras alimañas, los arboles moviese, y al son confusamente los truxese: No pienses que cantando seria de mí, hermosa Flor de Gnido. el fiero Marte ayrado, a b

Wiffen, p. 402. Wiffen, pp. 305–8.

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Or, borne sublime on festal cars, The chiefs who to submission sank The rebel German’s soul of soul, And forged the chains that now control The frenzy of the Frank. III. No, no! its harmonies should ring, In vaunt of glories all thine own, A discord sometimes from the string! Struck forth to make thy harshness known. The fingered chords should speak alone Of Beauty’s triumphs, Love’s alarms, And one who, made by thy disdain Pale as a lily clipt in twain, Bewails thy fatal charms. IV. Of that poor captive, too contemned, I speak, – his doom you might deplore – In Venus’ galliot shell condemned To strain for life the heavy oar. Through thee, no longer as of yore, / He tames the unmanageable steed, With curb of gold his pride restrains, á muerte convertido, de polvo, y sangre, y de sudor teñido: ni aquellos capitanes, en la sublime rueda colocados, por quen los Alamanes el fiero cuello atados, y los Franceses van domesticados. Mas solamente aquella fuerza de tu beldad seria cantada, y alguna vez con ella tambien seria notada el aspereza de que estas armada. Y como pro tí sola y por tu gran valor, y hermosura, convertida in viola, llora su desventura el miserable amante en tu figura. Hablo de aquel cautivo de quien tener se deve mas cuidado, que está muriendo vivo al remo condenado, en la concha de Venus amarrado. Por ti como, solia, del aspero caballo no corrige

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Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins Torments him into speed. V. Not now he wields, for thy sweet sake, The sword in his accomplished hand; Nor grapples like a poisonous snake, The wrestler on the yellow sand: The old heroic harp his hand Consults not now; it can but kiss The amorous lute’s dissolving strings, Which murmur forth a thousand things Of banishment from bliss. VI. Through thee, my dearest friend and best Grows harsh, importunate, and grave; Myself have been his port of rest, From shipwreck on the yawning wave; Yet now so high his passions rave Above lost reason’s conquered laws, That not the traveller ere he slays The asp, its sting, as he my face So dreads, and so abhors.

la furia y gallardia ni con freno le rige, ni con vivas espuelas ya le aflige. Por tí, con diestra mano, no revuelve la espada presurosa, y en el dudoso llano huye la polvorosa palestra, come sierpe ponzoñosa. Por tí su blanda Musa, en lugar de la cítara sonante, tristes querellas usa, que con llanto abundante hacen bañar el rostro del amante. Por tí el mayor amigo to es importuno, grave, y enojoso; y puedo ser testigo que ya del peligroso naufragio fui su puerto, y su reposo. Y agora en tal manera vence el dolor á la razon perdída que ponzoñosa fiera nuca fue aborrecida tanto como yo dél, ni tan temida.

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VII. In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide, Thou wert not cradled, wert not born; She who has not a fault beside, Should ne’er be signalised for scorn; Else tremble at the fate forlorn / Of Anaxarete, who spurned The weeping Iphis from her gate; Who, scoffing long, relenting late, Was to a statue turned. VIII. Whilst yet soft pity she repelled, Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride, From her friezed window she beheld, Aghast, the lifeless suicide. Around his lily neck was tied, What freed his spirit from her chains, And purchased with a few short sighs, For her immortal agonies, Imperishable pains. IX. Then first she felt her bosom bleed With love and pity – vain distress! O, what deep rigours must succeed No fuiste tu engendrada, ni producida de la dura tierra: no debe ser notada, que ingratamente yerra quien todo el otro error de sí destierra. Hagate temerosa El caso de Anaxárete, y cobarde, que de ser desdeñosa se arrepintió muy tarde, y asi su alma con su marmol arde. Estabase alegrando del mal ageno el pecho empedernido, quando abajo mirando, el cuerpo muerto vido del miserable amante alli tendido, y al cuello el lazo atado, con que desenlazó de la cadena el corazon cuitado, que con su breve pena compió la eterna punicion agena. Sintió alli convertirse en piedad amorosa el aspereza. ¡ O tarde arrepentirse!

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This first sole touch of tenderness! Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, Nailed on his wavering corse; each bone Hardening in growth, invades her flesh, Which late so rosy, warm, and fresh, Now stagnates into stone. X. From limb to limb the frosts aspire, Her vitals curdle with the cold; The blood forgets its crimson fire, The veins that e’er its motion rolled; Till now the virgin’s glorious mould / Was wholly into marble changed; On which the Salaminians gazed, Less at the prodigy amazed, Than of the crime avenged. XI. Then tempt not thou Fate’s angry arms, By cruel frown, or icy taunt; But let thy perfect deeds and charms To poets’ harps, Divinest, grant Themes worthy their immortal vaunt; Else must our weeping strings presume ¡ O, ultima terneza! ¿ como te sucedió mayor dureza? Los ojos se enclavaron en el tendido cuerpo, que alli vieron, los huesos se tornaron mas duros, y crecieron, y en sí toda la carne convirtieron. Las entrañas eladas tornaron poco á poco en piedra dura: por las venas cuitadas la sangre, su figura iba desconociendo, y su natura. Hasta que, finalmente en duro marmol vuelta, y transformada, hizo de sí la gente no tan maravillada, quanto de aquella ingratitud vengada. No quieras tu, Señora, de Némesis ayrada las saetas probar por Dios agora; baste que tus perfetas obras, y hermosura a los Poetas den inmortal materia, sin que tambien en verso lamentable

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To celebrate in strains of woe, The justice of some signal blow, That strikes thee to the tomb.”

We have no room to multiply passages, and with this ode must conclude our specimens. Garcilaso is a happy type of a Spanish poet; and when we think that such men were the children of the old liberty of Spain, how deeply we must regret the worse than iron rule that blasted the race; while we view in any attempt to regain her ancient freedom, a promise of a new people, to adorn the annals of mankind with all the virtues of heroism and all the elevation of genius.a /

celebren la miseria de algun caso notable, que por tí pase triste y miserable.” a A general reference to the current situation in Spain; Mary Shelley here affirms her belief that poetry is at once the cause and the effect of political liberty.

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MENDOZA. 1500–1575. T HE third in this trio of friendly poets was of a very different character. Mendoza was gifted neither with Boscan’s mild benevolence nor Garcilaso’s tenderness. That he was the friend of these men, and addicted to literature, is his chief praise. Endowed with talents, of a high and haughty disposition, his firmness degenerated into severity, and his valour into vehemence of temper. He was shrewd, worldly and arrogant, but impassioned and resolute. He possessed many of those high qualities, redeeming, while they were stained by pride, which in that age distinguished the Spanish cavalier; for in those days, the freedom enjoyed by the Castilian nobility was but lately crushed, and its generous influence still survived in their manners and domestic habits. It was characteristic of that class of men, that, when Charles V. asked a distinguished one among them to receive the Constable Bourbon in his house, the noble acquiesced in the commands of his sovereign, but announced at the same time, his intention of razing his house to the ground, as soon as the traitor had quitted it.a Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza (and to give him all the titles enumerated by his Spanish biographer), Knight Commander of the Houses of Calatrava and Badajoz, in the order of Alcantara, of the council of Charles V., and his ambassador to Venice, Rome, England, and the council of Trent, captain-general of Siena, and gonfalonier of the holy Roman church, was born in the city of Granada, about the year 1500.b He was of noble extraction on both sides, – his father being second count of Tendilla, and first marquis of Mondejar; his mother, donna Francisca Pacheco, daughter of don Juan Pacheco, marquis of Villena. Being the fifth son, Diego / was destined for the church, and from his most tender years received a literary education. He was sent to the university of Salamanca, where he studied theology, and became a proficient in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic languages, to which he applied himself with diligence.c Yet, though a a Source not traced. The statement about freedom is perhaps a paraphrase of a comment by Bouterwek about Mendoza’s outspokenness (I, p. 193). b Gonfalonier: civic magistrate of high status in a medieval Italian city state. Modern scholars suggests Mendoza was born in 1503 or 1504 (Erika Spivakovsky, Son of the Alhambra: Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, 1504–1575 (Austin and London: University of Texas Press, 1970), p. 3). c Adapted from Sedano, IV, p. x. He was the fifth of 7 sons (Darst, Mendoza, p. 1). Mendoza likely went to Salamanca after the death of his father in 1515 (Spivakovsky, p. 29).

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laborious student, gayer literature engaged his attention; and while still at Salamanca, he wrote Lazarillo de Tormes, a tale at once declaratory of the originality of his genius. The graphic descriptions, the penetration into character, the worldly knowledge, the vivacity and humour, bespeak an author of more advanced years. Who that has read it, can forget the proud and poor hidalgo, who shared with Lazarillo his dry crusts; or the seven ladies who had one esquire between them; or the silent and sombre master whose actions were all mysteries, and whose locked-up wealth, used with so much secrecy and discretion, yet brings on him the notice of the inquisition? It is strange that, in after life, Mendoza did not, full of experience and observation, revert to this species of writing. As it is, it stands a curious specimen of the manners of his times, and as the origin of Gil Blas; almost we had said of Don Quixote, and is the more admirable, as being the production of a mere youth.a Mendoza probably found the clerical profession ill-suited to his tastes; he became a soldier and a statesman; and particularly in the latter capacity his talents were appreciated by the emperor Charles V. He was appointed ambassador*b to Venice;c and, in the year / 1545, was deputed by his sovereign to attend the council of Trent, where he made a learned and elegant oration, which was universally admired, and confirmed the opinion already entertained of his talents, so that he was first promoted ambassador to Rome, and in 1547, he was named governor and captain-general of Siena. This was a difficult post; and Mendoza unfortunately acquitted himself neither with credit nor success.d * The penetration with which Mendoza saw through the lofty pretensions of diplomacy, and the keenness of his observation, which stripped this science of all its finery, is forcibly expressed in one of his epistles. He exclaims– “O embaxadores, puros majaderos, que si los reges quieren engañar, comiençan por nosotros los primeros. Nuestro major negocio es, no dañar, y jamas bacer cosa, ni dezilla, que no corramos riesgo de enseñar.”

O ye ambassadors! ye simpletons! When kings wish to deceive they begin first with us. – Our chief business is to do no harm, and never to do or say anything, that we may not run the risk of making others as wise as ourselves. a The date of composition and the identity of the author are a matter of critical controversy. Bouterwek’s claim that Mendoza was the author of the comic romance (I, p. 187) was not disputed until 1888. See Sedano, IV, p. xviii and Darst, Mendoza, pp. 96–9. Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane, a novel published in 3 instalments between 1715 and 1735 and written by AlainRené Lesage (1668–1747), traces the adventures of an innocent everyman with many interpolated stories. b The Spanish quoted in Mary Shelley’s note, and its English translation are taken, with some minor differences, from Bouterwek, I, p. 188. c He was ambassador to Venice from 1539 to 1546 (Darst, Mendoza, pp. 9–14). See Sedano, IV, p. x and Bouterwek, I, p. 187. d Sedano, IV, pp.x–xi and Bouterwek, I, p. 189. The Council of Trent was a General Council of the Church convoked by Pope Paul III in 1545 at Trent in the Southern Alps and moved to

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Before the imperial and French arms had found in Italy a lists in which to contend, this country had been torn by the Ghibeline and Guelphic factions; and these names remained as watchwords after the spirit of them had passed away.a When the French and Spaniards struggled for pre-eminence, the Spaniards, as imperialists, naturally espoused the interests of the Ghibeline cause, to which Siena was invariably a partisan. The Spaniards prevailed.b At the treaty of Cambrai, the emperor became possessed of acknowledged sway over a large portion of that fair land: over the remainder he exercised an influence scarcely less despotic. Florence, adhering with tenacious fondness to her ancient republican institutions, was besieged: it capitulated, and, after some faint show of temporising on the part of Charles, the chief of the Medici family was made sovereign with the title grand duke.c Siena, Ghibeline from ancient association, and always adhering to the imperial party, was not the less enslaved. Without openly interfering in its institutions, the emperor used his influence for the election of the duke of Amalfi as chief of the republic. The duke, a man of small capacity, was entirely led by Giulio Salvi and his six brothers. This family, thus exalted, displayed intolerable arrogance: it placed itself above the law; and the fortunes, the wives and children, of their fellow-citizens, became the victims.d The Sienese made their complaints to the emperor, on his return from his expedition against Algiers;e while, at the same time, Cosmo I., whose favourite object was to possess himself of Siena, declared that the / Salvi were conspiring to deliver that town into the hands of the French, and so once more to give that power a footing in Italy. The emperor, roused by an intimation of this design, deputed an officer to reform the government of Siena. A new oligarchy was erected, and the republic was brought into absolute dependence on the commands of the emperor.f Bologna in 1549, much to Charles’s ire. Its purpose was to reform the Church in the wake of the spread of Lutheranism in Germany (see Kamen, pp. 178–9). a Ghibellines and Guelphs: two opposing factions in German and Italian medieval politics, especially divisive within the cities of northern Italy. Guelphs were sympathetic to the papacy, Ghibellines to the German (Holy Roman) emperors; ‘a lists’ is an obsolete use of a plural form in a singular sense (see OED, ‘list’, sb. II. 9). b See Sismondi, Républiques italiennes (1840), V, pp. 430–2. c Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, X, pp. 74–5 (ch. cxxii in editions with continuous chapter numbering, and for other notes relating to Mendoza’s period in Italy). The Treaty of Cambrai was signed August 1529 (Kamen, p. 70). d The Duke of Amalfi was Alfonso Piccolomini d’Aragona; Giulio Salvi, also known as Jacopo de Salviati (Spivakovsky, pp. 251, 233–8). Mary Shelley’s source for this episode in Siennese history, and Mendoza’s part in it, is taken from Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, X, pp. 172– 9 (ch. cxxiii in editions with continuously numbered chapters), some portions of which she closely follows, translating and abridging. e The expedition to Algiers in 1541 ended in failure when a storm wrecked much of the fleet (Kamen, p. 71). f Cosimo de Medici (1519–74) (Cosmo I, Duke of Florence), supposedly an ally of the Spanish but, as Mary Shelley explains, he betrayed Charles and Mendoza and eventually gained control of Siena (Darst, Mendoza, p. 15).

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Siena was quieted, but not satisfied, while a new treaty between Charles V. and France took from them their hope of recurring to the assistance of the latter. After the peace, don Juan de Luna commanded at Siena, with a small Spanish garrison.a But still the seeds of discontent and of revolt, fostered by an ardent attachment to their ancient institutions, lay germinating in the hearts of the citizens. Charles never sent pay to his soldiers: during time of war they lived by booty, in time of peace, by extortion; love of liberty, and hatred of their oppressors, joined to cause them to endeavour to throw off the foreign yoke. On the 6th of February 1545, the people rose in tumult; about thirty nobles were killed, the rest took refuge in the palace with don Juan de Luna. The troops of Cosmo I. hovered on the frontier. He, perhaps, fostered the revolt for his own ends; at least, he was eager to take advantage of it, and wished the Spanish governor to call in his aid to quell it. But don Juan wanted either resolution or foresight; he allowed the Spanish garrison to be dismissed, and, finally, a month afterwards, was forced to quit the town, accompanied by the obnoxious members of the aristocracy.b For sometime Siena enjoyed the popular liberty which they had attained, till circumstances led the emperor to fear that the French would gain power there; and he resolved to reduce the city to unqualified submission. Mendoza was then ambassador at Rome. Charles named him captain-general of Siena, and gave him orders to introduce a Spanish garrison, and even to build a citadel for its protection.c Mendoza obeyed: as the subject of a despotic sovereign, he felt no remorse in crushing the / liberties of a republic. He did not endeavour to conciliate, nor to enforce respect by the justice of his measures. He held the discontented and outraged citizens in check by force of arms only; disarming them, and delivering them up to the insolence and extortion of the Spanish soldiery. They could obtain no protection against all the thousand injuries, thefts, and murders to which they were subjected. Mendoza, haughty and unfeeling, became the object of universal hatred. Complaints against him were carried to the emperor, and, when these remained without effect, his life was attempted by assassination: on one occasion his horse was killed under him by a musket shot, aimed at himself. But Mendoza was as personally fearless as he was proud; and the sternness that humanity could not mitigate, was not softened by the suggestions of caution.d Affairs of import called him away from his government. On the death of Paul III. his presence was required at Rome to influence the election of a new pope. He left Siena, together with the unfinished citadel and its garrison, under the command of don Juan Franzesi, and repaired to watch the progress of the conclave. Through his intrigues the cardinal del Monte was elected, who took the name of a

The peace referred to is the Treaty of Crespy (1544). On 4 March 1545. ‘Obnoxious’ is Mary Shelley’s addition to Sismondi’s account. Mendoza was ambassador to the Pope from 1547 to 1552. He was sent to Rome to smooth tensions between Paul III and Charles V. He was appointed to Siena in 1547 (Spivakovsky, pp. 176–96). Sismondi is severely critical of Mendoza. d Sedano, IV, p. xi. The story about the horse comes from Bouterwek, I, p. 190. b c

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Julian III. The new pope, elected through Spanish influence, adhered to the emperor’s interests. He instantly yielded the great point of contention between Paul III. and Charles V., and consented to the restitution of the general council to Trent. Mendoza twice attended this council for the purpose of bringing the cardinals and prelates to a better understanding. On his return the pope named him gonfaloniere of the church; and in this character he subdued Orazio Farnese, who had rebelled.a Besides these necessary causes of absence from his government, he was accused of protracting his stay in Rome on account of an amorous intrigue in which he was engaged, and which occasioned a great deal of scandal.b The Sienese were on the alert to take advantage of / his absence. The rapacity and ill faith displayed by Mendoza effectually weaned them from all attachment to the imperial cause; and when fresh war broke out between Charles and the French king, the Sienese solicited the aid of the latter to deliver them from a tyranny they were unable any longer to endure. The grand duke of Florence had reason to complain of the Spaniards, and especially of Mendoza, who treated him as the vassal of the emperor; yet he was unwilling that the French should gain footing in Tuscany, and besides hoped to advance his own interests, and to add Siena to his dukedom. He discovered a correspondence between that town and the French, and revealed it to Mendoza, offering the aid of an armed force in the emperor’s favour. Mendoza, distrusting the motive of his offers, rejected them. He applied to the pope for assistance; but Julian, offended by his conduct on various occasions, evaded the request and remained neutral. Meanwhile, Mendoza, either ignorant of the imminence of the danger, or despising the power of the enemy, took no active measures to prevent the mischief which menaced his government.c The Sienese exiles assembled together, and put themselves under the command of a leader in the French pay. They marched towards Siena, and arriving before the gates on the evening of the 26th of July 1552, proclaimed Liberty! The people, though unarmed, rose at the cry. They admitted the exiles, and drove the garrison, which merely consisted of 400 soldiers, from the convent of San Domenico, in which they had fortified themselves, and pursued them to the citadel, which was badly fortified and badly victualled. After a few days Franzesi capitulated, and Siena was lost to the emperor. Mendoza was accused of various faults on this occasion; of weakening the garrison, and of not putting, through avarice, the citadel in a state of defence; and, above all, of delay, when he had been warned by Cosmo, and not being on the spot himself to secure the power of his a The pope, with whom Charles V had an uneasy alliance, died in 1549. The Farnese family ruled the duchy of Parma and Piacenza from 1545 to 1731 and the skirmish with Orazio Farnese (Duke of Castro and grandson to Pope Paul) occurred just before the pope’s death (Spivakovsky, p. 228). b See Bouterwek for a brief reference to favours he received from Roman ladies (I, p. 191). His modern biographer simply says that the reason for his delay is not known (Spivakovsky, p. 303). c Mary Shelley’s source is Sismondi, Républiques italiennes, X, pp. 178–9.

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master in the town. These faults, joined to the hatred / in which he was held, caused the emperor not long after (1554) to recall him to Spain. While thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a soldier, his active mind led him also to other pursuits. Many inedited philosophical works of his are to be found in Spanish libraries. He wrote a paraphrase of Aristotle, and a translation into Spanish of the Mechanics of that philosopher; he composed Political Commentaries, and a history of the taking of Tunis. In the library of manuscripts at Florence, Sedano tells us there exists a volume in quarto entitled, “Various Works of D. Diego de Mendoza, ambassador of his majesty to Venice, Turkey, and England.”a On all occasions he showed himself an enthusiastic lover of learning, and a liberal patron of learned men; as a proof of which the bookseller Paulus Manutius dedicated his edition of Cicero to him. Since the days of Petrarch, no man had been so eager to collect Greek manuscripts. He sent to Greece and Mount Athos to procure them, and even made their acquisition a clause in a political treaty with the Sultan. He thus collected a valuable library, which at his death he bequeathed to Philip II., and it forms a precious portion of the library of the Escurial. It is, however, as a poet that his name is most distinguished in literature. He was a friend of Boscan, and entered into his views for enlarging the sphere of Spanish poetry by the introduction of the Italian style. Though a bitter enemy to the spirit of liberty in Italy, he could yet appreciate and profit by the highly advanced state of poetry and literature in that country, of which this very spirit was the parent. It is mentioned in the record of his employments, that he went ambassador to England and Turkey; but it is uncertain at what time these journies were performed; probably before his return to Spain in 1554.b Considerable obscurity is thrown over the latter years of his life. That is, no sufficient pains has been taken to throw light upon them.c His manuscript works would, doubtless, if consulted, tell us more about him / than is at present known.d He devoted a portion of the decline of his life to study and literature; but it would seem that on his return from Italy, he did not immediately retire from active life, as it is mentioned by some of his biographers that he continued member of the a

Quoted in Sedano, IV, p. xix. Sedano, IV, p. xiv. His modern biographers do not mention Turkey as one of his postings. Mendoza was ambassador to the Court of Henry VIII from 1535–8, and made further trips in 1553 and 1558. He disliked the English and England, about whose weather he complained, ‘I am as frozen as if I were in Russia’ (Darst, Mendoza, p. 8). c For information about his later life see Spivakovsky, pp. 333–404. He adopted a grandniece, Magdalena de Bobadilla, and was involved with a quarrel, narrated below, that caused him to be banished to Granada in 1568. d These manuscript works likely refer to the burlesque poems ‘La Pulga’ (the Flea), ‘La Caña’ (the Reed), and ‘Elogoio de la Zanahoria’ (Eulogy on the Carrot), which are mentioned by Bouterwek (I, p. 203–4) but weren’t published in Fray Juan Díaz Hidalgo’s editon of 1610 for reasons of decorum; they remained in manuscript until 1877 (Darst, Mendoza, pp. 26–8). b

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council of state under Philip II. and was present at the battle of St. Quentin, fought in 1557.a One of the last adventures recorded of him is characteristic of the vehemence of his temper.b While at court, he had a quarrel with a noble who was his rival in the affections of a lady. His antagonist, in a fit of exasperation, unsheathed a dagger; but before he could use it, Mendoza seized him and threw him from the balcony where they were standing, into the street below. In all countries in those days, a personal assault within the precincts of a royal court was looked upon as a very serious offence, and Spanish etiquette caused it to be regarded in a still more heinous light. Still Mendoza was not the aggressor: and his punishment was limited to a short imprisonment, where he amused himself by addressing the lady of his love in various redondillas. Much of the latter part of his life was spent in retirement in his native city of Granada, given up to study and literature. He here composed the most esteemed of his prose works – the “History of the War of the Moriscos in Granada.”c The style of this work is exceedingly pure. He took the Latin authors Sallust and Cæsar for his models; and being an eye-witness of the events he records, his narrative is highly interesting.d While in Italy, he had written a state paper, addressed to the emperor, dissuading him from selling the duchy of Milan to the pope, which was conceived in so free a style, that Sandoval, in quoting it in his history, believed it necessary to soften its expressions. In the same way this acute observer perceived the faults of the Spanish government against the Moriscos, and alluded to, although he did not dare blame them.e Philip II., a bigoted tyrant, drove this portion of his subjects to despair. Mendoza tells us that just before / their revolt, “the inquisition began to persecute them more than ever. The king ordered them to quit the Morisco language, and all commerce and communication one with the other: he took from them their negro slaves, whom they had brought up with the same kindness as if they had been their children: he forced them to cast off their Arab dress, in which they held a Battle of St Quentin: Spanish forces at Flanders crossed into France and defeated the French (Kamen, p. 122). b See Bouterwek, I, p. 191. c Guerra de Granada, written 1572 and published 1627 traces the fate of the Muslim Mudejars who were forcibly converted to Christianity and suffered persecution through confiscation of their land and a 1567 royal decree forbidding their language and culture. A revolt began in 1568, which lasted two years and led to atrocities on both sides. As many as 120,000 Moriscos were either killed or expelled from Granada (Kamen, pp. 172–7). d Gaius Julius Caesar (102/100–44 BC), Roman general and dictator, wrote the Commentarii de bello Gallico (52–51 BC) and his account of the civil war in Rome, which though works of propaganda are admired for their literary merit. Gaius Sallustius Crispus (86–35 BC) was a Roman historian noted for his explanations of the cause of political events and the motives for people’s actions (Howatson, p. 505). e Fray Prudencio de Sandoval, Historia de la Vida y Hechos del Emperador Carlos V Máximo, fortissimo Rey Catolico de España y de las Indias, Islas y Terra firme del mar Oceáno (1604) Book 25 (Año 1541), p. xxx.

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invested a large capital, and obliged them, at a great expense, to adopt the Castilian costume. He forced the women to appear with uncovered faces, opening all that portion of their houses, which they were accustomed to keep closed; and both of these orders appeared intolerable to this jealous people. It was spread abroad also that he intended to possess himself of their children, and to educate them in Castile: he forbade the use of baths, which contributed at once to their cleanliness and pleasure. Their music, songs, feasts, and weddings, held according to their manners and customs, and all assemblies of a joyful nature, were already interdicted; and these new regulations were published without augmenting the guards, without sending troops, without reinforcing the garrisons or establishing new ones.”*a The effect of such a system on a proud and valorous people, passionately attached to their religion and customs, might be anticipated. The Moors collected arms secretly, and laid up stores in the rugged mountains / of the Alpujarra: they chose for king the young Fernando de Valor, descended from their ancient sovereigns, who assumed the name of Aben Humeya.b The progress of the revolt, however, met with various checks, and they did not receive the aid they expected from the sultan Selim. Instead, therefore, of taking Granada, their war became guerilla; and the spirit of vengeance incited them to the exercise of frightful cruelties, by way of reprisal, on the Christian prisoners who fell into their hands. An army was sent against them, commanded by don John of Austria, natural son of Charles V.; Mendoza’s nephew, the marquis of Mondejar, was one of the principal generals under him: Mendoza, therefore, had full opportunity to learn the details of the war, which terminated in the success of the Spaniards, whose cruelties * Mendoza felt himself obliged in his own person to refrain from all censure on the edicts of his sovereign. But in a speech he introduced after the manner of Sallust, as spoken by one of the chiefs, he conveyed, in forcible terms, his sense of the persecution which the unhappy Moors endured. The conspirator exclaims: “What hinders a man, speaking Castilian, from following the law of the prophet, or one who speaks Morisco from following that of Jesus? They take our children to their congregations and schools, teaching them arts which our ancestors forbade, that purity of the law might not be disturbed nor its truth disputed. We are threatened at every hour that they shall be taken from the arms of their mothers and the bringing up of their fathers, and carried into distant lands, where they will forget our customs, and learn to become the enemies of the fathers who begot them, and the mothers who bore them. We are ordered to cast off our national dress, and to adopt the Castilian. Germans dress after one manner, the French after another, the Greeks after another. The clergy have a peculiar garb – youths one sort of dress – old men another – each nation, and each profession, and each rank, adopts its own style of dress. Yet all are Christians. And we Moors – why do we dress in the Morisco, as if our faith hung in our garb – not in our hearts?”c a

See Bouterwek, I, pp. 192–3, 205–10. Alpujarra Mountains: where Arabs raised silkworms (Spivakovsky, p. 370). Fernando de Valor, a descendant of the kings of Córdoba, was named king of the Moors and known as Aben Humeya (murdered in 1569 by a jealous Moor) (Spivakovsky, pp. 370, 376, 387). The Sultan of the Ottoman Empire was Selim II (ruled 1566–74). c Quoted in Spanish by Bouterwek, I, pp. 208–9 and translated by Mary Shelley. b

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rivalled those of the unfortunate rebels. The Moriscos were put down by the massacre of several villages, and the selling of the inhabitants of a whole territory into slavery. This total destruction of the Morisco people is described by Mendoza, with a truth that prevented his history from being published until 1610, and even then with great omissions: a complete edition did not appear till 1776.a After a retreat of some years, Mendoza appeared at court again in his old age, at Valladolid: his reputation caused him to be admired as an oracle; his erudition and genius commanded universal respect. He enjoyed these honours but a few months, and died in the year 1575.b There are few men of whom the Spaniards are more proud than Mendoza, whom, to distinguish from other poets of the same name, they usually call the Ambassador. “Most certain it is,” says Sedano, “that from the importance and diversity of his employments, he was considered one of the most famous among the many great men which that age produced. His ardent mind was perpetually employed in the support of the glory of his sovereign and the honour of his country; and in all the transactions in which he was employed, / his zeal, his integrity, his deep policy, his penetration, and his understanding shone out; and the very faults of which he is accused, must be attributed to the envy and hatred of his enemies.”c We may not, perhaps, be ready to echo much of this praise. The oppressor of a free people must always hold an obnoxious position; and when to the severe and unpitying system he adopted towards others, we find that he indulged his own passions even to the detriment of his sovereign’s interests, we feel somewhat of contempt mingled with resentment. We are told that in person he was tall and robust, dignified in his deportment, but ugly in the face. His complexion was singularly dark, and the expression of his countenance haughty; his eyes were vivacious and sparkling; and we may believe that his irregular and harsh features were redeemed in some degree by the intellect that informed them.d In judging of him as a poet, he falls far short of Garcilaso; but in some respects he may be considered as superior to Boscan. His short and simple poems, named in Spanish vilancicos, are full of life and spirit, and are fitted to become popular from the simplicity and yet vivacity of their sentiments and verification: they are the sparkling emanations of the passions, expressed at the moment, with all the ardour of living emotion. Indeed, he so far indulged in this sort of composition, tempting to one who feels that he can thus impart, and so perhaps obtain sympathy for, the emotions that boil within him, that most of his smaller poems remain inedited as being too free; the Spanish press never being permitted to put forth works of a licentious nature. His epistles imitated from Horace, want elegance a

Guerra de Granada (Valencia, 1776); see Bouterwek, I, pp. 207, 209–10. Sedano, IV, p. xiii. He returned to Madrid in November 1574. Circulatory problems led to a foot being amputated shortly before his death (Darst, Mendoza, p. 22). c Quoted in Sedano, IV, p. xv. d Derived from Sedano, IV, p. xiv. Mary Shelley’s own politics are evident here. b

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and harmony; but they are forcible, and full of excellent sense and good feeling. He could not rise to the sublime. There is a complimentary ode of his addressed to cardinal Espinosa, on his assuming the hat, for the writing of which, we are told by his secretary, that he prepared by three days’ study of Pindar; but it breathes no Pindaric fire; there is bathos rather than / height in the similes he makes, drawn from the purple of the cardinal’s new dress, and the crimson colours with which the sun invests the empyreum. Mendoza was not an imaginative poet; and it is observable, that when a person, not such by nature, deals in the ideal, the result is rather the ridiculous than the sublime. Acute, earnest, playful, passionate, but neither tender nor sublime, if we except a few of his minor love poems, we read Mendoza’s verses rather to become acquainted with the man than seek the soul of poetry in his compositions.a /

a Sedano, IV, p.xvii. The summary of Mendoza’s poetic career is similar to that of Bouterwek, I, pp. 201–4.

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LUIS DE LEON. 1527–1591. T HERE is a variety in the physiognomy and character of the poets whose biography is here traced, that renders each in himself highly interesting; our misfortune is that we know so little of them. Sedano bitterly laments the obscurity which wraps the history of the great literary men of Spain, through the neglect of their contemporaries to transmit the circumstances of their lives.a We have but slight sketches; yet their works, joined to these, individualise the man, and give animation and interest to very slender details. We image Boscan in his rural retirement, philosophising, book in hand; – revolving in his thoughts the harmonies of verse, conversing with his friends, enjoying with placid smile the calm content, or rather, may we not say, the perfect home-felt, heart-reaching happiness of his married life, which he felt so truly, and describes in such lively colours. Young still, his affections ardent, but concentrated, he acknowledges that serenity, confidence, and sweet future hopes; unreserved sympathy, and entire community of the interests of life, is the real Paradise on earth. Garcilaso, the gallant soldier, the tender poet, the admired and loved of all, is of another character, more heroic, more soft, more romantic. Mendoza, with his fiery eye, his vehement temper, his untamed passions – and these mingled with respect for learning, friendship for the worthy, and talents that exalted his nature to something noble and immortal, despite his defects, contrasts with his friends: and the fourth now coming, Luis de Leon – more earnest and enthusiastic than Boscan – tender as Garcilaso, but with a soul whose tenderness was engrossed by heavenly / not earthly love – pure and high-hearted, with the nobility of genius stamped on his brow, but with religious resignation calming his heart, – he is different, but more complete – a man Spain only could produce; for in Spain only had religion such sovereign sway as wholly to reduce the rebel inclinations of man, and, by substituting supernal for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tenderness of passion, but only give it another object.b High poetic powers being joined not only to the loftiest religious enthusiasm, to learning, but also the works of this amiable and highly-gifted man are different from all others, but exquisite in their class. We wish to learn more of his a

A lament expressed in a number of the volumes. See Sedano, Prologo, I, pp. i–viii; Prologo, II, pp. iv–v; Prologo, III, pp. i–vi. b For a similar comment about the role of the Catholic faith on his imagination, see Bouterwek, I, p. 240.

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mind: as it is, we know little, except that as his compositions were characteristic of his virtues, so were the events of his life of his country.a The family of Luis Ponce de Leon was the noblest in Andalusia. He was born at Granada in the year 1527.b It would appear that his childhood was not happy, for in an ode to the Virgin, written when in the dungeons of the inquisition, he touchingly speaks of his abandonment in infancy, saying:– My mother died as soon as I was born,* And I was dedicate to thee, a child, Bequeathed by my poor mother’s dying prayer. A second parent thou, O Virgin mild. Father and mother to the babe forlorn; For my own father made me not his care.c

It was this neglect, probably, that led him to place his affections on religious objects; and the enthusiasm he felt, he believed to be a vocation for a monastic life. At the age of sixteen, he endued the habit of the order of St. Augustin in the convent of Salamanca, and took the vows during the following year.d Enthusiastically pious, but without fanaticism, his heart was warmed only by the softer emotions of religion; love, and resignation, a taste for retirement, and pleasure in fulfilling / the duties of his order. His soul was purified, but not narrowed by his piety. He loved learning, and was an elegant classical scholar. Most of his poems were written when young. He translated a great deal from Virgil and Horace, and became imbued by their elegance and correctness.e He was celebrated also as a theologian, and he pursued his scholastic studies with an ardour that led him to adorn his religious faith with the imaginative hues of poetry and the earnest sentiments of his heart. He was admired for his learning by his contemporaries, and rose high in the estimation of the scholars of Salamanca, where he resided. At the age of thirty-three, he was made doctor of theology by the university of that town. * “Luego como nací murió mi madre: á tí quedé yo niño encomendado: dejoteme mi madre por tutora: del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado; murió mi madre, desechóme mi padre, tú sola eres padre y madre ahora.” a Respect for León’s virtue is consistently expressed by critics. See Manuel Durán, Luis de Léon (New York: Twayne, 1971), p. 1. b According to Durán he was born in 1527 or 1528. He was the oldest of 6 children and his father was a lawyer and judge; little is known about his childhood (Durán, p. 28). Translated from Sedano, V, pp. ix–x; see Bouterwek, I, p. 240. c Translation of ‘Canción a nuestra Señora’ ascribed by Palacio (p. 686) to Mary Shelley both in this quotation and as given more completely below. It is not found in either Wiffen or Bowring. Durán suggests that his mother was alive at the time of his father’s death in 1562 (Durán, p. 30). d Derived from Sedano, V, p. x. e Mentioned by Bouterwek, I, pp. 243, 250–1.

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In the year 1561, he was elected to the chair of St. Thomas, over the heads of seven candidates, by a large majority. Although his learning, his piety, and the austerity of his life, caused him to be regarded with universal respect, yet he had enemies, the result, probably, of his very excellencies.a These took advantage of a slight imprudence he had committed, to plunge him into the most frightful misfortune. He greatly loved and admired Hebrew poetry; and, to please a friend, who did not understand the learned languages, he translated into Spanish, and commented upon, the Song of Solomon. His friend was heedless enough to permit copies to be taken, and it thus became spread abroad. Who was the machinator of the disaster that ensued we are not told; but he was accused before the tribunal of the inquisition of heresy, for disobeying the commands of the church, in translating Scripture into the vulgar tongue. He was seized, and thrown into the prison of the inquisition, at Valladolid, in the year 1572. Here he remained five years, suffering all the hardships of a rigorous and cruel confinement. Confined in a dungeon, without light or space – cut off from communication with his friends – allowed no measures of defence – hope seemed shut out from him, while all means of occupation were denied him.b His pious mind found consolation in religion. He could turn to the objects of his worship, implore their aid, / and trust to the efficacy of their intercession before God. Sometimes, however, his heart failed him, and it was complaints rather than prayers that he preferred. His odes to the Virgin were written during this disastrous period; and among them that from which we have already quoted, in which he pathetically describes and laments the extremity of adversity to which he was reduced.c The whole ode in Spanish is full of pathos, and gentle, yet deepfelt lamentation: a few stanzas may give some idea of the acuteness of his sufferings. Thus he speaks of the hopeless, lingering evils of his imprisonment:– If I look back, I feel a wild despair –* I shrink with terror from the coming days, For they will mirror but the hideous past; While heavy and intolerable weighs * “Se miro lo passado pierdo el seso, y si lo por venir pierdo el sentido, porque veo sera qual lo pasado: si lo presente, hallome oprimido de tan pesada carga y grave peso, que resollar apenas no me es dado: a

Adapted from Sedano, V, pp. x–xi. Translated from Sedano, V, p. xi. Modern scholars suggest that some of León’s misfortunes were due to his Jewish ancestry (Durán, p. 28 and Brenan, p. 156). Durán notes that he lacked charity when dealing with others and was reported to the Inquisition after clashes with his colleagues. Although imprisoned in a room lacking light and air and given little food, he was allowed books, paper and candles (Durán, pp. 31–3); see also Bouterwek, I, pp. 241–2). c See Sedano V, p. xxii and ‘Indice’, V, pp. v–vi. b

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The evil load of all that now I bear; Nor have I hope but it will ever last – The arrows come so fast; I feel a deadly wound, And, shudd’ring, look around; And as the blood, rushing all warm, doth flow, Behold! another, and another blow! While they who deal to me such fierce annoy, Rejoice to see my woe – Lamenting still they do not quite destroy! To what poor wretch did heaven e’er deny Leave to declare the misery he feels? Laments can ease the weight of heaviest chain; But cruel fate with me so harshly deals, Stifling within my lips the gushing cry, So that aloud I never may complain: For, could I tell my pain, / What heart were hard enough, Though made of sternest stuff, Tiger or basilisk, or serpent dread, That would not gentle tears of pity shed, Symbols of tender sorrow for my woes? The while by hatred fed, Fate’s hostile fury ever fiercer grows. From living man no comfort reaches me: From me the dearest and most faithful friend apenas ha tirado un enemigo un tiro, la fresca llaga miro la sangre por las sienes ir corriendo: otro por otra parte me está hiriendo, mientras aquel en ver que me maltratan contentos está haciendo, pero tristes en ver que no me matan. ¿ Á quál hombre jamas le fue negada licencia de decir el mal que siente? Que parece que alivia su tormento – á mí, porque mi mal mas me atormiente, la boca fuertemente me es cerrada, para que no publique el mal que siento; que es tal que si lo cuento, á un corazon mas duro que una roca, ó un muro, ó sierpe, ó basilisco, ó tigre hircana, sin duda hará llorar, y muy de gana en señal que mi mal les enternece; pero la furia insana de los que me persiguen siempre crece.

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Would fly beyond the earth’s remotest end, So not to share my hopeless misery! And my sad eyes, where’er I turn my sight, Are strangers to the light. No man that comes anear, My name did ever hear – So I myself almost myself forget! Nor know if what I was, so am I yet – Nor why to me this misery befell: Nor can I knowledge get; For none to me the horrid tale will tell. *

*

*

*

*

*

Wreck’d is my vessel on a shoreless sea, Where there is none to help me in my fear, Where none can stretch a friendly saving hand! I call on men – but there are none to hear; In the wide world there’s no man thinks of me; My failing voice can never reach the land! But, while I fearful stand, A blessed, heaven-sent thought, By bitter suffering brought, / En ningun hombre hallo ya consuelo: la lumbre de mi ojos no es conmigo – el mas estrecho, fiel, y caro amigo huirá la tierra, el mar, el alto cielo, á trueco de se ver de mi apartado. Si mirò al diestro lado, no hallo solo un hombre que sepa ya mi nombre; y asi yo mismo dél tambien me olvido, y no sé mas de mi de que hube sido; si mi troque, si soy quien antes era, aun nunca lo he sabido, que no me dá lugar mi suerte fiera. *

* *

* *

*

Metido estoy en este mar profundo, dó no hay quien me socorra, quien me ayude; dó no hay quien para mí tienda su mano. Llamo á los hombres, mas ninguno acude: no tengo hombre alguno en todo el mundo: estoy ronco de dar voces en vano: tomé un consejo sano despues de tanto acuerdo, que el mal me hizo cuerdo:

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Bids me, O Virgin! trust to thee alone. Thou never turn’st away from those who cry, Nor wilt thou let thy son, O piteous Mother! miserably die. My mother died as soon as I was born; And I was dedicate to thee, a little child, Bequeath’d by my poor mother’s dying prayer; A second parent thou, O Virgin mild! – Father and mother to the babe forlorn: For my own father made me not his care: – And, Lady, canst thou bear A child of thine thus lost, And in such danger tost? To other sorrows art thou not so blind: They waken pity in thy gentle mind, Thou givest aid to every other, To me be also kind; Listen, and save thy son, O piteous Mother!a

It could not be, however, but that a heart so truly pious would find relief in prayer, and feel at intervals strong animating confidence in heaven. Thus, in coná tì sola pedir socorro quiero, que de los que te llaman no te escondes: pues me ves que me muero, ¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes? *

*

*

Luego como nací murió mi Madre; á tí quedé yo niño encomendado: dejoteme mi madre por tutora; del vientre de mi madre en tí fue echado: murió mi madre, desechóme el padre, tú sola eres padre y madre ahora; ¿ y puede ser, Señora, que un hijo tuyo muera muerte tan lastimera, siendo por tí mil otros socorridos? ¿ Porque me cierras, Virgen, los oidos? ¿ Porque no escucharme? ¿ Dí, porque te abscondes? Y si oyes mi gemidos, ¿ como, piadosa Madre, no respondes?” a Spanish quoted in Sedano, V, pp. 40–1, pp. 43–4. Additional indications that Mary Shelley is the translator include ‘gentle mind’, a favourite phrase. ‘Listen and save’ comes from the invocation to Sabrina in Comus, a favourite poem of hers. The discrepancy between ‘a child’ in the previously quoted extract and ‘a little child’ here suggests that she is working from a draft with variants. The poeticism ‘anear’ is found in P. B. Shelley’s ‘Scenes from the Faust of Goethe’. The translation is reminiscent of the style of Lady Dacre’s translations of Petrarch (see ‘Petrarch’, vol. 1). It also softens León’s anguished reproaches to the Virgin into pleas.

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trast with these laments, we have a description of another mood of mind, which he gives in an epistle to a friend on his liberation. “Cut off,” he writes, “not only from the conversation and society of men, but even from seeing them, I remained for five years shut up in darkness and a dungeon. I then enjoyed a peace and joy of mind that I often miss, now that I am restored to light, and the society of my friends.”a He was at length liberated. Sedano tells us, that “at last his trial being over, in virtue of the proofs and / exculpations which he was enabled to bring in support of his innocence, he was set at liberty at the end of the year 1576, and restored to all his honours and employments.” It is some consolation to find that his imprisonment caused great scandal and outcry, and that his liberation was hailed with exultation and delight. The university had, from respect, never filled the professor’s chair, vacated during his imprisonment; and, on his return to Salamanca, the most distinguished persons of the town met him on his way, and conducted him thither in triumph.b Few events after this are recorded of his life. He visited Madrid; and the royal council confided to him the task of the revision and correction of the works of St. Theresa de Jesu, which were much mutilated, and of preparing them for the press. About the same time, there was attempted the reform of his order in Portugal, a work of importance and difficulty to the catholic church. The assistance of Luis de Leon was required, and it is supposed that he even made a journey to Portugal for that purpose. In 1591, he was named vicar-general of his province, and soon afterward elected provincial; but he did not long enjoy this honour: nine days after his election he was attacked by some acute malady. The Spanish biographers take pains to assure us of the edifying piety of his end; and we can easily believe that a man who in youth was entirely dedicate to religion, should in the calmness of old age and in the hour of death, reap from his belief the composure of spirit that makes a happy end. He died on the 23d of August 1591, in the sixty-fourth year of his age.c In person, Luis Ponce de Leon is described as of fair height, well-proportioned in person, vigorous and robust. His countenance was manly, and the expression, despite the vivaciousness of his eyes, serious and calm. His mind was ever bent on religious objects: he seems to have forgotten his high birth and the splendour of his name, and to have aspired only to Christian humility.d Love of poetry and classical literature were the only / objects that ever called his attention from pious contemplations; and these he followed chiefly in his youth. “God gifted him,” says Sedano, “with a noble birth: he adorned him with understanding and a

Quoted in Spanish by Bouterwek, I, p. 242. Translated from Sedano, V, pp. xi–xii. Derived from Sedano, V, pp. xii–xiii. See also Bouterwek, I, p. 242. Saint Theresa of Avila (1515–82), founder of the reformed order of Carmelites, canonised in 1622. d Translated and derived from Sedano, V, pp. xiv–xv, xvii. A portrait exists by the painter Pacheco, who wrote a description of his looks (Durán, p. 34). b c

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extraordinary talents; he made him the son of a house abounding in riches and prosperity, and bestowed on him religious and literary honours; and it was necessary, for the sake of proving his virtues and purifying his soul, to visit him with the misfortunes belonging to the age in which he lived, proportionate to the greatness of his gifts.”a Sad as it is to reflect on an age and country in which virtues so exemplary, and talents so exalted, met with unmerited persecution, we are almost glad to find that one of the pillars of the very institutions that exercised such barbarous sway, was visited by its cruelty and injustice, to prove that no obedience and no excellence could shelter even the submissive slaves of despotism from its tyranny. Luis de Leon had indeed a soul at once above submission and suffering. He bowed before a higher than earthly power, and was exalted above persecution through his very humility – a proud humility, mixed with a consciousness of strength and worth. On his liberation from prison, and restoration to his professor’s chair, all Salamanca flocked to hear his first lecture, drawn thither by reverence and curiosity. Luis de Leon appeared serene and cheerful, and commenced as if nothing had happened; nor alluded to the long interval, filled with such misery, that had intervened since his last lecture, beginning thus: – “We said yesterday that he had a willow for his symbol, and at its foot a hatchet, with this inscription, ‘Through injury and death.’ Nobleness, virtue, and generosity spring up under the very attacks of adversity and persecution. A willow the more it is cut, so much the more vigorously does it throw out its shoots; and for this cause has it its name (salix) from the vigour with which it sprouts, and the swiftness of its growth.”*b And thus / he adopted for his emblem, a pruned tree with the knife at its foot, and the motto “Ab ipso ferro.”c As a theologian, his works are held in high repute. It is to his praise that, though austere and regular as a monk, he yet studied the liberal arts with assiduity and success. He was well versed in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, besides being entire master of his native Castilian.d His poetry is held in great estimation: the purity and elegance of his style are unsurpassed. Those Spaniards, who are addicted to the tinsel of versification, accuse him of want of loftiness; but nothing can exceed the harmony and flow of his verse, the grace and propriety of his ideas, and the * “Dicebamus hesterno die: Pro suis insignibus habet salicem, ad cujus pedem secuta et hæc verba: Per damna – per cædes. Vitrtuosum enim nobile ac generosum germen oritur ex passionibus et summis cruciatibus. Salix enim quo magis ceditur, et magis germinans, ramos extollitur; et ideo dicitur: salix, à saliendo, et celeritate crescendi.” a

Quoted in Spanish by Sedano, V, pp. xix–xx. Translated from Sedano, V, pp. xxi–xxii. The Latin is given on a note on p. xxi. According to Durán (p. 33) the story is not authenticated. The opening words are sometimes quoted in the form ‘As I was saying yesterday…’ c Adapted from Horace, Odes, IV. iv: ‘per caedes ab ibso ferro. Ducit opes animumque ferro’ (‘through loss, through slaughter, draws its strength and life from the very steel’). Sedano, V, p. xxii. d Translated from Sedano, V, p. xxiii. b

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truth and simplicity – the extreme ease and animation, of his style. It is unornamented – but for that very reason, more purely poetic. The most perfect of his compositions is his “Ode to Tranquil Life,” in which he dwells with brooding, earnest delight on all the objects, and all the reveries that bless a man, content in solitude. His religious poetry comes less home to our hearts: it is so entirely catholic, but all is marked by enthusiasm and sincerity. As a translator, he holds a high place; though he may be said rather to paraphrase than translate his models. He thus rendered into Spanish many of the odes of Horace, and various others selected from Pindar, Tibullus, and Theocritus. He translated all the Eclogues of Virgil, and the first book of his Georgics.a He tells us, that he endeavoured to make the ancient poets speak as they would have expressed themselves, had they been born in his own age, in Castile, and had written in Castilian.b In an inferior poet this attempt had been indiscreet and rash, but Luis de Leon was so much master of style and harmony, that it is impossible to regret the new costume with which he invests our old favourites. He is chiefly blamed because the beauty of his paraphrases is so great: and they have taken such hold of / Spanish readers, that they preclude all future attempts at more literal translation. This is of slight import. If the poems he gives us in Castilian are in themselves beautiful, the Spanish reader must be satisfied. A vigorous desire to have a perfect understanding of the originals ought to lead to the study of them in their native language – the only way really to attain it, and, to a Castilian, not a difficult one.c Were there a good translation of the ode “Que descansada vida,”

we should prefer quoting it, as most characteristic of the peculiar imagery and feeling of the poet.d As it is, we are tempted to present Mr. Wiffen’s spirited translation of his ode on the Moorish invasion: the animation and fire which it breathes has made it a favourite, and shows that Luis de Leon was confined to didactic subjects rather from choice, than by the necessity or narrowness of his genius. “As by Tagus’ billowy bed,* King Rodrigo, safe from sight, With the lady Cava fed * “Folgaba el rey Rodrigo, con la hermosa Caba en la ribera de Tajo sin testigo: a

Sedano, V, p.xxiv. Bouterwek, I. p. 250. Sedano, V, p. xxv. d The first ode: ‘Que descansada vida’ (‘What a restful life’). Quoted in Spanish by Bouterwek, I, pp. 245–6. b c

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On the fruit of loose delight; From the river’s placid breast, Slow its ancient Genius broke; Of the scrolls of fate possess’d, Thus the frowning prophet spoke: ‘In an evil hour dost thou, Ruthless spoiler, wanton here! Shouts and clangours even now, Even now assail mine ear – Shout and sound of clashing shield, Shiver’d sword, and rushing car – All the frenzy of the field! – All the anarchy of war! / ‘O what wail and weeping spring Forth from this, thine hour of mirth, From yon fair and smiling thing, Who in an evil hour had birth! In an evil day for Spain Plighted in your guilty troth – Fatal triumph! costly gain To the sceptre of the Goth! ‘Flames and furies, griefs and broils, Slaughter, ravage, fierce alarms, Anguish and immortal toils Thou dost gather to thine arms, – For thyself and vassals – those Who the fertile furrow break, El pecho sacó fuera, El rio, y le habló de esta manera. ‘En mal punto te goces, injusto forzador, que ya el sonido oyo ya y las voces, las armas y el bramido de Marte, de furor y ardor ceñido. ‘¡ Av esa tu alegria qué llanto acarrea! y esa hermosa, que vio el sol en mal dia, á España ay quan llorosa, y al ceptro de los Godos quán costosa! ‘Llamas, dolores, guerras, muertos asolamientos, fieros males, entre tus brazos cierras, trabajos immortales á tí y á tus vasallos naturales. ‘Á los que en Constantina rompen el fertil suelo, á los que baña

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Where the stately Ebro flows, Who their thirst in Douro slake! ‘For the throne – the hall – the bower – Murcian lord and Lusian swain – For the chivalry a flower Of all sad and spacious Spain! Prompt for vengeance, not for fame, Even now from Cadiz’ halls, On the Moor, in Allah’s, name, Hoarse the Count – the Injur’d calls. ‘Hark, how frightfully forlorn Sounds his trumpet to the stars, Citing Afric’s desert-born To the gonfalon of Mars! Lo! already loose in air Floats the standard – peals the gong; They shall not be slow to dare Roderick’s wrath for Julian’s wrong. / ‘See their spears the Arabs shake, Smite the wind, the war demand; Millions in a moment wake, Join, and awarm o’er all the sand, Underneath their sails, the sea Disappears – a hubbub runs El Ebro, á la vecina Sansueña, ó Lusitaña, á toda la especiosa y triste España. ‘Ya desde Cadiz llama el injuriado Conde, á la venganza atento, y no á la fama, la barbara pujanza en quien, para tu daño, no hay tardanza. ‘Oye que al cielo toca con temeroso son la trompa fiera, que en Africa convoca el Moro á la vandera que el ayre desplegada va ligera. ‘La lanza ya blandea el Arabe cruel, y hiere al viento, llamando a la pelea; innumerable quento de esquadras juntas vide en un momento. ‘Cubre la gente el suelo, debajo de las velas desparece la mar, la voz al cielo

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Through the sphere of heaven, a-lee, Clouds of dust obscure the sun’s. ‘Swift their mighty ships they climb, Cut the cables, slip from shore; How their sturdy arms keep time To the dashing of the oar! Bright the frothy billows burn Round their cleaving keels, and gales, Breathed by Æolus astern, Fill their deep and daring sails. ‘Sheer across Alcides’ strait, He whose voice the floods obey, With the trident of his state, Gives the grand armada way. In her sweet subduing arms, Sinner! dost thou slumber still, Dull and deaf to the alarms Of this loud inrushing ill? ‘In the hallow’d Gadite bay, Mark them mooring from the main; Rise, take horse! – away! away! Scale the mountain – scour the plain! Give not pity to thy hand, Give not pardon to thy spur; Dart abroad thy flashing brand, Bare thy fatal scimitar. / confusa y varia crece, el polvo roba el dia y le obscurece. ‘¡ Ay que ya presurosos Suben las largas naves, ay que tienden los brazos vigorosos á los remos, y encienden las mares espumosas por dó hienden! ‘El Eolo derecho hinche la vela en popa, y larga entrada por el Herculeo estrecho con la punta acerada el gran padre Neptuno da á la Armada. ‘¡Ay triste y aun te tiene el mal dulce regazo, ni llamado al mal que sobreviene no acorres! ¿ Ocupado no ves ya al puerto á Hercules sagrado? ‘Acude, acorre, buela, trapasa el alta sierra, occupa el llano,

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‘Agony of toil and sweat The sole recompence must be Of each horse, and horseman yet, Plumeless serf, and plumed grandee, Sullied in thy silver flow, Stream of proud Sevilla, weep! Many a broken helm shalt thou Hurry to the bordering deep. ‘Many a turban and tiar, Moor, and noble’s slaughtered corse, Whilst the furies of the war Gore your ranks with equal loss! Five days you dispute the field; When ’tis sunrise on the plains,– O loved land! thy doom is seal’d– Madden – madden in thy chains!”a /

no perdones la espuela, no dez paz á la mano, menea fulminando el hierro insano. ‘¡ Ay quánto de fatiga! ‘¡ Ay quanto de dolor está presente al que biste loriga, al Infante valiente, á hombres, y á caballos juntamente! ‘Y, tu, Betis divino, de sangre agena y tuya amancillado, darás al mar vecino ¡ quanto yelmo quebrado! ¡ quanto cuerpo de nobles destrozado ‘El furibondo Marte cinco luces las haces desordena, igual á cada parte: la sexta ¡ ay! te condena, ó cara patria, ó barbara cadena!’” a Wiffen, ‘The Prophecy of Tagus,’ pp. 375–9. It was a much admired poem. Southey includes a translation in his Letter Written During a Short Residence in Spain and Portugal (Bristol: Biggs and Cottle for Longman and Rees, London, 1797).

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HERRERA, SAA DE MIRANDA, JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR, CASTILLEJO, THE DRAMATISTS. 1500–1567. T HERE are several other poets whose names belong to this age, of whom very little is known except by their works. Yet to complete the history of Spanish literary men, it will be necessary to mention what has come down to us. The first on the list is Herrera. Fernando Herrera was a native of Seville. We learn nothing of his family, and even the date of his birth is unknown.a It is conjectured that he was born at the beginning of the sixteenth century. He was an ecclesiastic; but it is believed that he adopted this profession late in life, and we are ignorant of the position he held in the hierarchy, and of all the events of his life. It is believed that he died at a very advanced age; but when and where we are not told. In the midst of all these negatives as to events, we get at a few affirmatives with regard to his qualities. There is an inedited work, entitled “The illustrious Men, Natives of Seville,” written by Rodrigo Caro,b who thus mentions him: – “Herrera was so well known in his native town of Seville, and his memory is so regarded there, that I may be considered in fault if my account of his works is brief: however, I will repeat all I have heard without futile additions, for I knew, though I never spoke to him, – I being a boy when he was an old man; but I remember the reputation he enjoyed. He understood Latin perfectly, and wrote several epigrams in that language, which might rival the most famous ancient authors in thought and expression. / He possessed only a moderate knowledge of Greek. He read the best authors in the modern languages, having studied them a

Modern scholars give Herrera’s life dates as 1534–97. Bouterwek calls information about Herrera more ‘a matter of conjecture, than historically authentic’ (I, p. 228) and Mary Shelley echoes his entry with ‘conjectured’. Both she and Bouterwek draw upon Sedano, VII, p. vii. Herrera held a lay benefice and was active in a Sevillean literary and artistic circle. He wrote Petrarchan love poetry inspired by the Condesa de Gelves, Doña Leonor de Milán. His aristocratic literary ideas were clearly set forth in his ‘Anotaciones a las obras de Garcilaso de la Vega’ (1580; ‘Notes on the Works of Garcilaso de la Vega’), which praised Garcilaso’s Italianate innovations. See Jones, pp. 94–5. b Rodrigo Caro is quoted in Sedano, VIII, pp. xli–xlii. Mary Shelley has translated the long passage, leaving off the quotation of some verses at the end of the passage. Caro (1573–1647) was an antiquary known for his poem on the ruins of Itálica, a Roman city near Seville (Ward, p. 98). DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768-7

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with care; and to this he added a profound knowledge of Castilian, carefully noting its powers of expressing with nobleness and grandeur. He evidently wrote prose with great care, since his prose is the best in our language. As to his Spanish poetry, to which his genius chiefly impelled him, the best critics pronounce his poems correct in their versification, full of poetic colouring, powerful and forcible as well as elegant and beautiful; although, indeed, as he did not write for every vulgar reader, so that the uneducated are unable to judge of the extent of his erudition. He excelled in the art of selecting epithets and expressions, without affectation. He was naturally grave and severe, and his disposition betrays itself in his verses. He associated with few, leading a retired life, either alone in his study, or in company, with some friend, who sympathised with him, and to whom he confided his cares. Whether from this cause, or from the merit of his poetry, he was called the “divine Herrera:” as a satirist of those days mentions: – ‘Thus a thousand rhymes and sonnets Divine Herrera wrote in vain.’

“His poems were not printed during his life;a Francisco Pacheco, a celebrated painter of this city, whose studio was the resort of all clever men of Seville and the environs, performed this office. He was a great admirer of his works, and collected them with great care, and printed them under the patronage of the count de Olivarez. Herrera’s prose works are the best in our language. They consist of the Life and Martyrdom of Thomas More, president of the English parliament in the time of the unhappy Henry VIII., leader and abettor of the schism of that kingdom (translated from the Latin of Thomas Stapleton); the Naval Battle against the Turks at Lepanto;b a Commentary on Garcilaso; all of which display deep reading in Greek, Latin, and modern languages, and which he published while living. He employed himself on a general History of Spain, to the time / of the emperor Charles V., which he brought up to the year 1590. He was well versed in philosophy: he studied mathematics, ancient and modern geography, and possessed a chosen library. The reward of all this was only a benefice in the parish church of St. Andres in this city. But he has many associates in the moderation of his fortune; for though every one praises merit, few seek and fewer reward it.”* The praise of Caro is echoed by others of more note. Cervantes, when he resided at Seville, frequented the society of Herrera; in his “Voyage to Parnassus” he calls him the “Divine,” and says that the “ivy of his fame clung to the walls of immortality.”c Lope de Vega in his “Laurel de Apollo,” calls him the “learned,” * Sedano. [VII, pp. xli–xlii] a Not strictly true; Algunas obras de Fernando de Herrera (Some Works of Fernando de Herrera) was published in 1582. The verse translation above is by Mary Shelley. b Relación de la guerra de Chipre y batalla naval de Lepanto (Account of the War of Cyprus and the Naval Battle of Lepanto, 1572), and Elogio de la vida y muerte de Tomás Moro (Eulogy on the Life and Death of Thomas More, 1592). c Cervantes’ reference to Herrera occurs in cap. 2 of Viaje del Parnaso: ‘Divino Herrera. […] Y arrimada tu hiedra al fuerte muro / De la immortalidad’.

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and speaks of him with respect and admiration. Sedano tells us that he was a handsome man; tall, of a manly and dignified aspect, lively eyes, and thick curled hair and beard.a In addition, we learn that the lady of his love, whom he celebrates under the names of Light, Love, Sun, Star – Eliodora, was the Countess of Gelves. He loved her, it is said, all his life, to the very height of platonic passion, which burnt fiery and bright in his own heart, but revealed itself only by manifestations of reverence and self-struggle. This sort of attachment, when true, is certainly of an heroic and sublime nature, and demands our admiration and sympathy; but we must be convinced of the reality of the sufferings to which it gives rise, and of the unlimited nature of its devotion, or it becomes a mere picture wanting warmth and life. Petrarch’s letters give a soul to his poetry: the various accounts they contain of his solitary struggles at Vaucluse, make us turn with deeper interest to his verses, which, otherwise, might almost be reasoned away into a mere ideal feeling.b Knowing nothing of Herrera but that he loved “a bright particular star,” shining far above, we are willing to find an accord between this love of the elevated and unattainable, and the grandeur of / the subjects he celebrates in his poetry, and the dignity of his verse. Herrera is a great favourite with those Spanish critics who prefer loftiness to simplicity of style, and the ideas of the head rather than the emotions of the heart: the sublime style at which he aimed gained for him the surname of Divine. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Luis de Leon, adopted the Italian metres, and with greater diffuseness, and therefore less classical elegance, but with equal truth and poetic verve, and informed the Spanish language with powers unknown to former poets. But this did not suffice for Herrera. He delighted in the grandiose and sonorous. He altered the language, introducing some obsolete and some new words, and, attending with a sensitive ear to the modulations of sound, endeavoured to make harmony between the thought and its oral expression. Lope de Vega held Herrera’s versification in high esteem: quoting a passage from his odes, he exclaims, “Here, no language exceeds our own – no, not even the Greek nor the Latin. Fernando de Herrera is never out of my sight.”c Quintana, whose criticism is rather founded on artificial, rather than genuine and simple taste, as is apt to be the case with critics, is also his great admirer. He considers that he contributed more than any other to elevate, not only the poetic style of the Spanish language, but the essence of its poetry, in gifting it with more boldness of imagination and fire of expression than any preceding poet.d Sedano is less partial: while he praises and admits his right to his name of “divine,” he observes, that in endeavouring to purify and elevate his diction, he erred in rendering it harsh and barren, wanting a

See Sedano, VII, p. xii. Sedano, VII, pp. vii–viii. The remarks on Petrarch reflect Mary Shelley’s own point of view. In the next sentence, the quotation is from All’s Well that Ends Well, I. i. 82. c Quoted by Quintana, pp. 45–6. d Quintana, pp. 40–6. b

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in suavity and flow, and injured it by the affectation of antiquated phrases.a His odes are certainly grand: we feel that the poet is full of his subject, and rises with it. It is rash of a foreigner, indeed, to give an opinion; still, we cannot help saying that while we admire the fervour of expression, the grandeur of the ideas, and the harmony of the versification, we miss the while a living grace more charming than all. It is the poetry of the head rather than the heart. And thus, / among Herrera’s poems, the one we admire most is his Ode to Sleep; for, joined to elegant chasteness and great purity of language, we find a pure genuine feeling, feelingly expressed.b “Suave sueño, tu que en tarde buelo las alas perezosas blandamente bates, de adormideras coronado, por el puro, adormido, vago cielo, ven á la ultima parte de Ocidente, y de licor sagrado baña mi ojos tristes que cansado y rendido al furor de mi tormento, no admito algun sosiego, y el dolor desconorta al infrimiento. Ven a mi humilde ruego: a

Sedano, VII, p. ix. ‘Cancion Primera’ (‘Al sueño’). Quoted in Sedano, VII, pp. 1–3. Mary Shelley, who has omitted to provide a translation, may have chosen it because of P. B. Shelley’s poems in the same genre, especially ‘To Night’ (‘Swiftly walk o’er the western wave’). ‘Sweet sleep, thou that in evening’s flight gently beatest thy lazy wings, crowned with drowsiness through the pure, sleeping, hazy sky, come from the last region of the West and with sacred liquid bathe the sad eyes of me, who, tired and given over to the fury of my anguish, and the pain beyond suffering, admit no calm. Come at my humble request, I pray thee, for the love of her, thy beautiful nymph, whom Juno offered to thee. ‘Divine sleep, glory of mortals, sweet pleasure for the afflicted wretch, amorous sleep, come to him who hopes to retire from the tenure of his misfortunes, and to turn all feeling to rest. How canst thou allow one who is thine to die far from thee? Art thou not base, to forget a lonely heart in muffled pain, who without enjoying the wealth that the world has manufactured is deprived of thy strength? Come, cheerful Sleep; Sleep, come, thou happy one. Return to my soul now, restore my rest. ‘Let me feel in such confinement thy greatness; let fall, and sprinkle the liquid dew; put to flight the dawn, that shines around; look upon my burning weeping and my sadness, and the heaviness of the load that weighs me down, and the sweat of my brow that the sun increases with conjoined fires. Return, balmy Sleep, and let thy beautiful wings fan the hour to sleep, and put to flight the unwelcome Aurora with her importunate wings; and let my need for the cool night extinguish the surrounding light of day. ‘I offer thee, O Sleep, a crown of thy flowers; in the empty confines of my eyes do thou bring the gentle effect, which the air interwoven with odours treasures up, and serene moves with sweet love; and exile, O mild Sleep, the remnants of my cares. Come then, beloved Sleep, come fickle one, who displacest the white-haired beam of young Phoebus from the Eastern border. Come now, merciful Sleep, and put an end to pain; thus may I see thee in the embraces of thy dear Pasithea’ [Aglaia, one of the Graces]. (Translation made with the assistance of Tony Morgan, Dept. of Spanish, East Anglia Polytechnic University). b

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ven a mi ruego humilde, amor de aquella que Juno te ofreciò, tu Ninfa bella. Divino Sueño, gloria de mortales, regalo dulce al misero afligido: Sueño amoroso, ven a quien espera cesar del egercicio de sus males, y al descanso bolver todo el sentido. ¿ Como sufres que muera lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era? ¿ No es vileza olvidar un solo pecho en veladora pena, que sin gozar del bien ohe al mundo has hecho, de tu vigor, se agena? Ven, Sueño alegre; Sueño, ven, dichoso: vuelve a mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo. Sienta yo en tal estrecho tu grandeza: baja, y esparce liquido el rocio: huya la alba, que en torno resplandece, mira mi ardiente llanto y mi tristeza, y quanta fuerza tiene el pesar mio: y mi frente humidece, que ya de fuegos juntos el Sol crece. Torna, sabroso Sueño, y tus hermosas alas suenen aora, y huya con sus alas presurosas la desabrida Aurora; y lo che en mi falto la noche fria, termine la cercana luz del dia. Una corona, o Sueño, de tus flores ofrezco: tù produce el blando efecto en los desiertos cercos de mis ojos, que el ayre entretegido con olores alhaga, y ledo mueve en dulce afecto: y de estos mis enojos destierra, manso Sueño, los despojos. Ven pues, amado Sueño, ven liviano, que del ruo Oriente Despunta el tierno Febo el rayo cano. Ven ya, Sueño clemente, y acabara el dolor; asi te vea en brazos de tu cara Pasitea.” /

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SAA DE MIRANDA. A T this same period, so fertile in Spain with poetic genius, there flourished two Portuguese poets, whose names are introduced here from their connection with Spanish poetry. Saa de Miranda was born in 1494, and died in 1558. His Spanish poems are bucolic, and more truly imbued with rural imagery than that of those warrior poets, whose love of the country was that of gentlemen who enjoy the beauties of scenery and the blandishments of the odorous breezes, rather than of persons accustomed to the detail of pastoral life. Saa de Miranda sometimes mingled a higher tone of description with his rural pictures; thus imitating nature, who associates the terrible with the lovely, the storm and the soft breath of evening.a At the same time, none excels Saa de Miranda in the union of simplicity and grace: some of his verses remind the Italian reader of the odes of Chiabrera,b such as these, describing the wanderings of a nymph, with which his fancy adorned a woodland scene: – Gently straying, Gently staying, She breathed the fragrance of the breezy field; And, singing, fill’d her lap with flowers, The which the meadows yield, Painting their verdure with a thousand colours.*c

Nor does his poetry want the charm of melancholy sentiment, nor the vehemence of passion; while all that he writes has the peculiar merit of a harmony and grace all his own. /

* “Graciosamente estando, graciosamente andando, blando ayre respirava al prado ameno ella cantava, y juntamente el seno inchiendose yva de diversas flores en que el prado era lleno sobre verde variado en mil colores.” a Information from Bouterwek, I, p. 213. Mary Shelley does not point out that Sá de Miranda was the first Portuguese poet to write in the new style of Italianate poetry introduced by Boscán and Hurtado de Mendoza. Sedano (VIII, p. xix) states that the birthdate of Sá de Miranda is 1495, while Jones suggests it is 1481 (p. 90). Sismondi also discusses Miranda as both Castilian Spanish poet and later, as Portuguese poet, regarding him as principally Portuguese. ‘Saa’ is an older spelling. b Gabriello Chiabrera (1552–1638), Baroque-period lyric poet; see vol. 1, ‘Chiabrera’. c The Spanish is quoted in Bouterwek, I, p. 213; the verse-translation is by Mary Shelley.

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JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR. J ORGE DE M ONTEMAYOR is another Portuguese poet, whose name belongs rather to Spain than Portugal. His real appellation is unknown. He adopted that of the place of his birth, Montemor, a town in the jurisdiction of Coimbra in Portugal, which he in a manner translated into Spanish, and called himself Jorge or George de Montemayor. He was born about the year 1520, of humble origin, and slight education. In his youth he entered the military profession. His talent for music first brought him into notice: he emigrated into Castile, and endeavoured to gain his livelihood by music: he succeeded in being incorporated in the band of the Royal Chapel; and when the Infante don Philip, afterwards Philip II., made his celebrated progress through Germany, Italy, and the Low Countries, having in his suite a band of choice musicians and singers, Montemayor made one among them. These travels tended to enlarge his mind; and, although unacquainted with the learned languages, he became a proficient in various foreign ones, and joined to these accomplishments a taste for literature. His love for music was allied closely to a talent for poetry; and when on his return to Spain, he resided at the city of Leon, he established his fame as an author, by writing his “Diana.” The fame of this book spread far and wide: it was imitated by almost every poet that wrote in those days, and the style in which it was composed became the fashion throughout Spain.a The “Diana” is a pastoral of such an ideal species, that it sets chronology and history at defiance. Of these, our Shakespeare made light, when he wrote “Cymbeline” and the “Winter’s Tale;” but the “Diana” is even more confused in its costume.b The scene of it is placed at the foot of the mountains of Leon; and the heroine is said to be the object of a real attachment of the author. / This lady in other poems is called Marfida: he is said to have loved her before he left Spain with the court: on his return he found her married; and his grief and her infidelity he personified in the Sireno and Diana of his pastoral. Thus many modern events are spoken of; and the adventures of Abindarres and Xarifa, contemporaries of king Ferdinand, are mentioned as of old date, at the same time that Apollo and Diana, nymphs and fauns, are the objects of adoration among the shepherds; for, indeed, in those days the gods of the Greeks made as it were an integral portion of poetry, and it would have been considered a solecism to have omitted the a The information about Montemayor is loosely translated from Sedano, IX, pp. xxxviii–xliv, but also echoes Bouterwek, I, p. 217. b Los siete libros de la Diana (?1559) was the first unified pastoral romance or novel. It went through fifteen editions before 1600 and inspired numerous imitations including that of Alonso Pérez (1564), Gil Polo’s Diana enamorada (1564), Cervantes’ La Galatea (1585) and Lope de Vega’s Arcadia (1598) (Jones, pp. 58, 61–4). Cymbeline, set in Roman Britain, includes a Dutch gentleman and a Renaissance Italian villain in the cast; in The Winter’s Tale Apollo’s oracle is consulted concerning the marital fidelity of the daughter of the Emperor of Russia.

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names and worship of these deities. The story is conceived in the same heterogeneous manner. There is infinite simplicity in all the part that strictly appertains to Diana and her lover; and much of what is romantic and even supernatural in the other portions.a The first book commences with the return of Sireno to the valleys of the mountains of Leon. He has already heard of the falsehood of his mistress, who is married to another. The romance opens with the songs of his complaints. In one of these he addresses a lock of hair belonging to Diana; and nothing can be more simple, yet touching and true, and elegant, than the opening of this poem. He is joined by Silvano, another lover of Diana, who has always been disdained; and his resignation is truly exemplary: these two hapless lovers are joined by a shepherdess, who is also suffering the woes of unfortunate passion; and her history concludes the book. In the second, events of more action are introduced: the scene even changes to a sort of fairy tale; but though the machinery of the story alters, the sentiments remain the same, conceived in the language of passion and reality. It is not until the sixth book that Diana herself is introduced, and the canzoni placed in her mouth are among the best in the book: she lays the blame of her infidelity on her parents, who forced her to marry a rich shepherd. The romance concludes / without any change in the situation of the hero and heroine. It is singular, that a work founded on such strange and unnatural machinery should have seized on the imagination, we may almost say, of the world, since this sort of pastoral became universally imitated; but there is something in the rural pictures and out-of-door life which composes the scenery of such works, grateful, we know not why, to our hearts. The style of the “Diana” is, indeed, peculiarly beautiful. Nothing can be more correct, yet less laboured; nothing more elegant, yet less exaggerated. To express vividly and truly, yet gracefully and in harmonious measure, the emotions of the various personages, appears to be the author’s chief aim. Thus we read on, attracted by the melody of the style, the heartfelt truth of the sentiments, and the beauty of the descriptions, even while we are quite careless of the development of the plot, and tolerably uninterested in any of the personages. To translate the poetry of this book would be difficult, as the style forms its charm; but it is impossible to read it in the original without being carried away by the flow of the versification, and the unaffected expression of real feeling.b The “Diana” superseded for a time the books of chivalry, of which the Spaniards were so fond. Since Amadis first appeared, no work had been so popular. Cervantes, who imitated it in his “Galatea,” thus mentions it in the scrutiny the curate and barber make of Don Quixote’s library. Speaking of pastorals in general, the curate says: “These books do not deserve to be burned with the rest, because they have never done nor will do the harm of which tales of chivalry are guilty; a

Sedano, IX, p. xlii and Bouterwek, I, pp. 217–18. Bouterwek also presents a summary of the work (I, pp. 219–21), but Mary Shelley has provided her own here. b

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they are mere books of amusement, and hurt no one.” Of the pastoral in question itself, he says: “Let us begin by the ‘Diana’ of Montemayor: I am of opinion that we tear out all that relates to the wise Felicia and the enchanted water, and almost all the poems in long measure, and let the prose remain, and the merit of its being the first of this species of books.”a / Such was the reputation that Montemayor acquired by this romance, that the queen of Portugal was desirous that he should return to his native country. He was, accordingly, recalled, and nothing more is known of him than that it is supposed that he died a violent death*,b – where, even, is not known; for some say in Portugal, some in Italy: the dates tolerably agree, those named being 1561 and 1562, so that he was scarcely more than forty at the time of his death.

CASTILLEJO. T O give a catalogue raisonnée of all the poets that flourished in Spain in this age would be of little avail, as little is known of them and their poetry: though much of it is beautiful, and much more of it agreeable, it does not bear the stamp of the originality and genius necessary to form an era in literature. Sedano gives brief notices of some of them. From him we learn that Fernando de Acuna, a nobleman of Portuguese extraction, a distinguished courtier in the court, a gallant soldier in the camp of Charles V., was also an intimate friend of Garcilaso de la Vega, and imitated him and Boscan in the style of his poetry. He died in Granada about the year 1580.c There is elegance, and a certain degree of originality in his poems. Sedano almost places him above his friend Garcilaso. He mingled the Italian and old Spanish styles together, introducing metres more adapted to the Castilian language than the terzets of his predecessors, being shorter, more airy, and more graceful. Gil Polo, a native of Valentia, flourished about the year 1550. He continued the Diana of Montemayor, and called his work “La Diana Enamorada.” He is chiefly famous for the praise that Cervantes bestows on / him, when in “Don Quixote” the curate says to the barber “Take as much care of Gil Polo’s work, as * Sedano tells us that the queen Catalina of Portugal, on recalling him, conferred on him an honourable situation in the royal household. The date of his death is ascertained through an elegy which is printed in all the editions of the “Diana;” and which mentions that he died in 1562. a

Quotations from this paragraph are taken from Sedano, IX, pp. xxxviii–xl. Sedano, IX, pp. xxxviii–xxxix. c Hernando de Acuña (1518–?1580) wrote sonnets and eclogues but is best known for ‘Al Rey nuestro señor’, a prophecy addressed to Charles V (Jones, p. 92). This brief account is translated from Sedano, II, pp. xxiv–xxv. b

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if it were written by Apollo himself.” Posterity has not confirmed this preference, and it is chiefly praised for elegance and purity of style.a Cetina, an anacreontic poet of merit, also finds a place in the “Parnaso Español.” The same honour is not bestowed on Castillejo, who, however, deserves peculiar mention as the great partisan of the old Castilian style, and the antagonist of Boscan.b Cristoval Castillejo flourished also in the time of Charles V., in whose service he went to Vienna, remaining there as secretary to Ferdinand I.; as, notwithstanding, the imperial crown of Germany was separated from the regal one of Spain, on the death of Charles V., there continued to subsist for some years intimate relations between the courts of Vienna and Madrid. The greater part of Castillejo’s poems were written at Vienna, and are full of allusions to the gaieties of the court. He admired and celebrates a young German lady, named Schomburg, whose barbaric appellation he translates into Xomburg. Late in life he returned to Spain, became a Cistercian monk, and died in a convent in 1596.c Some Spanish critics raise Castillejo to a high rank among the poets of that nation, while others give him a juster place, and perceive that it was the want of strength to soar beyond, that led him, in his own compositions, to confine himself to the old coplas, and want of penetration that made him so violent an enemy of those whom he named the Petrarquistas.d His satires against them are witty, and not without some justice; and certainly prolixity is a fault to be attributed to these poets he attacks. He begins with the true Spanish taste for persecution, exclaiming,– As the holy Inquisition Is apt, with saintly diligence, To make eager perquisition, And punish too with violence, Each novel heresy and sect, I would that it were found correct / To castigate in native Spain A heresy as bad as any That Luther, to our grief and pain, Has introduced in Germany. a Gaspar Gil Polo (c. 1519–85), poet and author of Los cinco libros de la Diana enamorada (1564), a rejoinder to the Diana of Montemayor (Ward, p. 469). This account is adapted from Sedano, IV, pp. xxiii–xxv. b Gutierre de Cetina (1520–c. 1560) was born in Seville and fought in Italy and Germany. Later he went to Mexico and was mortally wounded in the Puebla of Los Angeles. He is known as a poet of love for his lyric poetry. Sedano, VIII, pp. xxiii–xxiv and Bouterwek, I, pp. 256–7, who quotes from one of his poems. c Cristóbal de Castillejo (c. 1491–1550), poet and page to the brother of Charles V, later became a priest. He travelled to Venice in 1539 and joined the household of Spanish ambassador Diego Hurtado de Mendoza. He defended the traditional Spanish forms and wrote moral and devotional works, love poetry, and conversational works (Ward, p. 107). See Bouterwek, I, pp. 267–8. d Bouterwek, I, p. 268.

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The Anabaptists’ crime they share, And well deserve their punishment: Petrarchists – the new name they bear, Which they assume with bad intent; And they are renegades most fierce To the old Castilian measure; Believing in Italian verse, Finding there more grace and pleasure.*a

Upon this, he institutes a ghostly tribunal, presided over by Juan de Mena, Jorge Manrique, and other ancient poets, before whom Boscan and Garcilaso are forced to appear – of course, to their utter discomfiture and disgrace. While it is impossible to accede to this sentence, and while we must look on Castillejo as an inferior poet, he merits great praise within the boundaries which he prescribes himself. His lyrics are light, airy, graceful; and though they possess a fault little known in Spain – that of levity, – this defect is with him akin to that animation and wit which is the proper charm of poetry of this class. /

THE DRAMATISTS. A S in no long process of time, dramatic poetry became the distinctive and national turn of Spanish poetic genius, it would be ungrateful towards the originators of a species of composition imitated all over the world, and extolled by * “Pues la santa Inquisicion suele ser tan diligente, en castigar con razon qualquier secta y opinion levantada nuevamente: resucitese luzero á castigar en España una muy nueva y estraña, como á quello de Lutero en las partes de Alemaña Bien se pueden castigar á cuenta de Anabaptistas pues por ley particular se tornan á baptizar y se llaman Petrarquistas Han renegado la fe de la trobas Castellanas y tras las Italianas se pierden, diziendo, que son mas ricas y galanas.” a

Quoted in Spanish in Bouterwek, I, pp. 268–9; translation by Mary Shelley.

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every man of taste, not to make mention of them. The first dawn of the drama has been mentioned: the representation of mysteries and autos being permitted by the clergy, leave was taken to exchange the purely religious for the pastoral or the moral. Besides the pastoral dialogues of Juan de Encina, before mentioned, there existed a moral Spanish play, whose origin is lost in obscurity. It is named, “Celestina, Tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea.”a The first act is supposed by some to have been the work of an unknown priest or poet of the reign of John II.b It was finished in the fifteenth century, by Fernando de Roxas. The drama consists of twenty-one acts, and is rather a long-drawn tale in dialogue than a play. It is more didactic than dramatic; descriptive and moral. Its purpose was to warn youth by displaying the dangers of licentiousness; and many an odious personage and scene is introduced to conduce to this good end; with considerable disdain, meanwhile, of good taste. The first act, of ancient date, brings forward the story – the loves of Calisto and Melibea, two young persons nobly born, divided from each other by their respective families. Melibea is perfectly virtuous and prudent, and submits to the commands that prevent all communication between her and her lover. Calisto is less patient: he applies to Celestina, an old sort of go-between, such as is frequent in a land of intrigue like Spain. Her artifices, her flatteries, her philtres, are all described and put in action; and the act breaks off under the expectation of what may be the result of such an engine. Roxas added twenty acts to this one. He increases / the romantic and tragic interest of the tale. Celestina introduces herself into Melibea’s house. She corrupts the servants by presents; deludes the unfortunate girl by incantations, and induces her, at last, to yield to her lover. Her parents discover the intrigue; Celestina is poisoned; Calisto stabbed; and Melibea throws herself from the top of a tower. According to some writers, where crime is punished in the end, the tale is moral: thus, this drama was regarded as a moral composition; at all events, it was popular: doubtless, it pictured the manners of the times, and interested the readers as the novels of the present day do, by shadowing forth the passions and events they themselves experienced.c This was the first genuine Spanish play. In the beginning of the reign of Charles V., the theatre began to interest classic scholars; and the first step made towards improving the drama, was an attempt to introduce antique models. Villalobos, a physician of Charles V., translated the Amphitryon of Plautus, which was printed a See Pellicer, I, pp. 11–14. Originally a dialogue novel, generally considered the first masterpiece of Spanish prose, first published in 1499 and expanded into 21 acts in 1502. Authorship is attributed to Fernando de Rojas (c. 1465–1541), a converted Jewish lawyer about whom little is known. Imitations of Celestina are numerous, the best-known being Lope de Vega’s La Dorotea. It was reprinted in Spanish more than 100 times by the mid-17th century and translated into many languages, including English as The Spanish Bawd (1631); see Jones, p. 64. b John II (1398–1479), King of Aragon (1458–79) and King of Navarre (1425–79). He was the instigator of the union of Castile and Aragon through the marriage of his son Ferdinand with Isabella of Castile. c The account of Celestina is drawn from Bouterwek, I, pp. 133–6, who voices a similar point of view.

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in 1515. Perez de Oliva made a literal translation of the Electra of Sophocles.a Oliva was a man of infinite learning and zealous inquiry: passing through the universities of Salamanca and Alcala, he visited first Paris, and afterwards Rome, where he gave himself up to the study of letters. The road of advancement was open to him in the papal palace at Rome, but he renounced it to return to Spain. He became professor of philosophy and theology in the university of Salamanca. One of his chief studies was his own language, and he is much praised for the classical purity of his style. Sedano goes so far as to say that the diction of his translation, which he entitles “La Veganza de Agamemnon,” or, Agamemnon Avenged, “is so perfect in all its parts – so full of harmony, elevation, purity, sweetness, and majesty, that it not only excuses the author for not having written in verse, but may rival the most renowned poetry.”b It seems strange to read this sentence, and to turn to the bald / phraseology of the work itself: we cannot believe that this translation was ever acted. The first original tragedy published in Spain was the work of Geronimo Bermudez, a monk of the order of St. Dominic, a man of austere and pious life; but who joined a love of letters and poetry to his theological studies. He wrote “Nise Lastimosa,” and “Nise Laureada.”c Ines de Castro, of whose name in the title he makes the anagram of Nise, but who is properly named in the play, is the heroine of these dramas. The first is by no means destitute of merit. The tale itself is of such tragic interest, that it naturally supports the dialogue, which is too long drawn, and interrupted by choruses. The fourth act, however, rises superior to the rest, and is extremely beautiful. Ines pleads before the king for her life. She uses every argument suggested by justice, mercy, and parental affection to move him. The language is free from extraneous ornament; tender, elevated, and impassioned. It is impossible to read it without being moved by the depth and energy of its pathos. The second play, the subject of which is the vengeance the infante don Pedro took on her murderers when he ascended the throne, is a great falling off from the other. The plot is deficient – the dialogue tiresomely long – and the catastrophe, though historically true, at once horrible and unpoetic. Besides these more classical productions, there were written various imitations of Celestina. They were all moral, for they all displayed in an elaborate manner the course of vice, and its punishment. Long drawn out – too real in their representation of vulgar crime, they neither interested on the stage, nor pleased in the closet. a Sedano, VI, pp. xvii–xxiv; Francisco López de Villalobos (?1473–1549) published his translation in 1515 (Ward, pp. 338–9); Fernán Pérez de Oliva (c. 1494–1531) adapted a number of classical plays into Spanish, which were published as Las Obras (1586). Mary Shelley was familiar with his Hecuba, which appeared in volume 6 of Sedano’s Parnaso Español. His major work is Dialogo de la dignidad del hombre (published 1546). b Derived from Sedano, VI, pp. xvii–xviii and loosely translated from Sedano, VI, p. xxiii. c Sedano, VI, pp. xv–xvii. In Nise lastimosa Fray Jerónimo Bermúdez (?1530–99) is imitating A Castro by the Portuguese dramatist Antonio Ferreira (1528–69). Nise Laureada is original to him and both works were published in 1577 (Wilson and Moir, p. 29 and Ward, p. 61).

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The greatest obscurity has enveloped the earliest regular dramas written in Spanish. They were the work of Bartolomé Torres Naharro, a native of Estremadura, and a priest. Torres Naharro was born in the little town of Tore, near Badajos, on the frontiers of Portugal. Little is known of him, except his reputation / as a man of learning. After a shipwreck, which involved him in various adventures, he arrived at Rome, during the pontificate of Leo X., and was patronised by that accomplished pope. Naples was then in the hands of the Spaniards, and Naharro’s comedies were doubtless represented in that city, whither Naharro himself removed, driven from Rome by the difficulties in which his satirical works involved him.*a Cervantes does not mention Naharro in his preface to his comedies, which contains the best account we have of the origin of the Spanish drama. But other writers, and among them the editor of Cervantes’s comedies, mention him as the real inventor of the Spanish drama. His plays were written in verse; there is propriety in his characters and some elegance in his style. He brought in the intrigue of an involved story to support the interest of his plays. They did not, however, obtain possession of the stage in Spain. Lope de Rueda followed him. The “great Lope de Rueda” Cervantes calls him, adding that he was an excellent actor and a clever man. “He was born,” he continues, “at Seville, and was a goldbeater by trade. He was admirable in pastoral poetry, and no one either before or after excelled him in this species of composition. Although when I saw him I was a child, and could not judge of the excellence of his verses, several have remained in my memory, and, recalling them now at a ripe age, I find them worthy their reputation. In the time of this celebrated Spaniard, all the paraphernalia of a dramatic author and manager was contained in a bag: it consisted of four white dresses for shepherds, trimmed with copper gilt, four sets of false beards and wigs, and four crooks, more or less. The comedies were mere conversations, like eclogues, between two or three shepherds and a shepherdess, adorned and prolonged by two or three interludes of negresses, clowns or Biscayans. Lope performed the various parts with all the truth and excellence in the world. At that time there were no / side scenes, no combats between Moors and Christians on horseback or on foot. There was no figure which arose, or appeared to rise, from the centre of the earth, through a trapdoor in the theatre. His stage was formed of a few planks laid across benches, and so raised about four palms above the ground. Neither angels nor souls descended from the sky: the only theatrical decoration was an old curtain, held up by ropes on each side: it formed the back of the stage, and separated the behind scenes * Bouterwek. Pellicer. a On Naharro (c. 1485–c. 1520) and his plays see Bouterwek, I, pp. 282–6 and Pellicer, I, pp. 114–15. Some of these adventures include capture by Moorish pirates and a period as a galleyslave. His most celebrated play is Ymenea (?1515). See Wilson and Moir, pp. 13–14.

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from the front. Behind were placed the musicians, who sang some old romance to the music of a guitar.”a As an actor himself Rueda doubtless could judge best of the public taste. His own parts were those of fools, roguish servants, and Biscayan boors. His plays were collected by Timoneda, a bookseller of Valencia, but, like the witticisms of the masks of the old Italian stage, they lose much in print.b His plots consist of chapters of mistakes: there are a multitude of characters in his dramas, and jests and witticisms abound. These generally consist of ridiculous quarrels, in which a clown plays the principal part.* Spanish critics call him the restorer, it would be better to say – the founder of the Spanish theatre. After Rueda, Cervantes tells us, came another Naharro, a native of Toledo; he was also an actor and manager. “He augmented the decorations of the comedies; he substituted trunks and boxes for the old bag. He drew the musicians out from behind the curtain, where they were previously placed. He deprived the actors of their beards; for before him no actor had ever appeared without a false beard. He desired that all should show an unmasked battery, except those who represented old men, or were disguised. He invented side scenes, clouds, thunder, lightning, challenges, and battles.”c Such were the commencements of the Spanish theatre, destined to take so high a place hereafter in the history of the drama. / We now come to a new era, and names more known. We have arrived at the age of Cervantes: these were the men who preceded him.d There is something very peculiar in the state of literature at this time. The infancy of Spanish poetry was such as might have been expected from a chivalrous nation; its themes were love and war, its heroes national, and its style such as to render it popular. The continued struggle with a foreign conqueror gave an ardent and gallant turn to the national character: and while the superior excellence of the enemy in arts and literature imparted some portion of refinement, national enthusiasm inspired independence.e But now the enemy was quelled, the country overflowed with money, the harvest of the most nefarious cruelties, and * Bouterwek. [I, p. 286] a Mentioned by Bouterwek, I, p. 286. The quotation is taken from Pellicer, I, p. 22, and originates from Cervantes’ prologue to Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses nuevos (1615) in which he gives an account of Lope de Rueda (c. 1509–65), playwright and first actor-manager in Spain, who performed plays in the homes of the nobility and on improvised stages in inn-yards. b Juan de Timoneda published Rueda’s plays in expurgated form in 1567 (Wilson and Moir, pp. 23–4). Biscayan boors: unmannerly peasants, inhabitants of the area around the Bay of Biscay, between Northern Spain and Western France. c Paraphrased in Bouterwek, I, p. 289. d Mary Shelley’s retrospective and prospective summary signals her transition to writers more familiar to English readers. She is also aware that ‘Ercilla’ would inevitably make a break in her narrative. e The first part of the paragraph echoes Bouterwek, I, pp. 295–6.

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the inquisition was established. Even these circumstances were not enough to subdue the heroism of the Spanish character: they made a stand for freedom against the encroachments of the monarchs; their disjointed councils caused them to fail, and from that moment they sank. The wars of Charles V. drained the country of men and money; the Lutheran heresy put fresh powers into the hands of the inquisition; a career of arms in a foreign country was all that was left; the gates of inquiry and free thought were closed and barred. Intercourse with Italy opened fresh fields of poetry, which all other countries have found unlimited in the variety of subjects, and manner of treating them. Not so the Spaniards; they stopt short at once with elegies, and pastorals, and songs. Boscan, a man of gentle disposition and retired habits, naturally dwelt with complacency on descriptions of rural pleasures, or the sentiments of his own heart. Garcilaso de la Vega, a gallant soldier, found in poetry a recreation, a mode to gratify his taste; and retired from the world of arms to brood over the graceful and passionate reveries of a young lover. Mendoza, a man of harder temperament, was the servant of a king: a sort of worldly philosophy, Horatian in its expression, or the passion of love, inspired his writings / at first; and when, later in life, he might be supposed to entertain the design of making his talents subservient to the good of mankind, he found, when he wrote the wars of Granada, the political and inquisitorial yoke so heavy that he could only hint at injuries, and allude to wrongs. The poets who came after were men of an inferior grade; they wrote in a great measure to please their contemporaries; they adopted, therefore, pastoral themes, they wrote elegies, sonnets; and love and scenic descriptions were the subjects of their compositions. In all this, it is not to be supposed that they were servile imitators of the Italians; they were at first their pupils, but nothing more. Originality is the great distinctive of the Spanish character. Every line each author wrote was in its turn of thought and expression national. The conceits resulting from a meeting of ardent imaginations with ardent passions, which brought the whole phenomena of nature in the poet’s service, – the burning emotions, the very constant brooding on one engrossing subject, – all belonged to a people whose souls were fiery, proud, and concentrated. Still the Spaniards had found no peculiar form in which to embody the characteristics of the nation. Perhaps the gay sally of a youthful student, Lazarillo de Tormes, of Mendoza, was the most national work yet produced. In Italy the sort of free epic, introduced by Bojardo, became the expression of national tastes and character.a This sort of composition never took deep root in Spain. The authors were too circumvented by the inquisition to dare say much; thus we shall find in the end, that the theatre became the body informed by Spanish poets with a soul

a

Lazarillo de Tormes: see ‘Mendoza’; for Bojardo (Boiardo), see his life in vol. 1.

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all their own, where passions and imaginations, the most ardent and the most wild, the most true and the most beautiful, found expression. All the authors hitherto mentioned were born at the very commencement of the sixteenth century. By the time they had arrived at the age of manhood, the policy and success of Charles V. had established him firmly on / the Spanish throne, and was extending far and wide the glory of his name. To fight for and to serve him was the Spaniards’ duty: they had not yet suffered by the yoke, but they had yielded to it. At first the nobles of the land were the sole authors, while writing was merely a taste, a study, or an amusement; soon it was followed for purposes of gain and reputation by men of inferior rank, who were endowed with genius; authorship became general; and poetry grew into one of the chief pleasures of the court. /

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[The following is not by Mary Shelley]

ERCILLA. 1533–1600. T HE Spanish muse has produced numerous epic poems, most of which are unknown beyond the limits of Spain, and many even there have been consigned to merited oblivion. The Araucana alone has been admitted to a station in general literature. This is owing partly to its own intrinsic merits, but in a greater degree to the novelty of its argument, and to the circumstances under which it was written. Unlike other poets, Ercilla was himself an actor in the scenes which he describes. The chronicler of his own story, he avowedly rejects the aid of fiction. Veracity and accuracy are the qualities in which, as a poetical writer, he is peculiar. His descriptions and characters are portraits taken from nature; invention is therefore a talent which he never exerts. If his imagination has any play, it is only in the grouping and distribution of his pictures. His scenery, his manners, his personages, are all copied from originals which he had actually before his eyes. The objects of his observation, the subject-matter of his poetry, were, moreover, of a class strikingly novel, – a new world, savage nations, for the first time brought into contact and collision with civilised man: on one side the love of independence; on the other, the thirst of plunder, the fury of religious zeal, and a misguided spirit of chivalrous enterprise. No ordinary talents were required to do justice to so rich a theme, whilst even ordinary abilities were sufficient to give interest to a poem founded on such a basis. To great genius the Spanish poet cannot lay a claim; he is indeed inferior to his labour: yet he had that cleverness requisite to produce a work not totally devoid of interest, occasionally / abounding in beauties; such, in short, as entitles him to a respectable though not a very high station in the literary world. Don Alonso de Ercilla was born in Madrid on the 7th of March, 1533. [Note 1.] His family was noble; by which word a meaning is conveyed different from that attached in this country to the notion of nobility, it being tantamount to saying that his ancestors were and had been for a long time gentlemen. Fortun Garcia de Ercilla, the father of Ercilla, a native of Biscay, was an industrious writer, whose labours as a jurist were highly prized, and obtained for him the cognomen of the “subtle Spaniard.” He wrote generally in Latin, though a Spanish manuscript work of his upon the challenge sent by the emperor Charles V. to Francis I. king 107

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of France is recorded by the author of the Bibliotheca Hispana. [Note 2.] Fortun’s wife, Doña Leonor de Zuñiga (ladies in Spain do not take their husband’s names), was a woman of illustrious descent, the feudal lady of the town of Bobadilla, the domain of which, after her husband’s death, was transferred to the crown, she having been admitted into the household of the empress. Three sons were the offspring of their union, of whom Alonso the poet was the youngest. He received his education at the royal palace, and since his tender years became a menino [Note 3.], or page of the heir to the crown, prince Philip, afterwards so famous as Philip II. of Spain. What sort of education he received under such circumstances we are not enabled to say. It is not probable that it was one suited to a man intended for literary pursuits. His works, however, prove him not to have been unacquainted with the Latin and Italian poets; and though his knowledge of the latter was probably acquired in the course of his travels, he must have been indebted to his early studies for his introduction to the former. The words “gentleman” and “soldier” were at that time nearly synonymous; and Don Alonso, though bred a courtier, and following his royal master in that capacity, was probably considered / to be intended for the military profession. In his earlier years Philip was directed by his father to travel over his future extensive dominions, which formed a very considerable, and, with the exception of France, at that time the best, part of Europe. In this tour Ercilla was a constant attendant of the young prince, profiting, as he himself boasts*, by his travels, indulging his own inquisitive propensities, and, in imitation of Ulysses, acquiring an ample store of information and wisdom, derived from his observations of nations and manners. [Note 4.] The ambition of Charles V. was not satisfied with the possession of Spain, Germany, the Netherlands, great part of Italy, and the countries recently discovered in America. The rich inheritance which he intended to transmit to his son was to be increased, and as a compensation for the loss of the empire of Germany, to which his brother Ferdinand had been elected successor, he aspired to the crown of England for the future king of Spain. A marriage between Philip and the English queen Mary was brought about; the young prince repaired to London, attended by Ercilla. During their residence in this metropolis, news reached them that the Araucanos, an Indian tribe in South America, had risen against the power of Spain. The insurrection appeared of a more serious nature than those which had hitherto occurred in the annals of Indian warfare. The charge of subduing the refractory patriots, or, as they were called by their invaders, the rebels, was committed to Geronimo de Alderete, who had come over from Peru to England, and soon set out again on his return, having been appointed, by the king, adelantado of Chili, – a title since become obsolete, which was equivalent to that of military commander of a district. To a man of Ercilla’s adventurous disposition, this opportunity of military honour was too tempting to be resisted. He left the * Araucana, canto xxxvi.

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personal service of the prince, to follow the adelantado / in his distant expedition, and girded on his sword*, as he himself says, for the first time, being then in the twenty-first year of his age. Geronimo de Alderete, however, did not reach the scene of warfare, having died while on his way, in Taboga near Panama. His young companion proceeded alone to Lima, the metropolis of Peru, to join the expedition. Those distant possessions, which, for the most part, had been annexed to the Spanish crown by the prowess of obscure and enterprising adventurers, had already begun to rank high in the public estimation, and individuals of noble birth and courtly favour sought to reap the fruits of the labours of the neglected discoverers and conquerors. Don Andres Hurtado de Mendoza, marquis of Cañete, was at that time viceroy of Peru; a man belonging to one of the oldest and most illustrious families in Spain. This nobleman entrusted his son, Don Garcia, with the command of the forces destined to subdue the Araucanos. The expedition consisted of a corps of two hundred and fifty men, who went by sea – a brilliant and well armed and equipped band, as we are told by the Spanish historians [Note 5.]; and a nearly equal number which had been sent by land across those extensive regions. With such inconsiderable forces did the Spaniards attempt to conquer and hold in subjection those immense regions of South America! The expedition having reached the point of its destination, the war proved of a far more important nature than those hitherto waged with the natives of the American continent. Unlike the Indians of the torrid zone, the Araucanos were a hardy and valiant race, whose courage was not less impetuous than persevering. They are described by a Spanish historian as “a people exceedingly brave, robust, and swift, who outstrip the deer in the race; and of so strong a breath, that they persist in the course for a whole day; superior / to other Indian tribes, as well in the strength of their frames as in the vigour of their intellects; strong, ferocious, arrogant; filled with a generous spirit, and thus averse to subjection, to avoid which they readily peril their lives.† “Though masters,” says Ercilla‡, “only of a district of twenty leagues’ extent, without a single town, or a wall, or a stronghold in it, destitute even of arms, inhabiting an almost flat country, surrounded by three Spanish towns and two fortresses, they, by dint merely of their valour and tenacity of purpose, not only recovered, but supported and maintained, their freedom.” Their gallant stand against the invaders of America was at last crowned with success. Instead of the subjects, they became the honourable foes, and in process of time the allies and friends, of the Spanish monarchy. The poverty of their native land proved their best auxiliary; it deterred the Spaniards from * Araucana, canto xiii. † Cristobal Suarez de Figueroa, Hechos de Don Garcia Hurtado de Mendoza, edit. Madrid, 1613, p. 18. ‡ Araucana, Preface, p. iv. Madrid, 1776.

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persisting in a contest in which nothing was to be gained which could repay their exertions; and so completely was the animosity of those nations changed into feelings of mutual esteem, that in the late events, which have severed the colonies from their mother-country, the Araucanos have constantly shown, and still preserve, the most decided partiality to the cause and fortunes of the old Spaniards. In the conflicts of that Indian war Ercilla was eminently distinguished, according to the testimony of nearly all the Spanish writers [Note 6.], and to his own rather boastful account. He had an ample opportunity to indulge his daring spirit of enterprise and his habits of observation. After the tumult of a battle, or the toils of a march, he devoted the hours of night to write his half poetical, half historical, narration; wielding, as he says, by turns the sword and the pen, and writing often upon skins, and sometimes upon scraps of paper so small as to contain scarcely six lines. The ordinary duties, which he shared in common with his fellow-soldiers, were / insufficient for his aspiring ambition, and as little did the matter for observation on men and countries, although the supply was unusually copious, satisfy the cravings of his inquisitive mind. Determined to accomplish more, he penetrated into the furthermost parts of the South American continent; left the army, in company with ten of his fellow-soldiers; crossed twice, in a small boat, the dangerous pass of the archipelago of Ancudbox; and in the same manner, though with less of gasconade [Note 7.] than was long after shown by an enterprising French traveller, in an opposite region of the earth, carved upon a tree a record of his having, first of all human beings, reached that distant spot. Upon his return from this expedition, Don Alonso narrowly escaped an early and disastrous end. News having been received at the city of La Imperial, where the head-quarters of the Spanish army were fixed, that Philip II. had succeeded to the Spanish crown in consequence of the abdication of his father, it was thought proper to solemnise the event by holding a tournament, after the fashion of those days of martial spirit, chivalrous feeling, and imperfect civilisation. Among the various shows and feats of skill there was an estafermo, a figure of wood or pasteboard, in striking which knights made a trial of their strength and dexterity. Don Alonso de Ercilla and a cavalier called Don Juan de Pineda had a dispute, each pretending to have struck the best blow. They soon passed from mock to real battle, drew their swords, and were followed by their respective partisans; so that the games, as not unfrequently happened in those martial amusements, were converted into strife and confusion. The general having, it is said, previously suspected the existence of a plot against his authority, concluded that this encounter at the games was meant to be the precursor of its execution. The civil wars, which had arisen in rapid succession among the invaders and conquerors of that part of South America, gave countenance to this impression. The pretended ringleaders were therefore committed to / prison; and the irritated general, being desirous of making a salutary example, to preserve discipline among his troops, ordered that the heads of the criminals should be cut off. The riot being quelled,

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and more correct information having convinced Don Garcia that the quarrel had been accidental, the severe sentence was revoked.* Of the treatment which he then suffered, Ercilla complains bitterly in his poem. He states that he was actually taken to a public place, there to be beheaded by sentence of a young and hasty general†; nay, that he had been already upon the scaffold, and had stretched out his neck for the axe, whilst he was only guilty of having unsheathed his sword, which he never drew without being most clearly in the right.‡ The historian of Don Garcia Hurtado de Mendoza, on the other side, pretends that he had been justly condemned by the general, a person, in the opinion of his panegyrist, to whom, by confession of all, no blame could attach, of an exceedingly mild and humane disposition§, endowed with great equanimity, an acute intellect, and a fine memory, a perfect Christian, of marvellous prudence and activity, no gambler, a zealous restorer of discipline, highly abstemious, never tasting wine, and, to crown all, constantly keeping in hand his rosary to tell his beads.¶ He, moreover, affirms that our poet was indebted to Don Garcia for many favours; but that he hated Ortigosa, the general’s secretary, whom he taxed with cowardice and incompetency for his office.** It is impossible, and would be foreign to our present purpose, to settle this question. If Ercilla’s testimony in his own case ought to be little attended to, the adulatory style of Don Garcia’s eulogiser renders his assertions and opinions no less liable to suspicion and unworthy of credit. Though the sentence of death passed upon Don Alonso was revoked, he had to undergo a long imprisonment, which terminated, as we are informed, in his being banished. We are at a loss how to reconcile this statement / with his own assertion, that he was, nevertheless, present at the several sieges and engagements which took place in those countries after the accident of which mention has been made. Not long after, he left Chili in disgust, without having been duly rewarded for his services. This fact appears to contradict Suarez de Figueroa, who says that he was under many obligations to Don Garcia††; but what these obligations were the historian has not stated; and, as has been observed by the writer of Ercilla’s life prefixed to the edition of the Araucana of 1776 (p. 22.), it is evident from the narration of that prejudiced author, that in a distribution of rewards, which took place under the general, our poet received none. A new field of exertion seemed now opened to the martial bard. A spirit of dissension and civil strife had prevailed among the conquerors of Peru ever since their establishment in those regions, where, to borrow the expression of the chief historian of Spanish America, “there had occurred frequent instances of * Suarez de Figueroa, Hist. of Don Garcia, Madrid, 1613, pp. 103, 104. † Arauc. canto xxxvii. ‡ Suarez de Figueroa, pp. 104. 121. § Arauc. canto xxxvi. ¶ Ibid. p. 104. ** Ibid. †† Suares de Figueroa, p. 104.

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disloyalty and disobedience, cruel murders, and various other crimes, two of the king’s lieutenants having been deprived of their authority and imprisoned; the tribunals having been reduced to utter insignificance; the power of the crown and justice usurped and trampled upon; and five civil wars had taken place, in which men became furiously enraged against each other, and fought with inhuman ferocity, till ultimately the prince prevailed.”* One of the most famous “tyrants” of those times (for such was the appellation bestowed by the Spaniards upon those who usurped the royal authority) was Lope de Aguirre, a native of Guipuzcoa, who, having been sent upon an expedition to quell some Indians, raised the standard of revolt against the Spanish commanders, and ruled for a time over the provinces of Venezuela. Of his extraordinary cruelties much has been said, and they are still preserved by tradition, though, perhaps, with that exaggeration of blame which constantly attaches to the / memory of an unsuccessful rebel. In the style of the age, Ercilla compares him to Herod and Nero†; he having caused his own daughter to be put to death. But before our poet had been able to reach the scene of this civil war, the usurper had been defeated, taken, and executed. Nothing now remained for him to do, as the country was peaceable. He therefore determined to return to Europe, which at that time, however, a long and painful illness prevented. Having at length recovered, he left the American continent, proceeded to the Terceiras, and thence to Spain. At this period (1562), his age being only twenty-nine years, he was in the full and active vigour of life, and had lost none of that spirit which impelled him to enterprise and discovery. He accordingly had scarcely returned to his native country, when the restless energy of his mind sent him forth upon new travels. He visited France, Italy, Germany, Silesia, Moravia, and Pannonia.‡ Having gone back to Spain, he married, at Madrid, Doña Maria de Bazan, a damsel of rank, whose mother held a place at court as lady of the bedchamber to the Spanish queen. The manner in which he speaks of his marriage is quaint and singular: he represents himself to have been carried away by Bellona, in a dream, over a widely extended and flowery meadow, where, while he was intent upon devoting himself to amorous songs, he felt an invincible curiosity to be informed of the names of the beautiful damsels who inhabited that region, especially of one of them, who was such that he suddenly lay prostrate at her feet. She was of tender age, yet she showed a maturity of judgment and talent much above her time of life. While the poet felt compelled to gaze upon her, and while entranced and captivated by the contemplation of her beauty, he anxiously wished to know her name, he saw at her feet the motto, or inscription, “This is Doña Maria, a branch of the stem of Bazan.” Though the emperor and queen of Spain had stood / sponsors to the happy pair [Note 8.], Ercilla does not appear to have obtained any rewards or promotion. The emperor of Germany, Maximilian II., however, appointed him his chamb* Herrera, decada vii. lib. i. cap. i. p. 2. † Arauc. canto xxxvi. ‡ Arauc. canto xviii.

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ellan, a distinction which did little to better his fortune. In 1580, he lived in Madrid, poor and neglected, and accordingly complaining of the disregard with which his services both at court and in the camp had been treated. The stream of fortune (he says) ran constantly against him: he was now in a state of perfect destitution and abandonment, yet he had the consciousness of having merited, by a long course of honourable service, the just recompence which was withheld from him; a consciousness which is itself a reward, of which the man of rectitude and honour can never be deprived by external circumstances.* The following anecdote is recorded respecting Ercilla at this time: – Having waited to pay his court to the king, and wishing to speak to his majesty, he felt so disconcerted that he could not find words to declare the nature of his requests; and the king being well aware of the temper of the man who was before him, and sure that his timidity arose from the respect he bore to royalty, told him – “Don Alonso, address me by writing.” So Ercilla did (says the author from whom this story has been taken †), and the king granted his request. What the nature of this request was it is impossible to ascertain, because Ercilla constantly complains of his having been totally neglected and forgotten. The anecdote, moreover, seems doubtful. Though a soldier, Don Alonso was not a blunt one: he had been brought up at court, nay, within the precincts of the palace, and as a youthful attendant on the person of that prince, whom now he is represented to have looked upon with such feelings of reverential terror. On the other hand, the account is not entirely devoid of probability, and if not true, is, at least, well imagined. The gloomy and stern disposition of Philip appears to have struck even / his confidential servants with a sort of respect bordering upon fear; and the notions of the divine attributes of royalty were then carried to the most extravagant lengths by the Spaniards; a feeling which can be traced in the Spanish writers down to a very recent period, and which has only disappeared in consequence of the late revolutions in the Peninsula. The last years of Ercilla’s life were spent in obscurity. The disappointments he had met with engendered a spirit of gloomy devotion, to which his countrymen were, in those days, peculiarly liable.‡ His morals in his juvenile years had been loose, as is proved by the circumstance of his having had a numerous illegitimate offspring. He now bitterly repented of his frailties; and lamented that he had devoted the best years of his life to worldly pursuits and vanities.§ The year of his death is not known. In 1596 he was still alive, and is said to have been engaged in writing a poem to commemorate the exploits of Don Alvaro Bazan, marquis of Santa Cruz, the bravest and most fortunate of the Spanish naval commanders. This work, if it ever existed, has been lost; and Ercilla is only known in the literary * Araucana, canto xxxvii. † Avisos para Palacio, p. 194. ‡ Most of the celebrated Spanish dramatists (Lope de Vega, Calderon, Moreto, and others,) became clergymen in their old age, and deplored that they had written for the stage. § Araucana, canto xxxvii.

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world by his poem La Araucana, and by a few lines printed in the Parnaso Español*, which, though they were highly extolled by Lope de Vega, certainly do no credit to his poetical powers. Respecting Ercilla’s personal character we possess little information. He appears to have been brave, active, and clever, of an adventurous disposition, impatient of control, restless and querulous. That he, like most of the literary men of Spain, was shamefully neglected by his own countrymen, is an incontrovertible fact. In his account of the Indian war, and of his own share in the events of it, he shows himself to have been actuated by a more liberal spirit, towards the aboriginal natives, than was evinced by the generality of / his fellow-soldiers and fellowwriters. That this arose from his discontent has been malignantly asserted by his enemies, but without sufficient evidence. The execution of Caupolican, the Indian general, which he so indignantly condemns, was a fact of glaring and atrocious injustice, though, unfortunately, of a class by no means uncommon, not only in the annals of Spanish warfare in those regions, but in the history of all conquests; where the assertion of independence has been held and treated as rebellion, and punishment the more severely inflicted in proportion as the right to inflict it was more doubtful or untenable. But as the name of Ercilla belongs rather to the literary than to the political history of Spain, the qualities of his poetry demand our attention in preference to the actions of his life. The Araucana, though often quoted, is little known out of Spain. No English version of it has been published, but it is stated in an article in the Quarterly Review†, that there exists one in manuscript from the pen of Mr. Boyd, known as one of the English translators of Dante. The writer of Ercilla’s life, in the French Biographie Universelle, speaks of a French translation by M. Langlès, also unpublished. We are not aware that either the Italians or the Germans, the latter of whom have latterly directed their attention to Castilian poetry, possess any complete translation of that Spanish poem. Voltaire was the first, amongst the French, who called the attention of his countrymen to the Araucana. In his very indifferent Essay upon Epic Poetry, he praises the speech of Colocolo in the 2d canto, which he places above that of Nestor in the first book of the Iliad, and says that the remainder of the work is as barbarous as the nations of which it treats.‡ Of the excellence of the speech so praised (without meaning to enter into a comparison with Homer) no doubt can exist, and the judgment passed upon it by Voltaire deserves the more to be / relied upon, as, according to Bouterwek’s acute remark§, he was a better judge of rhetorical than of poetical excellence. The unqualified condemnation of the rest of the poem cannot, indeed, be assented to; for, though the Araucana is far from being a work of first-rate merit, yet it contains some manly beauties, which Vol* † ‡ §

Vol. ii. p. 199. Quarterly Review, n. Voltaire, Essai sur la Poësie Epique, liv. 8. Raynouard, p. 406. Bouterwek, Hist. of Spanish Literature, trans. Lond. 1823, p. 412.

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taire’s notions of poetry rendered him unable to perceive. [Note 9.] In an article of Moreri’s Dictionnaire we find a more just though still a severe criticism of Ercilla’s poem. Latterly the writer in the Biographie Universelle already quoted has expressed a more favourable opinion of the Araucana, and has perhaps erred on the other side. [Note 10.] It is to Hayley that the English are indebted for a knowledge of the work in question: his analysis and partial translations of it, and his eulogium upon the author, are contained in the notes and body of his Essay upon Epic Poetry. [Note 11.] Hayley thought of Ercilla, perhaps, more highly than he deserves; though, upon the whole, his notice of the Araucana is judicious. In his translations he was not quite so felicitous: his prosaic style was not ill calculated to give a just notion of the tenour of the Spanish poet’s composition; but he wanted that force of expression which constitutes the highest recommendation of Ercilla’s poetry. The translator, besides, adopted the couplet, a very improper medium to convey to an English reader a just notion of a work originally written in the stanza. It would be needless to point out to those who are acquainted with the Spenserian stanza, or with the Italian and Spanish octava, so happily adopted by Fairfax in his Tasso, how far the mechanism of this measure affects the original conception and distribution of the poet’s thoughts, and how much the structure of the couplet differs from it; whence it follows, as a necessary consequence, that conceptions originally adapted to the former must appear distorted when brought by a forced adaptation to the latter. / From the discordant opinions of critics of all nations respecting the Araucana, we may safely infer that, although its defects may be great and numerous, and although even in the Castilian language it cannot be esteemed a first-rate poem, still it possesses just pretensions to a rank in literature above that which some would assign to it. That Ercilla only meant to write a rhymed history cannot be justly asserted. His fictions, though most of them infelicitous, and unconnected with the main subjects of his story; his machinery; his imitations of Ariosto in the first stanzas of all his cantos, and especially at the opening of the work; his frequent similes; – all clearly prove that he intended to write a poem. But the novel nature of his arguments naturally suggested the idea of rendering his poem a composition far differing from those hitherto existing. He aimed at producing a work, striking from its subject-matter, recommended by the veracity and accuracy of the information [Note 12.] which it was destined to convey, yet clothed in a poetical style, and embellished by episodes where historical fidelity might be easily departed from, and would not, indeed, be expected on the part of the reader. Don Alonso, however, was deficient in many of the qualities which constitute the poet: he wanted invention and command of language and versification; on the other hand, that which he conceived he could express with force, if not with correctness or delicacy. His adventurous disposition seems to prove that the elements of poetry were in his mind. He had no eyes for the beauties of nature; but 115

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he understood the workings of the human heart. His warlike habits directed his attention to those fierce passions which rage in the warrior’s breast. He could interpret the feelings of the natives of those remote regions fighting for their homes, their altars, and their personal independence, against the invaders of their country; in his description of their characters and exploits, his style rises and his fancy kindles. By the force of mental association, he is thence / led to the contemplation of animated nature; hence the frequency and beauty of his similes, drawn mostly from the animal creation. In his delineation of character there is abundant matter for praise: his Indians are well pourtrayed, though his Spaniards are all failures. From this latter circumstance he has been accused of bearing ill-will to his fellow-soldiers; but upon a consideration of his peculiar powers, the reason of that difference will be easily explained without admitting the invidious imputations thus cast upon him. Neither could his mind seize, nor his pen delineate, the complex character of civilised man; whilst the bolder and simpler lineaments of the physiognomy of the savage were perfectly adapted to the nature of his genius and the extent of his abilities. The want of unity is one of the greatest faults in the Araucana, as the poem is rendered thereby uninteresting. This defect does not arise solely from the want of a hero; but likewise from the poet’s inability to invent a story. Yet there are frequent instances of works, the plot of which is loose and unconnected, without losing much of their attractions. But in Ercilla, we miss the power of imparting interest, even to the separate stories which form his poem. Ercilla’s poem, on the whole, is rather deserving of censure than of praise; and, if read through, will certainly be found tedious; but parts of it may be perused with pleasure and admiration. The epithet of Homeric has been both applied and misapplied when bestowed upon his genius. Those qualities which have been praised in him must be admitted by an impartial judge to savour a little of the style of the father of epic poetry. That Ercilla was at an immense distance from his model must, however, be confessed, even by his warmest admirers. /

NOTES N OTE 1. – This date is taken from the life of Ercilla prefixed to the edition of the Araucana, of Madrid, 1776. The author of Ercilla’s life in the French Biographie Universelle fixes his birth at Bermeo, in Biscay, in 1525. He was led into error as to the place by the collector of the Parnaso Espanol: in assigning the year he confesses that he had no foundation but his own conjecture. This spirit led him to fix a date for our poet’s death, which is uncertain. NOTE 2. – Nicolaus Antonius. Bibl. Hisp. Nov. p. 595. Madrid, 1783. It is a remarkable fact, that while Ercilla the poet is slightly mentioned in this work, his father, whose labours are now forgotten, has nearly two columns devoted to a notice of his life and writings. NOTE 3. – The Meninos were young gentlemen attached to the court. The word is no longer used, though the office is preserved in that of the king’s pages. 116

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NOTE 4. – The pedantic allusion, it is needless to say, is made by Ercilla himself, in the taste of his age. NOTE 5. – Herrera. Historia general de los Hechos de los Castellanos en las Islas y tierra firme del Mar Oceano. Dec. viii. lib. vii. c. x. Our poet is there mentioned as the famous poet and honourable gentleman, Don Alonso de Ercilla. NOTE 6. – Licentiate Cristoval Mosquera de Figueroa speaks of Ercilla’s prowess at the battle of Millarapue, and the engagement at Puren, where, followed by eleven fellowsoldiers, he climbed up a mountain defended by the Indians, and won the day. The writer of Ercilla’s life quotes the Chronicle of Philip II., by Calvete de la Estrella, as a testimonial of the poet’s exploits, but this must be a mistake. There exists no such chronicle. Suarez de Figueroa only praises Don Alonso’s gallant bearing at a mock fight or field-day (p. 60.); but he was prejudiced against him. NOTE 7. – The last line of the inscription here alluded to,

Hic tandem stetimus nobis ubi defuit orbis, was written by the French comic poet Regnard, in Lapland, in 1681. Though the thought is liable to the imputation of gasconade, it is spirited and beautiful. Ercilla’s inscription was of a more unpretending nature. He merely says:– “Here, where no one had reached before, arrived Don Alonso de Ercilla, who, first of all men, crossed this pass in a small boat without ballast, attended only by ten companions, in the year of fifty-eight above fifteen hundred, on the last day of February, at two o’clock in the afternoon, returning afterwards to his companions whom he had left behind.” This inscription forms a stanza of the Araucana. It is very prosaic. This instance is not the only one where dates are mentioned in the poem. In order to accommodate them to measure and rhyme, the author is often driven to very curious shifts, and strange phraseology. / NOTE 8. – Luis de Salazar Advertencias Historicas, p. 13. It has however, been remarked by the writer of Ercilla’s life, that this author is wrong in stating, that Elizabeth, Philip’s consort, or Isabel de Valois, acted as sponsor; she having died in 1568, and Ercilla having married in 1570, according to Garibay. Possibly the queen alluded to was Philip’s fourth wife, Ann of Austria. NOTE 9. – Dictionnaire Historique de Moreri, art. ERCILLA. The subject of the Araucana (says the critic) being novel, has suggested some novel thoughts to the poet; but his poem is too long, and abounds with low passages. There is great animation in his battles, but no invention, no plot, no variety in his descriptions, no unity in his general outline of the work, &c. NOTE 10. – Biographie Univ., Paris, 1815, art. ERCILLA . The merits of the Araucana (says this writer) consist in a correct style, proper imagery, beautiful descriptions, a plot constantly increasing in interest, a sort of unity of action, and a spirit of heroism spread over the whole work. The work is inferior to Tasso’s Gierusalemme, and superior to Voltaire’s Henriade. There occur in it some feeble lines, and vulgar or common-place thoughts. NOTE 11. – Ercilla’s poetical character is drawn by Hayley in the following lines:– With warmth more temperate, and in notes more clear, That with Homeric richness fills the ear, The brave Ercilla sounds, with potent breath, His epic trumpet in the fields of death; In scenes of savage war, when Spain unfurled Her bloody banner o’er the Western world; 117

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With all his country’s virtues in his frame, Without the base alloy that stained her name. In danger’s camp this military bard, Whom Cynthia saw on his nocturnal guard, Recorded, in his bold descriptive lay, The various fortunes of the finished day; Seizing the pen, while night’s calm hours afford A transient slumber to his satiate sword, With noble justice his warm hand bestows The meed of honour on his valiant foes. Howe’er precluded, by his generous aim, From high pretensions to inventive fame, His strongly coloured scenes of sanguine strife, His softer pictures, caught from Indian life, Above the visionary forms of art, Fire the awakened mind and melt the heart. Hayley, Essay upon Epic Poetry, Epistle 3. NOTE 12. – It is a curious fact, that, to the Antwerp edition of the Araucana, 157., and to several others, there is affixed an approbation from captain Juan Gomez, praising Ercilla for his historical veracity, which he, the captain, could vouch for, from his having resided twenty-seven years in Peru, near the scene of the Araucan war. A strange recommendation of an epic poem! /

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CERVANTES. 1547–1616. I T is most certain, that all those capable of feeling a generous interest in the fate of genius will turn with eager curiosity to the page inscribed with the name of Cervantes: not even Shakespeare has so universal a reputation. While the sublime character of Don Quixote warms the heart of the enthusiast, the truth of the sad picture which his fortunes present tickles the fancy of the man of the world.a Children revel in the comedy, old men admire the shrewdness, of Sancho Panza. That this work is written in prose increases its popularity. Imperfect as all translations must be, none fail so entirely as those which attempt to transfuse the etherial and delicate spirit of verse into another language. But though to read “Don Quixote” in its native Spanish infinitely increases the pleasure it affords, yet so does its mere meaning speak to all mankind, that even a translation satisfies those who are forced thus to content themselves. For the honour of human nature, and to satisfy our own sense of gratitude, we desire to find that the author of “Don Quixote” enjoyed as much prosperity as is consistent with humanity, and that he tasted to its full the triumph due to the writer of the most successful book in the world. This satisfaction being denied us – for he was “fallen on evil days,”b a poor and neglected man – we are anxious, even at this distance of time, to commiserate his misfortunes, and sympathise in his sorrows. We desire to learn with what spirit he endured adversity – whether, like his heroic creation, he consoled himself at the worst by the sense of conscious worth and virtuous intention. We feel sure that his romantic imagination, / and keen sense of humour, must often have elevated him above his griefs or blunted their sting; but we wish to learn whether they were borne with moral courage; and how far, like his hero, he preserved a serene and undaunted spirit in the midst of blows and derision. a The hero of Cervantes’ novel of the same name (pt 1, 1605, pt 2, 1615), a poor gentleman of La Mancha who has had his wits unsettled by his love of stories of chivalry like the Amadis and who travels the world in search on adventure on his old horse with a squire named Sancho Panza and who worships Dulcinea del Toboso from afar. b Paradise Lost, VII. 25, a passage in which Milton is referring to his own life in hiding after the Restoration and subsequent poverty, but also quoted by P. B. Shelley in ‘Letter to Maria Gisborne’, ll. 196–8: ‘You will see / That which was Godwin, – greater none than he / Though fallen – and fallen on evil times’; see also Rosalind and Helen: A Modern Eclogue (1819), l. 474. Mary Shelley’s reflections on Cervantes’ poverty and neglect appear to be tied up with thoughts of her own father’s career.

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We are disappointed at the outset by finding how little is known of so renowned an author. Neglected during life, his memory also was unhonoured. His contemporaries gave themselves no trouble to collect and bequeath the circumstances of his life, so that they quickly became involved in obscurity.a When, at last, it was endeavoured to do honour to his name, eulogy, rather than biography, was written; and it was only towards the end of the last century that pains were taken to make researches, which so far succeeded, that such discoveries were made as place various portions of his life in an interesting and romantic light. The Spanish Academy published an edition of “Don Quixote,” to which is prefixed a biography, written by don Vicente de los Rios, who, with all the ardour of an admirer of genius, spared no pains to render his work full and accurate. At about the same time, don Juan Antonio Pellicer made similar researches, and threw some new lights on his situation and circumstances. Much more, however, has been done lately by a French gentleman of the name of Viardôt. He travelled in Spain, and exerted himself to the utmost to discover the yet hidden circumstances of Cervantes’s life. By searching the archives of various cities where he had resided, and by a careful examination of contemporary writers, he has brought a mass of information together, the authenticity of which adds to its interest.b Some circumstances, indeed, are important only as they are true, and appertain to Cervantes; others throw a great light on his character, and show his fortitude in suffering, his devoted courage when others depended on him, his cheerful content in poverty, his benevolence, and the dignity and animation of his mind, which raised him above his fortunes. The first point to be decided was the place of his / birth: this had been attributed to various cities and towns of Spain – to Madrid, Seville, Esquivias, and Lucena. An allusion in “Don Quixote” led one of his biographers (Sarmiento) to conjecture that he was born at Alcalà de Henares, a town of some consequence, not far from Madrid. Another writer, following up this trace, discovered a baptismal register in the parish church of Santa Maria la Mayor of that town, which certified, that on Sunday, the 9th of October, 1547, the reverend señor Bachiller Serrano baptized Miguel, the son of Rodrigo Cervantes and donna Leonora, his wife. While the question seemed thus put to rest, it was unsettled again by the discovery of another register. This was found in the parish books of Santa Maria, of Alcanzar de San Lugar, a town of La Mancha. It certified, that on the 9th November, 1558, was baptized, by the licentiate Alonso Diaz Pajares, a son of Blas a

The first systematic study of the novel in Spain was written by Mateo de la Bastida in 1668. Gregorio de Mayans y Siscar’s Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra appeared in 1737 (Drake and Finello, p. 4). b The Spanish Academy edition appeared in 1780. Pellicer’s book appeared in 1797 and Viardot’s in 1836. Mary Shelley’s account of Viardot’s amassing of source material has a parallel in her recent gathering of private letters for her father’s memoir and continues her linking of Cervantes with Godwin.

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Cervantes Saavedra and Catalina Lopez, who received the name of Miguel. A marginal note to this register declared, “This was the author of ‘Don Quixote.’” In addition, there were various traditions in Alcanzar of the house in which he was born.a The name of Saavedra was another testimony in its favour. Cervantes always adopted this additional name; and no trace of it is to be found in the town of Alcalà; however, it would seem that the different families of these two towns were connected, as Cervantes had an uncle, Cervantes Saavedra, of Alcanzar. And thus, on minute examination, and bringing the aid of chronology to decide the question, the balance inclined uncontrovertibly in favour of Alcalà: the date of the battle of Lepanto, and the mention Cervantes makes of his own age in several of his later works, prove that he was born in 1547, and not so late as 1558. Another document, hereafter to be mentioned, discovered by Los Rios in the archives of the society for the redemption of captives in Algiers, declares him to be a native of Alcalà de Henares, and the son of Rodrigo Cervantes and donna Leonora de Cortina. Thus the question is set at rest; and it becomes matter of positive / history that Cervantes was born at Alcalà de Henares, and baptized (probably on the day of his birth, as is usual in catholic countries,) on Sunday, the 1547. 9th of October, 1547.b His family, originally of Galicia, and afterwards established in Castile, belonged to the same class in society, in which he places Don Quixote. They were hidalgos (hijos de algo, sons of somebody,) and, therefore, by right of birth, gentlemen, though not noble. The name of Cervantes is honourably mentioned in the Spanish annals, as far back as the thirteenth century. Warriors bearing that appellation fought under the banners of St. Ferdinand, and had a part in the taking of Baeza and Seville, and received a share in the distributions of land conquered from the Moors, then made.c Others of that name figure among the first adventurers in the New World. His grandfather, Juan de Cervantes, was corregidor of Ossuna.d The mother of Miguel was of a noble family of Barajas; she married his father about the year 1540. Four children were the fruit of the union; donna Andrea and donna Luisa, daughters; Rodrigo, and youngest of the four, Miguel. His parents were poor, and he could inherit little from them except his honourable rank.*e * Viardôt. a The various hypotheses for Cervantes’ place of birth are traced in the ‘Pruebas y Documentos Que Justifican La Vida de Cervántes’ (Proofs and Documents that Justify the Life of Cervantes) that Rios attached to his ‘Vida’ of Cervantes in the Royal Academy edition, I, pp. clxiv–clxxiii. b Paragraph derived from Ríos, I, pp. clxvi–clxix. For Lepanto (7 Oct. 1571), see below. c The reconquest of Spain was a long process. The Muslims were defeated by the Christians at the Battle of Las, also called Battle Of Al-'uqab, 16 July 1212, in which the Almohads (a Muslim dynasty of North Africa and Spain) were defeated by the combined armies of Leon, Castile, Aragon, Navarre, and Portugal. Baeza was retaken by Fernando III in 1227 and Seville in 1248. d A Spanish magistrate, a chief justice or governor of a small town. e This paragraph is translated from Viardot, I, p. 2.

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Very little is known of his early life. The town of Henares is but a few miles distant from Madrid, and it contains a university, where it is probable that Cervantes prosecuted his early studies. He tells us, in a poem written late in life, From my most tender years I loved The gentle art of poesy,–a

and this taste gave the bias to his life. While still a boy he was attracted by the drama, and frequented the representations of Lope de Rueda;b these recitations, and his taste for reading, which was such that he never passed the meanest bit of paper in the streets without deciphering its contents, were the early proofs he gave / of that love of inquiry which always accompanies genius. Having attained the proper age, Miguel repaired to Salamanca, where he entered himself as a student, and remained for two years.* It is ascertained that he lived in Calle los Moros. He afterwards returned to Madrid, and was placed to study with the learned Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a theologian, who filled the chair for Belles Letters in that city.c It is conjectured that in giving him a literary education his parents meant that he should pursue one of the liberal professions; but we have no other token that such was intended. He acquired, however, a taste for literature, and aspired in his turn to be an author. He wrote, he tells us, an infinite number of what in Spain are called romances, being ballads and ditties; of which later in life, he says, he considered a few good among many bad. He wrote also a pastoral, called “Filena,” which he boasts attained celebrity. “The woods resounded with her name,” he says; “and many a gay song was echoed by them; – my many and pleasant rhymes and the light winds were burdened with my hopes, which were themselves light as the breezes, and shifting as the sands.”d His master, Juan Lopez de Hoyos, admired and encouraged him in these pursuits, and, it would seem, endeavoured to bring him into notice. The death of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip II., which happened in 1569, elicited the tribute of many an elegy from the poets of Madrid. The name of this queen is rendered romantic to us by its association with that of the unfortunate prince don Carlos,

* This circumstance is mentioned by M. Viardôt only; and was unknown to every other biographer. a

‘Desde mis tiernos años amé el arte / Dulce de las agreadable poësia’ (Viaje del Parnaso, cap. 4, ll. 31–2). Rios, I, III and I, p. clxxiv. Translation by Mary Shelley. b See Ríos, I, III and I, pp. clxxiv–clxxv. c Juan Lopez de Hoyos, cleric, humanist, and disciple of Erasmus who taught in Madrid in the 1560s. d Paragraph derived, with some verbatim translation, from from Viardot, I. pp. 2–3. The passage on ‘Filena’ in Viaje del Parnaso, cap. 4, ll. 53–7 is quoted in Rios, I, p. clxxx: ‘Yo he compuesto Romances infinitos, […] mi Filena / Resonó por las selvas, que escucháron / Mas de una, y otra alegre cantilena. / Y en dulces varias rimas se lleváron / Mis esperanzas los ligeros vientos, / Que en ellos, y en la arena se sembráron’.

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and the legend of his unhappy attachment and consequent death.a Of course these circumstances were not the subject of verse intended for the royal ear; but Isabella was beloved and mourned with more sincerity than queens usually are. Lopez de Hoyos published a book called “History and / true relation of the sickness, pious death, and sumptuous funeral obsequies, of the serene queen of Spain, donna Isabella of Valois.” This publication includes various elegies, one of which is thus introduced: – “These Castilian redondillas on the death of her majesty, which, as appears, indulge in rhetorical imagery, and at the conclusion address her majesty, are by Miguel de Cervantes, our dear and beloved pupil.”b Besides this, the book contains another elegy addressed by the whole school to the cardinal Espinosa, also written by Cervantes. Neither of these poems give promise; they are commonplace, wordy, and deficient both in sentiment and imagination. In the same year that these poems were published Cervantes quitted Madrid. It is usually supposed that he left it in despair, to seek his fortune elsewhere; but there can be no doubt that he left it in the service of cardinal Acquaviva. On the death of the queen, pope Pius V. sent a nuncio to Madrid to condole with Philip II., and to seek compensation for certain dues of the church, denied by the king’s ministers at Milan. The nuncio was a Roman prelate, named Giulio Acquaviva, son of the duke of Atri, who was created cardinal on his return to Italy. His mission displeased the king, who, bigot as he was, never yielded any point to the court of Rome. He remained, therefore, but a short time, receiving an order, two months after his arrival, to return to Italy by way of Valencia and Barcelona. As Cervantes himself mentions that he was at Rome immediately after in the household of the cardinal, there can be little doubt that he was preferred to this situation while he was at Madrid. Preferred, we say, because in those days the sons of poor gentlemen often began their early career in the households of princes, thus forming high connections, and securing a patron for life. We may believe that the recommendation of De Hoyos, and the talents of the youth, induced the cardinal to choose him. In the suite of his new master Cervantes visited Valencia and Barcelona, and traversed the south of France, – places / which he afterwards described in his writings, and which he at no other time had an opportunity of visiting.c What hopes and views he nourished in his own heart on visiting Rome we cannot tell. He was now in his twenty-third year. His temperament was ardent and aspiring, his tastes decidedly literary, but with no bent towards the clerical profession. That he had hopes we cannot doubt; and little doubt is there that these hopes proved, as he says, “light as the winds and shifting as the sands;” for he had a Isabella of Valois, mentioned in Viardot, I, pp. 3–4; the passion of the prince is the subject of Schiller’s play Don Carlos. b Translated from Ríos, I, p. clxxiii. c His travels are mentioned in his Galatea. Information in this long paragraph translated from Viardot, I, pp. 3–4. Mary Shelley seems to add the comment about the recommendation of De Hoyos.

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not been a year at Rome when he changed the whole course of his life, and volunteered as a soldier. “The war against the Turks,” his biographer, Los Rios, observes, “which was declared in 1570, gave him an opportunity of adopting a more noble profession, and one more consonant to his birth and valour;”a and we may remark, that whatever hardships he suffered in his military career, Cervantes prided himself upon it to the end of his life. He always calls himself a soldier; and his heart is in the argument, when Don Quixote, comparing the student’s and the soldier’s life, gives preference to the latter as the more noble. To return to the Turkish war, during which he served. The sultan Selim, being desirous of possessing himself of the island of Cyprus, broke the peace which he had made with the Venetian republic, and sent an armament for the conquest of this island. The Venetians implored the aid of the Christian sovereigns. Pope Pius V., in consequence, sent a force, commanded by Marco Antonio Colonna, duke of Paliano. Cervantes enlisted under this general, and served during the campaign, which began late in the year, the object of which was to succour Cyprus, and raise the siege of Nicosia. The dissensions among the commanders sent by the various Christian princes prevented, however, the good they were sent to do. The Turks took Nicosia by assault, and proceeded to other conquests.b During the following year greater efforts were made by the Christians. The combined fleet of Venice, Spain, and of the pope, assembled at Messina. Marco Antonio / Colonna continued to command the papal galleys, Doria the Venetians; while the combined forces of all parties were placed under the command of don John of Austria, a gallant prince, the natural son of the emperor Charles V. Cervantes served in the company of the brave captain Diego de Urbino, a detachment of the tercio (regiment) of Miguel de Moncada.c Don John collected at Barcelona all the veteran troops whom he had tried in the war against the Moriscos in Andalusia; and among others, the renowned tercios of don Miguel de Moncada and don Lope de Figueroa; and, sailing for Italy, cast anchor off Genoa on the 26th June with forty-seven galleys. Thence he proceeded to Messina, where the combined fleet met. In the distribution now made of the troops on board the various vessels, the two new companies of veterans, taken from the tercios of Moncada, those of Urbina and Rodrigo de Mora, were embarked on board the Italian galleys of Doria. Cervantes followed his captain on board the Marquesa, commanded by Francesco Santo Pietro.*d The fleet of the confederates, after having succoured Corfu, went in pursuit of the enemy, and found the Turkish fleet, on the morning of the 7th October, in * Viardôt. a

Quoted from Ríos, I, p. v. Translated from Ríos, I, pp. v–vi. c This paragraph brings together information from Ríos, I, p. vi and I, p. clxxx and Viardot, I, p. 4. Urbino is called ‘Urbina’ in the next paragraph, a likely slip. d This paragraph and the next two paragraphs are translated exactly from Viardot, I, p. 5. b

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the entrance of the gulph of Lepanto. The battle began about noon: the confederates achieved a splendid victory; but it was a very sanguinary one, and, not being followed up by other successes, it remained a useless trophy of Christian valour.a Cervantes was at this time suffering from an intermittent fever, and his captain and comrades would have persuaded him to abstain from mingling in the fight; but he spurned the idea, and requested, on the contrary, to be placed in the post of honour, where there was most danger. He was posted near the shallop with twelve chosen soldiers. The galley, on board of which he was, distinguished itself in the action: it boarded the Captain of Alexandria, killed near five hundred Turks with their commander, and took the royal standard of / Egypt. In this bloody fray Cervantes received three arquebuse wounds; two in the chest, and one that broke and destroyed his left hand. He always, however, regarded this loss with pride, and says, in one of his works, that the honour of having been at the battle of Lepanto was cheaply bought by the wounds he there received. The advance of the season, the want of provisions, the number of their wounded, and the express orders of king Philip, prevented the victorious fleet from following up its victory; and don John returned to Messina on the 31st of October. The troops were distributed in various quarters, and the tercio of Moncada was posted in the south of Sicily. Cervantes himself, sick and wounded, remained in the hospital at Messina for at least six months. Don John of Austria had shown a lively interest in his fate on the morning succeeding to the battle, and did not forget him during his long confinement. The industrious Viardôt has discovered mention of various small sums given him by the pay office (pagaduria) of the fleet, under the dates of the 15th and 25th of January, and the 9th and 17th of March, 1572. When at last he recovered, an order was addressed by the generalissimo, on the 29th of April, to the pay-masters, that the soldier Cervantes should receive the high pay of four crowns per month, and be passed into a company of the tercio of Figueroa. The campaign of the following year was a failure. Of the three allied powers, the pope was dead, the Venetians grown cold, – the Spaniards alone remained to prosecute the war. Marco Antonio Colonna set sail on the 6th of June for the Archipelago, with a part of the allied fleet; and, among others, the thirty-six galleys of the marquis of Santa Cruz, on board of which was embarked the regiment of Figueroa, in which Cervantes served.b Don John sailed on the 9th of August following; but the only enterprise they attempted was an unsuccessful assault on the castle of Navarino; thus the / account given of this disastrous campaign in the story of the captive in “Don Quixote” was related by Cervantes as an eye-witness. a

The comment about ‘Christian valour’ is a pointed addition to Viardot’s ‘inutiles’. Venice subsequently surrendered Cyprus to the Turks in 1573. b The above paragraph and the next five, to ‘captain himself.’, are translated with some abridgement from Viardot, I, pp. 6–8.

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During the following year the Venetians signed a peace with Selim; and the league being broken up, Philip was obliged to renounce all direct attack upon the Ottoman power; but having assembled a large force, he determined to employ it on a descent on Algiers or Tunis. Since the time of Charles V., the Spaniards possessed Goletta, a fortress near Tunis. Having, therefore, disembarked his troops, he sent the marquis de Santa Cruz to possess himself of Tunis, which might easily have been done; but Philip, jealous of the views of his brother, recalled him in haste from Africa. Feeble garrisons were left in Goletta, which the Turks took by assault the same year. Cervantes had entered Tunis with the marquis of Santa Cruz, and returned to Palermo with the fleet. He made one of the force which, under the duke of Sesa, vainly attempted to succour Goletta: he afterwards wintered in Sardinia, and was brought back to Naples in the galleys of Marcel Doria. In the month of June, 1575, he obtained leave from don John of Austria to return to Spain, after an absence of seven years. Viardôt assures us, that in the intervals of military service, or during the various expeditions, Cervantes visited Rome, Florence, Venice, Bologna, Naples, and Palermo. He became accomplished in the Italian language: the anti-Petrarchists of his time detected the influence of Italian literature, and accused him, as Boscan and Garcilaso had been accused, of corrupting his native Castilian. Cervantes, now twenty-eight years of age, having served in many campaigns, maimed and enfeebled, no doubt pined to revisit his native country. He had left it to seek his fortune; he was to return a simple soldier; yet the military profession continued dear to him; and when he speaks of the many misfortunes a soldier encounters, – his poverty so great that he is poor among the poor; ever expecting his slender pay, which he seldom receives, / or is obliged to seize on, at the hazard of his life, and to the injury of his conscience; the hardships he encounters, the dangers he risks, and the small reward he gains, – yet he looks on all these circumstances as redounding to his glory, and rendering him deserving of honour and esteem from all men.a We may believe also that Cervantes quitted Italy with wellfounded hopes of preferment in his native country: he had distinguished himself in a manner that deserved reward. Don John appreciated his worth, and gave him letters to the king his brother, in which he gave due praise for his conduct at the battle of Lepanto, and begged Philip to confide to him the command of one of the regiments which were then being raised in Spain to serve in Italy or Flanders. The viceroy of Sicily, don Carlos of Aragon, and the duke of Sesa, also recommended him to the benevolence of the king and his ministers as a soldier whose valour and worth deserved recompence.* * Viardôt. [I, p. 8] a While the first sentence of the paragraph is translated from Viardot, I, p. 7, Mary Shelley’s own voice can be heard in this long sentence.

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Such recommendations promised fair. Cervantes embarked on board the Spanish galley el Sol (the Sun) with his elder brother Rodrigo, also a soldier, and with various officers of distinction; but disaster was near at hand to dash all his hopes, and devote him to years of adversity. On the 26th of September the galley was surrounded by an Algerine squadron, under the command of the Arnaout Mami, who was captain of the sea. The Turkish vessels attacked and boarded el Sol. The combat was obstinate, but numbers overpowered. The galley was taken and carried into Algiers. In the subsequent division of prisoners, Cervantes fell to the share of the Arnaout captain himself. The frightful system of cruising for captives, and taking them to Algiers to sell them into slavery, which continued for so many hundred years, had not long before been carried to greater height than ever by two pirates, who possessed themselves of Algiers and Tunis. The horror of this warfare had excited the emperor Charles V. to undertake to crush it. He made two expeditions into Africa, the second of which was unsucessful, / and the Algerine corsairs pursued their nefarious traffic with greater cruelty and success than ever: every particular connected with it was frightful and deplorable: the weak and unoffending were its chief victims: the sea coasts were ravaged for prisoners; and these, if too poor for ransom, became slaves for life, under the most cruel masters. The abhorrence excited by these unprovoked attacks caused the Mahometan name to be held in greater odium than ever; and in Spain, particularly, this detestation was visited on the Moriscos: the cruelties and oppression they endured, again excited the Moors of Africa to reprisals; and innocence and helplessness became on all sides the victims of revenge and hatred. Still the piracies carried on by the Algerines, and the system to which they reduced their practice of slavery, raised them to a “bad height” in this war of reciprocal cruelty. None, also, were more pitiless than the renegades; Christians who, taken prisoners, bought their freedom by the sacrifice of their faith. These men, often the most energetic and prosperous among the corsairs, were also the most cruel towards their prisoners; and, among them all, none was so cruel as the Arnaout Mami. Fortunately, interesting details of Cervantes’s captivity have come down to us from undoubted and impartial sources, as well as from his own accounts; and these place him in the brightest light as a man of sagacity, resolution, and honour. That these details are not fuller we must lament; but, such as they are, they display so much gallantry and magnanimity on Cervantes’s part, that they must be read with the greatest pleasure.a In his tale of the “Captive,” Cervantes gives an account of the mode in which captives were treated at Algiers. He says, “There is a prison or house, which the Turks call a bagnio, in which the Christian captives are confined, – those belonging to the king as well as to various individuals; and also those of the Almacen, or a The above paragraph, and the previous one, are largely in the voice of Mary Shelley with information from Ríos I, p. vii and Viardot, I, p. 8; ‘bad height’: see Paradise Lost, II. 6.

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slaves of the council, who labour for the town at the public works, or are employed in other offices; who, as they belong / to the city, and not to any particular master, have no one with whom to treat concerning their ransom, and are worse off than the others. As I have said, various individuals place their slaves in this bagnio, and principally those whom they expect to be ransomed, because they are kept there more securely. The captives of the king, who expect to be ransomed, are not sent out to work with the rest; and they wear a chain, more as a sign that they are to obtain their freedom than from any other cause: and here many cavaliers and men of birth live, thus marked, and kept for redemption; and although hunger and nakedness might well weary them, nothing brought so much pain as witnessing the unspeakable and frightful cruelties practised towards the Christians. Each day, the dey, who was a Venetian renegade, hanged or impaled some among them; and this from such trifling causes, and often from none at all, that the Turks themselves were aware that he inflicted these cruelties in wantonness, and because it was his natural disposition to be the enemy of the human race. One man only did he treat well, a soldier, by name Saavedra, who, having achieved things that will remain for many years in the memory of that people, and all for the sake of gaining his liberty, yet never received a blow nor an ill word; though it was often thought that for the slightest of the things he did he would be impaled, and he himself often expected it; and, if it were not that I have no time nor place, I would recount what this soldier did, which would indeed excite your admiration and wonder.”*a In these terms does Cervantes speak of himself in his captivity; and so often are writers accused of boasting that this might have been brought forward as a proof of his vanity merely, but that we have another testimony in a book named “Topography and general / History of Algiers, by Father Diego de Haedo†,” a contemporary;b and his account, though not full enough to satisfy our curiosity, yet proves that Cervantes spoke of his deeds with no exaggeration; and that, to attain his liberty, he incurred every risk, and endured a thousand hardships and perils with dauntless courage. As Cervantes often alludes to himself, it is strange that * Bouterwek says, erroneously, that Los Rios has interwoven Cervantes’s novel of the “Captive” into his biography, as being authentic, and relating to himself. This is a mistake: Los Rios conceives, indeed, that the mention made by the captive of “a soldier, by name Saavedra,” alludes to Cervantes himself, who adopted that surname, as of course he does; but the history he gives of his captivity is drawn from other sources, such as are used, with some additions, for the present narrative.c † Topographia y Historia general de Argel, repartido en cinco tratados, do se veran casos estranos, muertas espantoas, y tormentas exquisitas, que conviene se entiendan en la christianidad: con mucha doctrina y elegancia curiosa. Por el Maestro Fray Diego de Haedo, Abad de Funestra. Fol. Valladolid, 1612. a Extract from ‘La historia del Cautivo’ in Don Quixote (1605, 1615), pt 1, chs xxxix and xl); some of this extract is quoted in Viardot, I, p. 13. b A passage from the Topographia is found in Rios, I, pp. clxxxii–clxxxiv. c Bouterwek, I, p. 330n and Ríos, I, p. x.

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he did not write an account of his years of captivity; but the truth is, that, though we may be led to mention ourselves, it is ever a tedious task to write at length on the subject: recollections come by crowds; hopes baffled, our dearest memories discovered to have a taint, our lives wasted and fallen into contempt even in our own eyes: so that we readily turn from dispiriting realities to such creatures of the imagination as we can fashion according to our liking. But to return.a The account above given of the situation of the captives refers to those best off. The rest were either employed as galley slaves, or in other hard labours. Among the latter Cervantes was probably numbered, as Haedo mentions that his captivity was one of peculiar hardship. Driven to resistance by his sufferings, Cervantes several times endeavoured to obtain his liberty. His first attempt was made in conjunction with several others, under the design of reaching Oran (a town of Africa, then in possession of Spain,) by land. He and his comrades even contrived to get out of the town of Algiers; but the Moorish guide whom they had engaged deserted them, and they were obliged to return and deliver themselves up to their masters. Some of his companions, and among them ensign Gabrièl de Castañeda, were ransomed in the middle of the year 1576. Castañeda took letters from the captive brothers to their father, Rodrigo Cervantes, describing / their miserable situation. He instantly sold or mortgaged his little property, and, indeed, every thing he possessed, even to the dowry of his daughters, who were not yet married; the whole family being thus reduced to penury. The entire sum, unhappily, did not suffice for the redemption of both brothers. Miguel accordingly gave up his share to secure the freedom of Rodrigo, who was set free in August, 1577. He promised at parting to get an armed vessel equipped at Valencia or the Balearic isles, which, touching at a place agreed on, near Algiers, would facilitate the escape of his brother and other captives; and he carried with him to this effect several letters from men of high birth, now fallen into the miserable condition of slaves, to various persons in power in Spain.b Meanwhile Cervantes was arranging another plan for escape, nay, he was far advanced in its execution at the time of his brother’s departure. The alcayd Hassan, a Greek renegade, possessed a garden three miles from Algiers, close to the sea: in this garden Juan, a slave from Navarre, had contrived to dig a cavern; and here, under the conduct of Cervantes, a number of runaway captives hid themselves till an opportunity should offer for final evasion. Some of them had taken up their abode in the cave since the month of February, 1577: it was dark and damp, but it proved a safe asylum. The numbers increased till they amounted to fifteen. They had only two confidants, both Christians. Juan, the gardener of the alcayd Hassan, who worked near the mouth of the cave, and kept watch for them; and another, a native of Villa de Melilla, a small town of Barbary, subject to the a b

A telling perspective by Mary Shelley on the subject of writing autobiography. The information in the above and the next paragraph is translated from Viardot, I, p. 9.

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king of Spain. He had become a renegade when a boy, and then again turned Christian, and was now captured for the second time. This man, who was commonly surnamed el Dorador, or the Gilder, had it particularly in charge to supply the fugitives with food and necessaries, buying them with the money given him, and bringing them secretly to the cavern. The runaways had now been hidden for seven months: the confinement was irksome and unhealthy, and they / never breathed the free air of heaven except in the dead of night, when they stole out for a short time into the garden. They often incurred the greatest dangers, – as Haedo says, “what these men suffered in the cavern, and what they said and did, would deserve a particular account.” Several fell sick, and all endured incredible hardship; while through all they were supported and encouraged by the firmness and dauntless courage of Cervantes. In the month of September, an opportunity offered itself, as they hoped, for effecting their ultimate escape. A Mallorcan captive, of the name of Viana, accustomed to the sea, and well acquainted with the coast of Barbary, was ransomed; and the captives of the cave agreed with him that he should hire a vessel, either in Mallorca or Spain, and bring it to the neighbourhood of the garden by night, where they could unperceived embark, and sail for their native country. When this was arranged, Cervantes, who had hitherto thought that he served his friends best by remaining in Algiers, made his escape and repaired to the cavern, and remained there.a Viana performed his part with celerity and success. He hired a brigantine at Mallorca, and arrived with it at Algiers on the 28th of September. As had been concerted, he made, in the middle of the night, for the part of the coast where the garden and the cavern were situated. Most unfortunately, however, at the moment when the prow of the brigantine bore down on shore, several Moors passed by, and, perceiving the vessel, and that the crew were Christians, gave the alarm, crying out “Christians! Christians! a vessel! a vessel!” When those on board heard this they were obliged to put out to sea again, and to give up their attempt for that time.b The captives in the cave were, however, undiscovered; and they still put their trust in God, and believed that Viana as a man of honour, would not fail them; and though suffering through sickness, confinement, and disappointment, they still supported themselves with the hope of succeeding at last in their attempt. Unfortunately the / Dorador turned traitor. The ill success of Viana’s attempt perhaps made him imagine that all would be discovered and he be implicated in the dangers of the enterprise, while, on the other hand, he hoped to gain large rewards from the masters of the runaway slaves by giving them up. Two days only after Viana left the coast, he sought an audience with the dey, declared his wish to turn Mahometan, and asked his permission; while, as a proof of his sincerity, a

The above paragraph is paraphrased from Viardot, I, p. 10. The above paragraph and the following five (to ‘high price.’) are derived from Haedo quoted in Ríos, I, pp. clxxiii–iv. b

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he offered to betray into his hands fifteen Christian captives, who lay concealed in a cavern, expecting a vessel from Mallorca for their deliverance. The dey was delighted with this account. As a tyrant, he resolved, against all custom and right, to appropriate the runaways to himself; so sending immediately for Bashi, the gaoler of the bagnio, he commanded him to take a guard, and, guided by the renegade, to seize on the Christians hidden in the cave. Bashi did as he was ordered; and, accompanied by eight mounted Turks and twenty-four on foot, armed, for the most part, with muskets and sabres, he, guided by the traitor, repaired to the garden. The first man they seized on was the gardener; they then made for the cave, and captured all the Christians. The traitor Dorador had mentioned Cervantes, whom Haedo names “a distinguished hidalgo of Alcalá de Hernares,” as the originator and the heart and soul of the whole enterprise. He, therefore, was singled out to be more heavily ironed than the rest; and when the dey, seizing on the whole number as his own, ordered them to be carried to the bagnio, he detained Cervantes in the palace, and, by entreaties and terrible menaces, tried to induce him to declare the true author of their attempt. His motive in this was to implicate, if possible, a friar of the order of mercy, established at Algiers as redeemer of slaves for the kingdom of Aragon, on whom he desired to lay hands for the purpose of extorting money. But all his endeavours were vain; and though his merciless disposition gave Cervantes every cause to apprehend a cruel death, he, with undaunted firmness, / continued to reiterate that the whole enterprise originated in, and was carried on by, himself, heroically incurring the whole blame, and running the risk of the heaviest punishment. Finding all his endeavours fail, the dey sent him also to the prison of the bagnio. As soon as these circumstances became known, the former masters of the captives claimed each his slave: the dey resisted where he could; but he was obliged to give up three or four, and among them Cervantes, who was restored to the Arnaout Mami, who had originally captured him. The alcayd Hassan hastened also to the dey to obtain leave to punish the gardener, who was hung with his head downwards, and left to die. Cervantes, meanwhile, returning to his old state of slavery, was by no means disposed to submit to it. Ardent and resolute, his schemes for procuring his liberation were daring in the extreme. Many times he reiterated his attempts, and ran risk of being impaled or otherwise put to death; and how he came to be spared cannot be guessed, except that the gallantry of his spirit excited the respect of his masters, and, perhaps, associating the ideas of bravery and resolution with noble birth, it was supposed that in the end he would be ransomed at a high price. Soon after Hassan Aga himself purchased him from Mami, either hoping to gain through his ransom, or to keep a better watch over his restless attempts. At one time he sent letters through a Moor to don Martin de Cordova, governor of Oran; but this emissary was taken, and brought with his despatches before the dey. The unfortunate man was condemned to be impaled, and Cervantes was 131

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sentenced to the bastinado; but, from some undiscovered influence, his punishment on this occasion, as well as every other, was remitted.*a This ill success did not daunt his courage. In September, 1579, he formed acquaintance with a Spanish renegade, the licentiate Giron, born at Granada, who had taken the name of Abd-al-Rhamen. This renegade was eager to return to his native country, and reassume / the Christian faith. With him Cervantes concerted a new plan of escape: they had recourse to two Valencian merchants, established at Algiers, – Onofrio Exarch; and Bathazar de Torres: they assisted in the plot; and the former contributed 1500 doubloons for the price of an armed frigate with twelve banks of oars, which Abd-al-Rhamen bought under the pretence of going on a cruise as corsair. The vessel was ready, and the captives were on the alert to get on board, when they were betrayed. Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, a Dominican monk, for the sake of a reward, denounced the scheme to the dey. Hassan Aga at first dissimulated: his desire was, as in the former instance, though then frustrated, to confiscate the slaves to the state, by which means he should become possessed of them; nevertheless it became known that they were betrayed; and Onofrio, fearful that if Cervantes were taken, he would be tortured into making confessions injurious to him, offered to buy him at any price and send him to Spain. Cervantes refused to avoid the common peril. He had escaped from the bagnio, and was hidden at the house of one of his old military comrades, the ensign Diego Castillano. The dey made a public proclamation of him, threatening with death any one who afforded him refuge. Cervantes, on this, delivered himself up, having first secured the intercession of a Murcian renegade, Morato Raez Matrapillo, who was a favourite with Hassan Aga. The dey demanded the names of his accomplices of Cervantes, and threatened him with immediate execution if he refused. Cervantes was not to be moved; he named himself and four Spanish gentlemen already at liberty, but fear of death extracted no other word. Despite his cruelty there must have been a touch of better things about Hassan Aga. He was moved by the constancy and fearlessness of his captive: he spared his life, but imprisoned him in a dungeon, where he was kept strictly guarded and chained. The ensign Luis Pedrosa, an ocular witness of his countryman’s conduct, exclaims on this, that his / noble conduct deserved “renown, honour, and a crown among Christians.” The dey had now become thoroughly frightened. Cervantes’s late plots were not limited merely to the attainment of freedom; he aimed at raising the whole captive population in revolt, and so gaining possession of Algiers for the crown of Spain. Hassan Aga, in his fear, was heard to exclaim, that “he only held his city, fleet, and slaves secure, while he kept that maimed Christian in safe custody.” * Viardôt. a The above paragraph and the following four (to ‘unfortunate slaves.’) are translated and adapted from Viardot, I, pp. 11–13. Viardot’s verbatim quotations from his Spanish sources are characteristically translated into French.

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The courage and heroism of Cervantes excited the respect of the friars of the Order of Mercy, who resided at Algiers for the purpose of treating for the ransom of the Christian captives. This order had been established as far back as the twelfth century by pope Innocent III. It was originally founded by two French hermits, who, dedicated to a holy life in solitude, believed themselves called upon by God to take more active service in the cause of religion. They repaired to Rome, and were well received by pope Innocent, who saw the benefits that might arise to Christianity from the pious labours of these men. He instituted an order, therefore, whose members were to dedicate themselves to the liberating of Christian slaves out of the hands of the infidels. It was called the order of the most Holy Trinity, for the Redemption of Captives. At first its labours were probably most in use to ransom crusaders, taken prisoners in the wars of Palestine. Africa afterwards became the scene of their greatest labours and dangers: various members of the order were regularly appointed, and resided in Algiers, for the purpose of carrying on treaties for the ransom of captives in particular. Each kingdom of Spain had its peculiar holy officer, a sort of spiritual consul, who transacted all the affairs of redemption and liberation for the unfortunate slaves. Cervantes’s case was peculiar: distinguished among his fellow slaves, the dey paid him the inconvenient compliment of rating his ransom highly, and set the price of 1000 golden crowns on him; application was made in Spain, and it was endeavoured to collect his ransom. His father was now dead, and his mother, donna Leonora, a widow, / could only contribute 250 ducats, his sister 50 more. This sum was placed in the hands of the friars Juan Gil and Antonio de la Vella, who arrived in Algiers in May, 1580, for the purpose of treating for the redemption of various captives. For a long time they were unable to bring the dey into any terms with regard to Cervantes: the sum of 1000 golden ducats was exorbitant, yet during several months he refused to take less. At last he received an order from the sultan, which appointed him a successor, and enforced his return to Constantinople. At first he threatened to take Cervantes, whom he kept on board his galley, with him; and the friars raised their offers to prevent this disaster: at last he agreed to receive 500 golden crowns as his ransom: on the 19th of September, 1580, the bargain was completed. Hassan sailed for Constantinople, and Cervantes was set on shore at Algiers, free to return to Spain.*a / * For the sake of the curious we append a translation of the registry of Cervantes’s liberation, as found by Los Rios in the archives of the order of mercy, and quoted by him in his “Proofs of the Life.” These documents consist of two registers; one of the receipt of money for his redemption, given by the friars Juan Gil, procurer-general for the order of the most Holy Trinity and Antonio de la Vella, minister of the monastery of the said order in the city of Baeza; and the second testified the payment of the money in Algiers. The first runs thus: – “In the said city of Madrid, on the 31st of July, of the year 1579, in the presence of me, the notary, and the underwritten witnesses, the said fathers, friar Juan Gil and friar Antonio de la Vella, received 300 ducats, at eleven rials each ducat, being 250 ducats, from the hand of donna a

Information in the above paragraph from Ríos, I, p. xi; note from Rios, I, pp. clxxiv–clxxv.

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The first use, however, that he made of his liberty was to refute, in the most determined manner, certain calumnies of which he was the object. The traitor, Juan Blanco de Paz, who falsely pretended to belong to the inquisition, cast on him the accusation of betraying the conspiracy, and of causing the exile of the renegade Giron. The moment that Cervantes was free he entreated father Juan Gil to examine the whole affair. In consequence, the apostolic notary, Pedro de Ribera, drew out twenty-five questions, and received the depositions of eleven Spanish gentlemen, the most distinguished among the captives, in answer. These examinations, in which all the events of Cervantes’s captivity are minutely recounted, give besides the most interesting details concerning his understanding, his character, the purity of his life, and the devoted sacrifices he made to his companions in misfortune, which gained for him so many friends.a Viardot, who has seen this document, not mentioned by any other author, cites among the depositions that of don Diego de Benavides. Having made inquiries, he says, on his arrival at Algiers concerning the principal Christian captives, Cervantes was mentioned to him as honourable, noble, virtuous, of excellent

Leonora de Cortinas, widow, formerly wife of Rodrigo de Cervantes, and fifty ducats from donna Andrea de Cervantes, inhabitants of Alcalà, now in this court (this expression is always used to signify Madrid), to contribute to the ransom of Miguel de Cervantes, an inhabitant of the said city, son and brother of the above named, who is captive at Algiers in the power of Ali Mami, captain of the vessels of the fleet of the king of Algiers, who is thirty-three years of age, has lost his left hand; and from them they received two obligations and receipts, and received the said sum before me, the notary, being witnesses, Juan de Quadros and Juan de la Peña Corredor, and Juan Fernandez, residing in this court: in faith of which the said witnesses, friars, and I, the said notary, sign our names.” The second register is as follows: – “In the city of Algiers, on the 19th of September, 1580, in presence of me, the said notary, the rev. father friar Juan Gil, the above named redeemer, ransomed Miguel de Cervantes, a native of Alcalà de Henares, aged thirty-three, son of Rodrigo de Cervantes and of donna Leonora de Cortinas, and an inhabitant of Madrid; of a middle size, much beard, maimed of the left arm and hand, taken captive in the galley el Sol, bound from Naples to Spain, where he had been a long time in the service of H. M. He was taken 26th September, 1575, being in the power of Hassan Pacha, king: his ransom cost 500 crowns of gold in Spanish gold; because, if not, he was to be sent to Constantinople; and, therefore, on account of this necessity, and that this Christian should not be lost in a Moorish country, 220 crowns were raised among the traders and the remaining 280 collected from the charities of the redemption. Three hundred ducats were given in aid; and they were assisted by the charity of Francisco de Caramanchel, of whom is the patron the very illustrious Señor Domingo de Cardenas Zapata, of the council of H. M., with fifty doubloons, and by the general charity of the order they were assisted by fifty more; and the remainder of the sum, the said order engaged to repay, being money belonging to other captives, who gave pledges in Spain for their ransom; and, not being at present in Algiers, they are not ransomed; and the said order are under obligation to return the money to the parties, the captives not being ransomed; and besides were given nine doubloons to the officers of the galley of the said king Hassan Pacha, who asked it as their fees: in faith of which sign their names, &c.” a The above paragraph and the next (to ‘equal him.”’) are summarised and translated from Viardot, I, p. 15.

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character, and beloved by all the other gentlemen. Benavides cultivated his friendship, and he was treated so kindly, that he says, “he found both a father and a mother in him.” The carmelite monk, Feliciano Enriquez, declared, that / having discovered the falsehood of an accusation made against Cervantes, he, in common with all the other captives, became his friend; his noble, Christian, upright, and virtuous conduct raising a sort of emulation among them. Finally, the ensign Luis de Pedrosa declares, “that of all the gentlemen resident at Algiers, he knew not one who did so much good to their fellow captives as Cervantes, or who showed a more rigid observance of the point of honour; and that in addition, all that he did was adorned with a peculiar grace, through his understanding, prudence, and forethought, in which few people could equal him.” Such was the natural elevation of Cervantes over his fellow-creatures, when, all being placed on an equality, the qualities of the soul alone produced a difference of rank. It inspires infinite contempt for the arbitrary distinctions of society when we find this prince and leader among his fellows was, when restored to his native country, depressed by poverty and obscured by want; and when we find no spirit of repining displayed during his after life, though he had dignity of soul to assert his worth, we are impelled to give Cervantes as high a place for moral excellence as his genius has secured for him in the world of intellect. Cervantes landed in Spain early the following year. He so often expresses the excessive joy imparted by a restoration to freedom, that we may believe that his heart beat high with exultation when he set his foot on the shores of his native country. “On earth,” he says, “there is no good like regaining lost liberty.” Yet he arrived poor, and if not friendless yet his friends were poor also. His mother’s purse had been drained to contribute to his ransom. As a literary man he was not known, nor, indeed, had he written any thing since he left Spain eleven years before. He evidently did not at first look upon literature as a resource by which to live. He was still a soldier in heart, and such he became again by profession, though it would seem that his long captivity erased the recollection of, and deprived him of all reward for, his past services.a / At this time Portugal had been recently conquered by the duke of Alva. It was now tranquil, but still occupied by Spanish troops. This army was in preparation to attack the Azores, which still held out. Rodrigo de Cervantes, after his ransom, had re-entered the service. His brother found himself obliged to follow his example. That he had no powerful friend is proved by the circumstance that he again volunteered. Maimed of a hand, in a manner which proved his gallantry, while Algiers still rang with the fame of his intrepidity and daring, poverty in his native country hung like a heavy cloud over him. We must, however, at this period consider that he was not known as the author of Don Quixote, and a man of genius; he had shown himself only as a gallant soldier of fortune. Such he continued to a The above paragraph, and the next two (to ‘another child.’) are translated from Viardot, I, p. 16.

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be. He served in three campaigns. In the summer of 1581 he embarked in the squadron of don Pedro Valdes, who had orders to make an attempt on the Azores, and to protect the commerce of the Indies. The following year he served under the orders of the marquis de Santa Cruz, and was in the naval battle which that admiral gained on the 25th of July, within sight of the island of Terceira, over the French fleet, which had taken part with the Portuguese insurgents. It is asserted, that beyond a question Cervantes served in the regiment of the camp-majorgeneral, don Lope de Figueroa. This corps was composed of veterans, and was embarked on board the galleon San Mateo, which took a distinguished part in the victory. In the campaign of 1583 he and his brother were at the taking of Terceira, which was carried by assault. Rodrigo distinguished himself greatly on this occasion, and was one of the first to spring on shore; for which, on the return of the fleet, he was promoted to the rank of ensign. It is characteristic of Spanish manners that, although only serving in the ranks, Cervantes mingled in the society of the nobles of Portugal. He was an hidalgo and, as such, freely admitted to the circles of the well born, despite his poverty. He was engaged in a love affair at / Lisbon: the name of the lady is not known: it seems likely, from attendant circumstances, that she was not possessed of either rank or fortune. She bore him a daughter, whom he named donna Isabel de Saavedra, and brought up; and she remained with him even after his marriage till she took vows in a convent in Madrid, but a short time before her father’s death.a He never had another child. In the year 1584 Cervantes appeared as an author. He seems to have written rather under the excitement of his natural genius, which impelled him to composition, than under the idea of earning a livelihood by his pen. The most popular works then in Spain were the “Diana” of Montemayor, and the continuation of the same work by Gil Polo. This last was a particular favourite of Cervantes. In the scrutiny made by the curate of Don Quixote’s library, he thus speaks of these books: – “I am of opinion that we do not burn the ‘Diana’ of Montemayor; let us only erase from it all the part that concerns the wise Felicia and the enchanted water, and almost all the poetry written in versos mayores, and let the prose remain, and the honour it enjoys of being the first of these species of books. As to the continuation by Gil Polo, take care of it as if Apollo himself were the author.” Of his own “Galatea,” he makes the curate say, “Cervantes has for many years been my intimate friend, and I know he has more experience in disasters than good fortune. There is the merit of invention in his book: he proposes something but concludes nothing; and we must wait for the second part, which he promises, when I hope he will merit the entire pardon which is as yet denied.”b When pastorals were the fashion, there was something very attractive in the composition of them to a poetic mind. The author, if he were in love, could so a The lady’s name was Ana Franca de Rojas. Isabel’s career involved two marriages and estrangement from her father. b Don Quixote pt 1, ch. vi.

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easily turn himself into a shepherd, musing on his passion on the banks of rivulets, and all the lets and hindrances to his happiness he could transform into pastoral incidents. Montemayor and Gil Polo had / acknowledgedly done this before, and it was but in good costume to imitate their example. We are told that, at the time of writing this work, Cervantes was already deeply in love with the lady whom he afterwards married. She figured as the lovely shepherdess Galatea. Lope de Vega asserts that Cervantes introduced himself as Elisio, the hero of his work. Viardot says, “It cannot be doubted but that the other shepherds introduced in the romance as Tirsis, Damon, Meliso, Siralvo, Lauso, Larsileo, Artidoro, are intended for Francisco de Figueroa, Pedro Lainez, don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Luis Galvez de Montalvo, Luis Barahona de Soto, don Alonzo de Ercilla, Andres Rey de Artieda.” These names all figure in the Spanish Parnassus, and it may be that they are introduced, but we have no proof. That the allusions made both to himself and his friends are very vague, is proved by the fact that Los Rios declares that Damon was the name of the shepherd figuring Cervantes, and Amarilis that of his lady-love. Of the pastoral itself we shall mention more when we come to speak of all Cervantes’s works; suffice it now to say, that the purity of its style, and the ease of invention, must at once have raised Cervantes in the eyes of his friends to the rank of a writer of merit.a It certainly gained him favour in the eyes of the lady. Soon after the publication of the “Galatea” she consented to become his wife. On the 8th December, 1584,b Cervantes accordingly married, at Esquivias, donna Catilina de Palacios y Salazar. Her family, though impoverished, was one of the most noble of that town. She had been brought up in the house of her uncle, don Francisco de Salazar, who left her a legacy in his will, or which reason she assumed his name in conjunction with her own; for it was the custom in those days for persons to call themselves after one to whom they owed the obligation of education and subsistence. The father of donna Catalina was dead, and the widow promised, when her daughter was affianced, to give her a moderate dower. This was done two years afterwards; the contract of / marriage bearing date of August 9th, 1586. This portion we find to consist of a few vineyards, a garden, an orchard, several beehives, a hencoop, and some household furniture, amounting in value to 182,000 maravedis, or about 5360 reals, being, in English money, about 60l. This property was settled on donna Catalina, the management of it only remaining with her husband, who also settled on her 100 ducats, which are stated as the tenth of his property.c On his marriage, Cervantes took up his abode at Esquivias, probably from some motive of economy. Still feeling within him the innate assurance of genius, and the laudable desire of distinction which that feeling engenders, he dwelt on the a References are to Viardot, I, p. 17 (where comment about purity of style can be found) and Ríos, I, p. xii. b The wedding date of 8 Dec. may be an error, but Mary Shelley’s sources disagree; Ríos gives 12 Dec. (I, p. xii and I, p. clxxxvi) and Viardot 14 Dec. (I, p. 17). c Information from the above paragraph and the next largely from Viardot, I, p. 17.

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idea of becoming an author. Esquivias is so near Madrid that he could pay frequent visits to the capital; and he cultivated the acquaintance of the authors of that day, and in particular of Vicente Espinel, one of the most charming romance writers of Spain. A noble of the court had instituted a sort of literary academy at his house, and it is conjectured that Cervantes was chosen a member. At this time he wrote for the theatre. There was ever a lurking love for the drama in Spain. In his youth Cervantes had frequented the representations of Lope de Rueda, previously mentioned in this work, and he felt impelled to contribute to the drama. He saw the defects of the plays in vogue, which were rather dialogues than dramatic compositions. He saw the miserable state of the stage and scenery. He endeavoured to rectify these deficiencies, and in some measure succeeded. “I must trespass on my modesty,” he says, in one of his prefaces, “to relate the perfection to which these things were brought when ‘The Captives of Algiers,’ ‘Numantia,’ and ‘The Naval Battle,’ dramas written by me, were represented at the theatre of Madrid. I then ventured to reduce the five acts, into which plays were before divided, into three. I was the first who personified imaginary phantoms and the secret thoughts of the soul, bringing allegorical personages / on the stage, with the universal applause of the audience. I wrote at that time some twenty or thirty plays, which were all performed without the public throwing pumpkins, or oranges, or any of those things which spectators are apt to cast at the heads of bad actors: my plays were acted without hissing, confusion, or clamour.”a Of the plays which Cervantes mentions, two only exist – “Numantia” and “Life in Algiers.” They are very inartificial in their plots, and totally unlike the busy pieces of intrigue soon after introduced; but the first, in particular, has great merit, as will be mentioned hereafter. Still, his plays did not bring such profit as to render him independent. He was now forty: he had run through a variety of adventures, and remained unrewarded for his services, and unprotected by a patron. He was married; and, though he had no children by his wife, he maintained in his house his two sisters and his natural daughter: despite his vine-yard, his orchard, and his hencoop, – despite also his theatrical successes – he felt himself straitened in circumstances. At this time, Antonio de Guevara, councillor of finance, was named purveyor to the Indian squadrons and fleets at Seville, with the right of naming as his assistants four commissaries. He was now employed in fitting out the Invincible Armada. He offered the situation of commissary to Cervantes, who accepted it, and set out for Seville with his wife and daughter, and two sisters.*b * It is usually said, and Viardôt repeats it, that Cervantes was driven from his theatrical labours by the success of Lope de Vega. This is not the fact. Lope sailed with the Invincible Armada, and it was not until his return that he began his dramatic career. The fact seems simply a b

Cervantes quotation translated from Viardot, I, p. 18. Viardot, I, pp. 19–20.

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Cervantes lived for many years at Seville fulfilling / the duties of his employment. He served at first for ten years under Guevara, and then for two more under his successor, Pedro de Isunza. That he was not contented with the situation, and that it was an insignificant one, is proved by his having solicited the king to give him the place of paymaster in New Granada, or of corregidor in the small town of Goetemala. His request bears the date of May, 1590. It was refused fortunately; yet his funds and his hopes, also, must have been low to make him turn his eyes towards the Indies; for, speaking of such a design in one of his tales, he says of a certain hidalgo that, “finding himself at Seville without money or friends, he had recourse to the remedy to which so many ruined men in that city run, which is going to the Indies – the refuge and shelter of all Spaniards of desperate fortunes, the common deceiver of many, the individual remedy of few.” At length the purveyorship being suppressed, his office was also abolished, and he became agent to various municipalities, corporations, and wealthy individuals: among the rest, he managed the affairs, and became the friend, of don Hernando de Toledo, a noble of Cigalés.a We have little trace of how he exercised his pen during this interval. The house of the celebrated painter Francisco Pacheco, master and father-in-law of Velasquez, was then frequented by all the men of education in Seville: the painter was also a poet, and Rodrigo Caro mentions that his house was an academy resorted to by all the literati of the town. Cervantes was numbered among them; and his portrait is found among the pictures of more than a hundred distinguished persons, painted and brought together by this artist. The poet Jauregui, who also cultivated painting, painted his portrait, and was numbered among his friends. Here Cervantes became the friend of Herrera, who spent his life in Seville, secluded from the busy world, but venerated and admired by his friends. Cervantes, in after days, wrote a sonnet to his memory, and mentions him with fond praise in his “Voyage to Parnassus.”b Viardôt / assures us, that it was during his residence at Seville that Cervantes wrote most of his tales. This appears probable. Certainly he did not lose the habit of composition. Much of the material of these stories was furnished him by incidents that actually occurred in Seville; and when to have been that Cervantes, feeling the animation of genius within him, yet not having discovered its proper expression, was, to a certain degree, successful as a dramatist, though he could not originate a style which should give new life to the modern drama: thus his gains were moderate, and he found himself unable to support those dependant on him. The place of commissary offered itself to rescue him from this state of poverty. Afterwards, when Lope began his career, Cervantes found indeed, that, he filled the public eye, and had hit its taste; and that his dramas, with their jéjune plots and uninterwoven incidents, however, adorned by poetry and the majesty of passion, were thrown aside and forgotten.c a The above paragraph and the next (to ‘idle.’) are mostly translated and adapted from Viardot, I, pp. 20–1. b Detail added by Mary Shelley. c Derived from Viardot, I, p. 19; ‘jéjune’ (mod. spelling ‘jejune’), barren.

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we see the mastery of invention and language he had acquired when he wrote “Don Quixote,” we may believe that these tales occupied his pen when apparently, in a literary sense, idle. It seems that, at Seville, and during his distasteful employments there, he acquired that bitter view of human affairs displayed in “Don Quixote.” Yet it is wrong to call it bitter. Even when his hopes were crushed and blighted, a noble enthusiasm survived disappointment and ill-treatment; and, though he looks sadly, and with somewhat of causticity on human life, still no one can mistake the generous and lofty aspirations of his injured spirit throughout. We have two sonnets of his, written at Seville, which justify the idea, however, that there was something in this city (as is usually the case with provincial towns), that peculiarly excited his spirit of sarcasm. The first of these sonnets was written in ridicule of some recruits gathered together by a captain Bercerra to join the forces sent under the duke of Medina, to repel the disembarcation of the earl of Essex, who hovered near Cadiz with his fleet. The second is more known. On the death of Philip II. in 1598, a magnificent catafalque was erected in the cathedral of Seville, “the most wonderful funeral monument,” says a narrator of the ceremony, “which human eyes ever had the happiness of seeing.”a All Seville was in ecstasy, the catafalque was superb; it did honour to Spain; and they built the catafalque: could provincial town have better cause to strut and boast?* The Andalusians, also, are addicted to gasconading, / and Cervantes could not resist the temptation of ridiculing both the monument and its vaunting erectors. In his “Voyage to Parnassus,” Cervantes calls this sonnet “the chief honour of his writings.”b After such an announcement it is bold to attempt a translation. This sort of witty burlesque can never be transfused into another language, for its point consists rather in association of ideas, which only those on the spot can enter into, than, in witty allusions common to all the world. The conclusion of the epigram is to this day the delight of the Spaniards, who all know it by heart. The species of sonnet is named an Estrambote, having three verses more than the proper fourteen.c The following translation being tolerably literal, may serve to satisfy the curiosity of the English reader, though it cannot do justice to the composition itself. For the sake of the Spanish one, the original is inserted underneath.d * This monument excited attention in the capital – Lope de Vega in his comedy of “La Esclava de su Galan,” “The slave of her Lover” makes a lady living in great retirement in this country, say, “I visited Seville but twice: once to see the king, whom heaven guard! and a second time to see the wondrous edifice of the monument; so that I was only to be tempted out by the grandest objects which heaven or earth contains.”e a

Quotation translated from Viardot, I, p. 22. Viardot, I, p. 22. c ‘Verses’ here used in the sense of ‘lines’. In fact the sonnet has 18 lines. d Translated by Mary Shelley (see Palacio, p. 686). The Spanish text is taken from Ríos, I, p. clxxix. Viardot translates the sonnet into French prose (I, p. 22). e Spoken by Elena in her opening speech in Act I, sc. i. b

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TO THE MONUMENT OF THE KING AT SEVILLE .

“I vow to God, I quake with my surprise! Could I describe it, I would give a crown – And who, that gazes on it in the town, But stands aghast to see its wond’rous size: Each part a million cost, I should devise; What pity ’t is, ere centuries have flown, Old Time will mercilessly cast it down! Thou rival’st Rome, O Seville, in my eyes! I bet, the soul of him who’s dead and blest, To dwell within this sumptuous monument, Has left the seats of sempiternal rest!’ A fellow tall, on deeds of valour bent, My exclamation heard, ‘Bravo!’ he cried, ‘Sir Soldier, what you say is true, I vow, And he who says the contrary has lied!’ With that, he pulls his hat upon his brow, Upon his sword’s hilt he his hand does lay, And frowns – and – nothing does, but walks away”*

The financial occupations of Cervantes at Seville were full of various annoyances; and it seems to have been his destiny at all times, to find his life beset with various forms of adversity. He was accused of malversation in the employment of monies entrusted to him. His poverty was his best defence, but it required other circumstances / to prove his innocence, and his honest heart and lofty soul must have been tortured by all the detail of accusation and defence. Viardot has, by examining the archives of Valladolid, Seville, and Madrid, found traces of various circumstances, which he details. In themselves some of them scarcely deserve record, except as happening to Cervantes, and showing how like the equally * “AL TUMULO DEL REY EN SEVILLA . ‘Voto á Dios que me espanta esta grandeza, y que diera un doblon por describilla, porque ¿ á quien no suspende y maravilla esta maquina insigne, esta braveza? Por Jesu Christo vivo, cada pieza vale mas que un millon, que es mancilla que esto no duré un siglo. – O gran Sevilla; Roma triunfante en animo y riqueza. Apostare que el anima del muerto, por gozar esto sitio, hoy ha dexado el Cielo de que goza eternamente!’ Esto oyo un valenton, y dixo: ‘Es cierto lo que dice voace, seor soldado, y quien dixere lo contrario miente.’ Y luego en continente caló el chapeo, requirio la espada, miro al soslayo, fuese, y no hubo nada.”

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unfortunate but more imprudent Burns, he was occupied by transactions antipathetic to his tastes and vocation. The first circumstance recorded by Viardot is indeed a mere mercantile casualty, full of annoyance at the time, but whose effects even to the sufferer, vanishes like footsteps in the sand, when the next tide flows.a Towards the end of 1594, while he was settling at Seville the accounts of his commissariat, and calling in with much difficulty several sums in arrear, he forwarded the receipts to the contaduria mayor of Madrid, in bills of exchange drawn upon Seville. One of these sums, arising from the taxation of the district of VelezMalaga, amounting to 7400 rials, (little more than 70l.) was intrusted by him in specie to a merchant of Seville named Simon Freire de Lima, who undertook to pay it into the treasury at Madrid. It was not paid, and Cervantes was forced to make a journey to the capital to demand from Friere the sum in question; but this man meanwhile became bankrupt, and had fled from Spain. Cervantes hastened back to Seville, and found the property of his debtor seized on by other creditors. He addressed a request / to the king, and a decree was published on the 7th of August 1595, ordering doctor Bernardo de Olmedilla, judge of los Grados at Seville, to take by privilege on the goods of Friere, the sum intrusted to him by Cervantes. This was done, and the money was sent by the judge to the general treasurer, don Pedro Mesia de Tobar, in a bill of exchange drawn on the 22d of November 1596.b The next anecdote is of more interest, and displays the style in which justice was carried on in Spain. Cervantes wrote from his heart and from bitter experience, when he introduces, in one of his tales, the arrival of a corregidor at an inn; and says, “The innkeeper and his wife were both frightened to death, for as when comets appear they always engender fear of disaster, so when the officers of justice enter a house of a sudden and unexpectedly, they alarm and agitate the consciences even of the innocent.” It appears that at this time the tribunal of the contaduria examined the treasury accounts with the greatest severity, emptied as it had been by the various wars which had been carried on, and by financial experiments which had failed. The inspector-general, of whom Cervantes was merely the agent, was sent for to Madrid to give in his accounts. He represented that the documents which served as vouchers were at Seville in the hands of Cervantes; upon this, without other form of trial, a royal order was sent to arrest him, and to send him under escort to the prison of the capital, where he was to be disposed of as the tribunal of accounts saw fit. Cervantes was accordingly thrown in prison. The deficit of which he was accused amounted only to 2644 rials, not quite 30l. He offered security for this sum, and was set at liberty, on condition that in thirty a See Viardot, I, pp. 22–3. Viardot makes the comparison with Camoëns, while Mary Shelley gives a context for her British readers with the reference to Burns, who was obliged to become an exciseman in order to support his family. b The above paragraph and the next two (to ‘Algiers.’) are translated and adapted from Viardot, pp. 22–3.

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days he should appear before the contaduria, and liquidate his accounts. In all this, it is evident that no real accusation was levelled against Cervantes, and that it was only the clumsy and arbitrary proceedings of Spanish law that occasioned his imprisonment. / Some years after the claim of the treasury was revived; the inspector of Baza, Gaspar Osorio de Tejada, sent in his accounts, at the end of 1602; these included an acknowledgment from Cervantes, proving, that that sum had been received by him in 1594, when he was commissioned to recover claims in arrear on that town and district. Having consulted on this point, the judges of the court of the treasury made a report, dated Valladolid, January the 24th, 1603, in which they gave an account of the arrest of Cervantes in 1597 for this same sum, and his conditional enlargement, adding that since then he had not appeared before them. It appears that in this very year, 1603, Cervantes removed with his family to Valladolid, where Philip III. resided with his court. There is no trace, however, of any proceedings against him; and it is evident that there was proof of his honesty sufficient to satisfy the officers of the treasury; and his honour in this and every other transaction stands clear. His poverty was the great and clinging evil of his life. Many housekeeping accounts, and notes, and bills, have been discovered at Valladolid, proving the distress which he and his family suffered. In 1603 there is a memorandum showing that his sister, donna Andrea, was engaged in superintending the household and wardrobe of a don Pedro de Toledo Osorio, marquis of Villafranca, lately returned from an expedition to Algiers. All these dates and papers seem to cast a gleam of light upon the history of Cervantes; yet after all they but render the “darkness visible,”a and these tiny lights becoming extinguished, we grope blinder than ever. It is generally supposed that Cervantes left Seville at the time of the death of Philip II. (1599). We find that he was at Valladolid in 1603, but both before and after this date it would appear that he resided in the province of La Mancha. His perfect knowledge of that country, his familiarity with its peculiarities, the lakes of Ruydera, the cave of Motesinos, the position of the fulling mills, and other places mentioned in “Don Quixote,” shows an / intimate knowledge of the face of the country, to be gained only by a residence. The common conjecture is that he resided for several years in La Mancha, where he had several relations, acting as agent for various persons, and executing such commissions as were intrusted to him, and which brought in some small income. But adversity followed him here also, and again he became an inmate of a prison; wherefore cannot be discovered. The people of La Mancha were singularly quarrelsome. About this time they entered on lawsuits and contentions one with another, concerning some silly rights of precedence, which they pursued with such acrimony and vehemence, that the population of the province became diminished.b a

Mary Shelley’s own allusion to Paradise Lost, I. 62. Most of the above paragraph and the next (to ‘recollect.”’) are translated from Viardot, I, p. 24. b

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To some such litigious proceeding Cervantes was probably the victim. It has been said that this disaster happened at Toboso, on account of a sarcasm he had uttered against a woman, and that her relations thus avenged her. The common and the probable notion, however, is that the inhabitants of the village of Argamasilla de Alba threw him into prison, being incensed against him, either because he claimed the arrears of tithes due to the grand prior of San Juan, or because he interfered with their system of irrigation, by turning aside a portion of the waters of the Guadiana, for the purpose of preparing saltpetre. To this day they show in Argamasilla de Alba an old house called Casa de Medrano, which immemorial tradition declares to have been the prison of Cervantes. It seems likely that he was confined for some time; and he was forced to have recourse to his uncle don Juan Barnabé de Saavedra, a citizen of Alcazar de San Juan, asking for protection and assistance. We are told that the expressions of a letter written by Cervantes to this uncle are remembered, and that it began with these words: “Long days and short but sleepless nights wear me out in this prison, or rather let me call it cavern.” In record of his ill-treatment here, he at the same time placed the residence of Don Quixote, in Argamasilla de Alba and refrained from mentioning / the name, saying, “In a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to recollect.” It is impossible here not to remember the beautiful image of lord Bacon, that calamity acts on the highminded as the crushing of perfumes, pressing the innate virtue out of each:a for in this prison Cervantes wrote “Don Quixote.” When we consider the ill-fortune that pursued him – his military career, which left him maimed and unrewarded – his captivity in Algiers, where he exerted a spirit of resistance sublime in its fearlessness and its risks, and whence he returned a beggar – his life spent as a sort of clerk where he gained his scanty daily bread, at the mercy of the arbitrary and litigious ministers of Spanish justice – and that he endured all the distresses incident to straitened means and friendlessness; when we consider that the end of all was to throw him into a squalid prison in an obscure village, where he must have felt all hopes, not only of advancement, but of attaining the means of existence, fail him – where in a dreary cavern-like chamber he passed long days and sleepless nights, weary and worn out: – when we think that he was now fifty-six years of age, a period when the fire of life burns dim – and then, when we compare all these sad depressing circumstances with the very outset of “Don Quixote,” we feel that there must have been something divine in the spirit of this man, which could place a soul within the ribs of death, and vivify darkness and suffering with so animated a creation. He himself speaks more modestly. “What,” he says, in his preface to “Don Quixote,” “could my barren and uncultivated understanding engender except the a Francis Bacon, 1st Baron Verulam and Viscount St Albans (1561–1626), ‘Of Adversitie’ in The Essayes or Counsells, Civill and Moral: ‘Certainly, virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed’ (1625 edn). The passage is mentioned in Falkner (published Feb. 1837) (MWSN, vol. 7, p. 117), where it is ascribed to ‘some author’. Mary Shelley illustrates the point with a British author while Viardot chooses an instance from Voltaire.

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history of an offspring, dry, tough, and whimsical, and full of various fancies which had never entered the imagination of another? – like one born in prison, where every discomfort dwells, and every odious sound has birth.”a With this we turn to the book itself, and it seems to / us that if Cervantes had never written more than the first chapter, his genius and originality had been acknowledged by all. There is so much life, such minute yet clear and characteristic painting – such an outset, promising so much, and in itself performing so much – that, but for its wisdom, it seems written by a man who had never known a check nor care. He must have felt happy while he wrote it; though the excitement of composition brings with it a reaction which, more than any other exercise of the brain, demands amusement and change. To turn exhausted from the written page, and find solitude and a dungeon walls about him, might well make him feel that imagination sterile, which was indeed exhausted by the very fertility and beauty of its creations. In 1604, Cervantes returned to what in Spain is called the court, that is, the town in which the monarch resided. He had left it thirteen years before, in hopes of earning a subsistence by the employment offered him. He had lived in poverty, and experienced a variety of disasters. During this period he had never thought of obtaining an income through authorship. Now he had with him that which in truth has proved to be his passport to immortality, and the admiration of the world. We may believe that an innate sense of the merit of his work led him to consider that he was not too sanguine in hoping thence to derive such profit and reputation as would rescue him from the distresses to which he had hitherto been the victim. But from first to last, in a worldly view, Cervantes was born to disappointment. His first attempt was to introduce himself to the notice of the duke of Lerma, the “Atlas of the monarchy,” as he calls him. The haughty favourite received him with disdain; and Cervantes, not less proud, renounced at once the humiliating task of seeking his favour.b His best and immediate resource was to print his book. But not only the fashion of the times demanded that it should be introduced under the nominal patronage of some great man, but the very title and nature of / “Don Quixote” rendered it necessary that in some way the public should from the outset be prepossessed in its favour, and let into the secret of its intentions. Cervantes applied to don Alonzo Lopez de Zuniga y Sotomayor, seventh duke of Bejar, a man who with literary pretensions himself, was pleased to arrogate the reputation of a patron of genius. A story is told, that the duke, understanding either that the work in question was a romance of chivalry, or that it was a burlesque, thought in either case his dignity compromised by its being introduced under the patronage of his name, and refused the author’s request. Cervantes, in reply, only begged permission to read a chapter of his work to him; this was granted: the first chapter a b

Translated from Viardot, I, p. 24. See Viardot, I, p. 25. Duke of Lerma: see p. 215.

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is enough indeed to awaken curiosity, to engage interest, and promise a rich harvest of amusement. The duke and his friends were so delighted, that they asked for another, and another chapter, till the whole book was read; and the duke, giving up his prepossession, gladly yielded his consent to be in a manner immortalised, by having his name inscribed on the first page of the work. It is added, that a morose priest, who was religious director of the duke, was shocked at the immorality of the work, and bitterly censured both it and its author. He, they say, was the original of the priest, at the duke and duchess’s table in the second part, whom Cervantes takes to task for his impertinent interference. Whatever truth there be in this story, and whether influenced by this ecclesiastic, or the worldly feeling that hardens the hearts of the prosperous against those who really need assistance, certainly the duke was no generous patron. Cervantes never dedicated another work to him, nor makes allusion, and he was ready enough to do so, when merited, to any kindness received from him.a Tradition preserves the story, that even when published, “Don Quixote” met with no popularity, and was hailed with no glad welcome.b The author was obscure – he had written nothing previously that had won the public ear, and so opened the way to success: the very / title of the book excited the censure and ridicule of common critics. It was in danger of becoming a dead letter. Cervantes perceived that his readers did not understand the scope of the book; but he felt its merits, and was sure that if once the public were incited to read, its general popularity must ensure. To allure attention therefore, and awaken curiosity, it is said that he published an anonymous pamphlet, which he called the “Buscapié,” (a name given to those little fusees or serpents, thrown forward in military operations to give light to a night mark), which affected to criticise his book, and insinuated, at the same time, that it was a covert and fine satire on several well known persons; at the same time, not mentioning who or what these personages were.c The existence of the “Buscapié” has been disputed, as well as that Cervantes was its author. Tradition asserted it, and brought its weighty testimony; but in addition to this, Los Rios brings forward a letter of a friend of his, don Antonio Ruidiaz, who saw and read the pamphlet, and gives the following account of it*: – “I saw the ‘Buscapié’ in the house of the late count de Saceda about sixteen years ago, and I read it in the short space of time for which that learned gentleman * Los Rios – Pruebas de la Vida. a

Viardot, I, p. 26. Viardot, I, p. 30. c The legend of the pamphlet El Buscapié was begun in 1759. While Ríos believed in its existence, Pellicer doubted the work existed. Its authenticity was debated during the 1840s and 50s. A hoax version of the work was published in 1848 and translated into English by Thomasina Ross in 1849 (see Ríos, I, pp. xvii–xviii, cxci–cxciv and Drake and Finello, esp. pp. 63–4, and p. 186). b

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lent it me; to whom also it had been lent, by I know not who, for a few days only. It was an anonymous pamphlet, in duodecimo, printed in this court, (en esta Corte – Madrid so called while the king made residence there,) with that title only. I do not remember the date of the year, nor the printer’s name: it contained about six sheets – good print, but bad paper. I will mention what my imperfect memory retains of its contents. “The author begins by mentioning, or feigning, that a book had been published some time ago, entitled, ‘Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ but that for some time he had felt no inclination to read it, conceiving that it was only one of the romances of the day, or that its author / had not talent sufficient to produce a work of any excellence. For this reason, he, like most others, felt no desire to read it; till at last, influenced by mere curiosity, he bought it, and having read it once, he felt impelled to read it again with more pleasure and attention; and then he became convinced that it was one of the cleverest books that had seen light, and a satire full of information and amusement, and written with the greatest dexterity and cleverness, for the purpose of dispelling the enthusiasm which the nation in general, and principally the nobles, felt for works of chivalry; and that the persons introduced were merely imaginary, brought in only for the sake of indicating those whose heads were thus turned. Nevertheless, it was not so entirely imaginary, but that an allusion might be perceived to the character and chivalrous actions of a certain champion, a favourite of fame, and of other paladins who had sought to imitate him, as well as other persons who had charge of the government of a most extensive and wealthy region of former times. The author went on to compare the incidents; and, although he artfully disguises some, he nevertheless plainly showed that he had in view the enterprises and gallantry of Charles V., as most of the points apply to this hero, though so veiled, both with regard to him and other persons, that it is impossible to point them out. At length he concluded, by saying, that to compensate to the author for the injury he had done him in the first instance, and to undeceive the prepossession of others, and that they might discover the treasure hid under that title, he had resolved to publish the ‘Buscapié,’ which might excite the attention of the unoccupied (which was almost all Spain), and entice them to take the book in hand and read it, well persuaded that whoever once cast his eyes on it, would appreciate at its just value that which they had before despised.”a Whether this story be true, and whether “Don Quixote” owed its first celebrity to the “Buscapié,” we will not decide; though I own I am led to reject it as unworthy. / Cervantes makes no allusion to it in his after works; and it seems more probable that it was written by some friend or disciple, than by himself. It is said that the trick succeeded: at any rate, the book at first excited no attention, and then, suddenly coming into vogue, it was devoured with insatiable curiosity. Four

a

Translation from Ríos, I, pp. cxci, cxcii.

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editions were published in Spain in one year, and its fame became spread to all neighbouring countries, and in no long time reached this island.a Books in those days sometimes enriched authors by gaining for them patrons and pensions; the mere sale brought no great profit. No doubt Cervantes’s distress was somewhat alleviated; but still poverty clung to him, while his very success excited the enmity of a variety of the men of letters of the day, who could not endure that a man whose talents they had regarded with no consideration, should suddenly pass over the heads of all: a cloud of satires, epigrams, and criticism were levelled against his work. Old rough doctor Johnson would have revelled in such testimony of his popularity, and Cervantes was at least secure in having the laugh on his side.b Los Rios, however, observes, that if the many satires, attacks, and persecutions, which the author and his book suffered had not been submerged in oblivion, or drowned in the quantity of eulogies and defences heaped on him by men of talent, who continued to subtract such disagreeable productions from the eyes of posterity, it would now appear, that “Don Quixote” had been written in the midst of a nation enemy to the muses.c Now the attacks of these men redound to their own discredit, displaying only their envy or incredible bad taste. Cervantes indeed had not spared the authors of his time, and they almost all set themselves in array against him. Lope de Vega, from the height of his prosperity, showed a condescending good nature, which, considering that he was attacked in “Don Quixote,” shows a sort of lion magnanimity: he even declared that the writings of Cervantes were not devoid of grace or style. Don Luis / de Gongora, a man of whom further mention will be made in this work, was his most virulent critic. Figuero, and Villegas both contributed their mite of disapprobation. We cannot tell how Cervantes viewed their attacks, but his warm heart must have been pained at the falling off of some of his friends; among these was Vicente Espinel, who had merit enough as a poet, perfect in his class, to hail with pleasure, instead of enviously depreciating, the merit of his friend.d Cervantes mentions some of these satires, and in particular, one sent to him in a letter when he was at Valladolid.* The circumstances accompanying this letter * “When I was at Valladolid, a letter was brought to my house which cost a rial. It contained a bad, silly discourteous sonnet, without wit or point, speaking ill of ‘Don Quixote,’ – so that I grudged the rial infinitely.”– Postcript to the “Voyage to Parnassus.”e a

Mary Shelley gives her own opinion in this paragraph, while drawing on information from Viardot, I, p. 31. b Samuel Johnson (1709–84), whose Lives of the Poets provided Mary Shelley with a model; if there is a particular reference, it may be to London, a Poem (1738), ll. 145–81. Stress is laid on the ‘snarling muse’ and the ‘scornful jest’ that impoverished merit attracts, and the difficulties that ‘surly virtue’ experiences in competing for patronage against glib flattery, but there is no particular emphasis on envy. Don Quixote was one of only three books that, Johnson said, one might wish were longer. c See Ríos, I, p. xvi. d The information on the attacks is translated from Viardot, I, p. 31. e Ríos, I, p, cxciv.

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show that he was settled and had a house in that city. Philip III. had established his court there, and doubtless Cervantes thought that in the first flush of success his being in its immediate neighbourhood might occasion some noble to become his patron. When Philip IV. was born, James I. of England sent admiral lord Howard to present a treaty of peace, and to congratulate Philip III. on the birth of his son. He was received with the utmost magnificence: bull fights, tourna- 1605. ments, masked balls, religious ceremonies – all of feasting and splendour that the court could display, were put in requisition. The duke of Lerma caused an account of these festivities to be written: it is said that Cervantes was the author. These rejoicings were scarcely over when an event occurred greatly to distress Cervantes, who seems to have been marked out by fortune for the endurance of every variety of galling disaster.a There lived in Valladolid a cavalier of Saint-Jago, don Gaspar de Ezpeleta, an intimate acquaintance of the marquis de Falces. On the night of the 27th of June, 1605, this gentlemen, having supped, as he often did, with his friend, returned home on foot over an open field to a wooden bridge over the river Esqueva. He / was here met by a stranger wrapped in a large cloak, who accosted him with incivility, and a quarrel ensuing, they drew their swords, and don Gaspar fell pierced by many wounds. Calling for help, and bleeding profusely, he staggered on towards a house near the bridge; part of the first floor of this house was occupied by donna Luisa de Montoya, widow of the historian Esteban de Garibay, with her two sons; the other part by Cervantes and his family. The cries of the wounded man drew the attention of one of the sons of Garibay, who rousing Cervantes, who had gone to bed, they proceeded to his assistance. They found him lying at their porch, his sword in one hand and buckler in another, and carried him into the apartment of donna Luisa, where he expired on the following day. An inquest was held by the alcayd de casa y corte, Cristoval de Villaroel, who, like all other officers of justice in Spain, took the safe side of suspecting the worst, and throwing every body into prison. Cervantes, his wife, donna Catalina de Palacios y Salazar; his daughter donna Isabel de Saavedra, twenty years of age; his sister donna Andrea de Cervantes, who was a widow, with a daughter named donna Costanza de Ovando, twenty-eight years of age; a nun called donna Magdalena de Sotomayor, who was also termed a sister of Cervantes; his servant maid Maria de Cevallos, and two friends, who were staying in his house, one named Señor de Cigales, and a Portuguese, Simon Mendez, made their depositions, and were indiscriminately thrown into prison. It is so usual in Italy as well as Spain to suppose that all those who come to the assistance of a murdered man, have had a hand in his assassination, that such an act probably excited no wonder.b After a confinement of eight a Information in this sentence and the next four paragraphs (to ‘ this purpose.’) is largely derived and translated from Viardot, I, pp. 32–4, with Mary Shelley’s interpolations such as the comment on Cervantes’ liking for women’s society. b Mary Shelley might be thinking of the rumour-mongering surrounding the wounding of Sergeant-Major Masi in Pisa in 1822, to which she had been a witness (see Holmes, pp. 706–8, MWSL, I, pp. 227–8).

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days, and a vast quantity of interrogation they were, on giving security, set at liberty. The depositions taken on this occasion show that Cervantes was still employed as an agent. When we consider that he maintained all these relations, we wonder less at his poverty, while we admire his liberality and kindness of / heart. Nor can we help remarking from this enumeration of his household, that Cervantes had that predilection for women’s society which characterises the gentler and more gifted of his sex. Though it is impossible to fix dates with any precision, there is reason to believe that when the court returned to Madrid in 1606, Cervantes followed it, and continued to inhabit that city to the end of his life. The freedom and society of a capital is always agreeable to a literary man; and his native town of Alcala de Henares, and his wife’s of Esquivias were at a convenient distance. It has been ascertained that in June, 1609, he lived in the Calle (street) de la Magdelena; a little after, behind the college of Nuestra Señora de Loretto; in June, 1610, at 9 Calle del Leon; in 1614 in Calle de Las Huertas; afterwards, in the Calle de el Duque de Alva, at the corner of St. Isidoro; and lastly, in 1616, at 20 Calle del Leon, where he died. It must rather have been the capital than the court that attracted him, for he lived in obscurity and neglect. He had only two friends of rank, who allowed him some small income; these were don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas, archbishop of Toledo, and don Pedro Fernandez de Castro, count of Lemos; and this was done through no solicitation on the part of Cervantes, nor in reward for any adulatory dedication, but simply out of admiration for his talent, and sympathy for his poverty.*a At this time despotism and bigotry were extending their influence. Spain had degenerated, and letters, cultivated not long before with enthusiasm, were falling into neglect. The nobility surrounded themselves with jesters and flatterers, neglecting men of merit. Of the few of the old leaven, men admiring talent, and desirous of serving it, were the cardinal de Toledo, and the count of Lemos. The first was respected for his retired habits and generosity; / the other for his munificence and popularity. The cardinal treated men of letters with kindness and urbanity. The count sought out the necessitous and suffering among them, assisting them at their need with unlimited generosity. In 1610 the count of Lemos was named viceroy of Naples; and here again Cervantes was doomed to disappointment. The count of Lemos held in high esteem the two Argensolas. These brothers, Lupercio and Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola, were of a family originally of Ravenna in Italy, and settled in Aragon. They were surnamed the Horaces of Spain. Before he was twenty, Lupercio wrote * Torres Marquez, master of the pages to the archbishop of Toledo, was a friend of Cervantes, and took every occasion to proclaim his genius and worth. It was through him, probably, that the archbishop bestowed a pension on him. a The comment in the text sounds like the opinion of Mary Shelley but is adapted from Viardot, I, p. 34, as is the information in the footnote.

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three tragedies, which met with success, and which Cervantes praises highly in “Don Quixote:” too highly, indeed, for they are of the old school, wanting in versimilitude and regularity, and not elevated by the merits of poetry.a Philip III., appointed him historiographer of the kingdom of Aragon. Bartolomé, his junior by a year, was an ecclesiastic and also a poet. These brothers were residing at Saragossa, when the count, wishing to have them with him, offered Lupercio the place of secretary of state and war at Naples, and requested that his brother should accompany him. The count also confided to them the charge of choosing the persons to fulfil the under places in their office, and they, confiding in the count’s taste, selected various poets for this purpose. Cervantes was their friend; he had reason to hope that they would use their interest when arrived at Naples to advance him. But he was disappointed. He takes a gentle revenge in his “Voyage to Parnassus.” Mercury bids him invite the two Argensolas to assist in the conquest of Parnassus, but Cervantes excuses himself, saying, “I am afraid they would not listen to me – although I am desirous to oblige in all things – since I have been told that my will and my eyes are both short-sighted, and my poverty-stricken appearance would ill suit such a journey. They have fulfilled none of the many promises they made me at parting. Much I / hoped – for they promised much; but perhaps their new occupations have caused them to forget what they then said.”*b Cervantes meanwhile had relinquished business, or nearly so: his means, considering the number of persons he maintained, were strait indeed: he felt that he was neglected, while others of far less talent basked in the favour of the court. But

* The Argensolas were men much esteemed in their day, and are so often mentioned by Cervantes and Lope de Vega, that they must not be passed over in silence. But as there is nothing very original in their writings, we shall take the liberty of dismissing them in a note. The elder, Lupercio, the historiographer for Aragon, secretary to the empress Maria of Austria, and secretary of state to the count of Lemos when viceroy of Naples, died in that city in 1613, at the age of forty-eight. He founded an academy at Naples, and was a studious and laborious man. He burned a considerable portion of his poems just before his death, as not worthy to survive him. Bartolomé was an ecclesiastic. He followed his brother to Naples. On his death he quitted Italy. He continued the “Annals of Aragon,” and wrote a history of the conquest of the Molucca islands; a work written with judgment and elegance. His secular poetry is so similar to his brother’s that they cannot be distinguished one from the other. Following the same school, adopting the same tastes, and neither of them original, it is not surprising that their productions bore a close resemblance. The best works, however, of Bartolomé are his sacred Canzoni. He died at Saragossa, in the year 1631, at the age of sixty-five. a

Don Quixote, pt 1, ch. xlviii (mentioned in Viardot, p. 19). Viaje del Parnaso, cap. 3. The Argensolas (Bartolom Leonardo de Argensola (1562–1631) and Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola (1559–1613)) were poets, historians and members of the Aragonese School; they are mentioned in Ríos, I, p. xxii and in Bouterwek. Much, though not quite all, of this note is also deducible from Sismondi, IV, pp. 69–73; Mary Shelley’s dates of birth (which are slightly different from the ones given above) coincide with Sismondi. b

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he did not hunt after patrons nor pension: he lived quiet and secluded, expecting nothing, repining at nothing – content, if not satisfied. It is certainly strange that in those days, when it was considered a part of a noble’s duty to protect and patronise men of letters, that Cervantes should have been thus passed over. Some men join a sort of querulousness and snarling independence to considerable self-esteem, which renders it difficult to oblige them. But there was no trace of anything of the sort in Cervantes – no trace of any quarrel or complaint; nor, though himself obscure, was his book unknown. There is a story told of Philip III., that he was one day standing in the balcony of his palace at Madrid, overlooking the Manzanares, and he observed a student walking on the banks of the river, reading, and interrupting himself every now and then with strange gesticulations and bursts of laughter. The king exclaimed, “Either that man is mad, or he is reading ‘Don Quixote.’” The / courtiers around, eager to confirm their sovereign’s sagacity, started off to ascertain the fact, and found indeed that the book the student held was “Don Quixote;” yet not one among them remembered to remind their sovereign that the author of that delightful work lived poor and forgotten.a In the licence to print the “Second Part of Don Quixote,” another story is told, showing how the Spaniards themselves regarded the obscurity in which they suffered the author to live: it is related by the licentiate, Francisco Marquez Torres, master of the pages to the archbishop of Toledo, to whom the censorship of the work was intrusted. He relates that in 1615, an ambassador arrived at Madrid from Paris, whose object being complimentary, he was followed by a numerous suite of nobles and gentlemen of rank and education. Among others, the ambassador visited the archbishop of Toledo. On the 25th February, 1615, the archbishop returned the visit, accompanied by various churchmen and chaplains, and, among others, by the licentiate, Marquez Torres, himself. While the archbishop paid his visit, those of his suite conversed with the French gentlemen present, and they discussed the merits of various works of talent then popular, and in particular of the “Second Part of Don Quixote,” then about to appear. When the foreign cavaliers heard the name of Cervantes, they all began to speak at once, and to declare the estimation in which he was held in France. Their praises were such, that the licentiate Marquez Torres offered to take them to the house of the author, that they might see and know him – an offer accepted with delight, while a thousand questions were asked concerning the age, profession, rank, and situation of Cervantes. The licentiate was obliged to confess that he was a gentleman and a soldier, but old and poor; and his reply so moved one of his audience, that he exclaimed, “Is it possible that Spain does not maintain such a man, in honour and comfort from the public purse?” While another, with less warmth of heart, / though equal admiration, exclaimed, “If necessity obliges him to write, may he never be rich! for, being poor, he by his works enriches the world;” – words a

The above paragraph and the next (to ‘neglect.’) translated from Viardot, I, pp. 34–5.

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to comfort, with the hope of fame, one whose life was clouded by penury and neglect. We cannot help observing that the court and the nobles did not form the whole world. Cervantes had many dear, many well-informed and valued friends, and among these he could forget the carelessness of those who considered all reputation and prosperity to be inclosed within their magic circle; while in the case of Cervantes, it is proved that though neglected by them, the whole world rung with his fame and praise. For some years Cervantes published nothing more. In 1608 he brought out a corrected edition of the “First Part of Don Quixote.” He was employed, meanwhile, in a variety of works which appeared afterwards in quick succession, on which he employed himself at the same time. His “Voyage to Parnassus” peculiarly engaged his attention, but he feared that the publication, with its gentle attack on the Argensolas, might displease his kind patron, the count of Lemos. He therefore brought out first his “Twelve Tales” (“Novelas Exemplares”) which raised yet higher his character as an author.a These tales are dedicated in a few respectful lines to the count of Lemos; the preface to them is very interesting. Cervantes has been accused unjustly of vanity and boasting: of this he is innocent; but he had something of that feeling, the inherent quality of authors, which led him to dwell on his own idea and fortunes (what could be nearer, or better known, or more deeply felt by him?) the same that led Rousseau to make his confessions,b and which when indulged in with good faith and without querulousness, sits well on a writer, and interests us in him. “I should be well content,” he says, “to be excused this preface, and to give instead my portrait, such as it was painted by the famous don Juan de Jauregui: with this my ambition would be satisfied; and the curiosity would be gratified / of those who desire to know what the countenance and person is of him who has dared bring before the world so many inventions; and below the portrait I would place these words: ‘He whom you here see with a face resembling an eagle’s with chesnut brown hair, smooth and open brow, vivacious eyes, a hooked yet well-proportioned nose; with a beard now silver, but which twenty years ago was golden; thick mustachios and small mouth; ill-formed teeth, of which but few remain; a person between two extremes, neither tall nor short; of sanguine complexion, rather fair than dark; somewhat heavy about the shoulders, and not very light of foot; – this, I say, is the face of the author of ‘Galatea,’ and of ‘Don Quixote de la Mancha,’ – he who, in imitation of Cæsar Caporal, the Perugian, made a voyage to Parnassus, and wrote other works, which wander lost, even with their master’s name. He is usually called Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. He was for many years a soldier, and a captive for more than five, where he learned to bear adversity with patience. In the naval a

Exemplary Novels (1613), which take the form of twelve long short stories. The boasting he is accused of is his claim that he is the first to write novellas in Spanish (see Manuel Durán, Cervantes (New York: Twayne, 1974), p. 50). b Mary Shelley read the Confessions (1783) in 1815 (MWSJ, I, p. 89); see vol. 3, ‘Rousseau’.

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battle of Lepanto he lost his left hand by a shot from an arquebuse, a wound which may appear a deformity, but which he considers a beauty, having received it on the most memorable and noble event which past ages ever saw, or those to come can hope to witness – fighting under the victorious banners of the son of that lustre of war, Charles V., of happy memory.’”a There is certainly nothing boastful nor ungraceful in this – rather are we glad to find how Cervantes, old and poor, could dwell with complacency on past adversity, and cast the halo of glory round his misfortunes. These tales established more firmly than ever the high reputation of Cervantes, and he now ventured to publish his “Voyage to Parnassus;” and after this the least successful of his publications, or, rather, that which is the only failure among them – his volume of “Comedias y Entremeses,” which he composed according to the new school introduced by Lope de Vega, but which were never acted. In his preface to this work he gives / some account of the origin of the Spanish drama, and the amelioration that he, in his younger days, introduced, which has already been quoted. He goes on to say, “Called away by other occupations, I laid aside my pen, and meanwhile Lope de Vega, that prodigy of nature, appeared, and raised himself to the sovereignty of the drama. He vanquished and reduced under his dominion all writers of plays: he filled the world with dramas, excellently written and well conceived, and that in so great number, that ten thousand sheets of paper would not contain them; and, what is surprising, he has seen them all acted, or known that they were acted. All those who have wished to share the glory of his labours, collectively, have not written the half of what he alone has given forth. And when,” he continues, “I returned to the old employment of my leisure, fancying that the age which echoed my praises still endured, I began again to write plays, but I found no birds in the accustomed nest – I mean, I found no manager who asked for them, although he was informed that they were written; I threw them, therefore, into the corner of a trunk, and condemned them to eternal silence. A bookseller then told me that he would have bought them, if an author of reputation had not told him, that my prose was worth something; but nothing could be expected from my verse. To confess the truth, these words mortified me deeply; without doubt, I am either much changed, or the age has arrived at a higher degree of perfection, against the usual course of things, for I have always heard past times praised. I re-read my comedies, as well as some interludes I had mingled with them, and I found that they were not so bad, but that I might bring them out from what an author calls darkness, to what others may, perhaps, name day. I grew angry, and sold them to the bookseller who now publishes them. He gave me a reasonable price, and I received the money without caring for the rebuffs of the actors. I wish that they were the best ever written; and if, dear reader, you find any thing good in them, I wish / when you meet this ill-natured

a

Mary Shelley is quoting from the first paragraph of the ‘Prologo Al Lector’.

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author, you would tell him to repent, and not to judge them so severely, since, after all, they contain no incongruities nor striking faults.”a Unfortunately, the author was right – the pieces are very bad; so bad, that when Blas de Nasano reprinted them a century afterwards, he could find nothing better to say of them, than that they were purposely written badly, in ridicule of the extravagant plays then in vogue. Cervantes published another slight work in this year. The custom of poetic games (giustas poeticas) was still preserved in Spain, which had been instituted even from the time of John II. Pope Paul V. having, in 1614, canonised the famous Saint Theresa, her apotheosis was given as the subject for competition. Lope de Vega was named one of the judges. Cervantes entered the lists, and sent in an ode; it did not receive the prize, but it is published among those selected as the best, in the account written of the feasts which all Spain celebrated in honour of a native and illustrious saint. Two works employed Cervantes at this time – “Persiles and Sigismunda,” and the “Second Part of Don Quixote.” He appears to have intended to bring out the former first, but the publication of Avellanada’s “Don Quixote” caused him to hasten the appearance of the latter.b The name of the real author of this book is unknown; he assumed that of the licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de Avellanada, a native of Tordesillas. No plagiarism is more impudent and inexcusable. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza were the offspring and the property of Cervantes: to take these original and unparalleled creations out of his hands – to make them speak and act according to the fancy of another, and that while he was alive, and still occupied in adorning them with fresh deeds and thoughts, all his own, is a sort of theft no talent could excuse. Avellanada’s “Don Quixote” is not destitute of talent; but it is impossible to read it – the mind of the reader is tormented by finding another knight, and another esquire, whom he is called to look upon as the / same, but who are very different. The adventures are clever enough; but the soul of the actors is gone. Don Quixote is no longer the perfect gentleman, with feelings so noble, pure, and imaginative, and Sancho is a lout, whose talk is folly, without the salt of wit. Cervantes, heartily disgusted, and highly indignant, hastened to publish his continuation. In dedicating his comedies to the count of Lemos, at the commencement of 1615, he says, “Don Quixote has buckled on his spurs, and is hastening to kiss the feet of your excellency. I am afraid he will arrive a little out of humour, because he lost his way, and was ill-treated at Tarragona: nevertheless, he has proved, upon examination, that he is not the hero of that story, but another who wished to look like him, but did not succeed.”c a

Quotations translated from Ríos, I, pp. cxcvi–cxcvii. Three short paragraphs from Viardot, I, p. 36. c Translated from ‘Dedicatoria Al Conde de Lemos’, Ocho Comedias y Ocho Entremeses (1615). The quotation is included in a paragraph Mary Shelley is drawing upon from Viardot, I, p. 37. b

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In his dedication of the Second Part to the count of Lemos, he says, in not ungraceful allusion to the extent of his fame, while at the same time he covertly alludes to his expectation of being invited to Naples, “Many have told me to hurry it, to get rid for them of the disgust caused by another Quixote, who, under the name of the Second Part, has wandered through the world. And he who has shown himself most impatient is the great emperor of China, who a month ago wrote me a letter in Chinese, asking, or rather entreating me to send it for he was desirous of founding a college for the study of the Castilian language, and he wished ‘Don Quixote’ to be the book read in it; at the same time, offering that I should be rector of the college: but I replied that I had not health to undertake so long a journey; and besides being ill, I was poor; and emperor for emperor, and monarch for monarch, there was the great count of Lemos at Naples, who assisted me as much as I wished, though he did not found colleges nor rectorships.”a This was the last work that Cervantes published. He had finished “Persiles and Sigismunda,” and meditated the “Second Part of Galatea,” and two other works, whose subjects we cannot guess, though he has mentioned / the titles (“Bernardo” and “Las Semanas del Jardin”); but of these no trace remains. He published the “Second Part of Don Quixote” at the end of 1615, and being then sixty-eight years of age, he was attacked by the malady which not long after caused his death. Hoping to find relief in the air of the country during spring, on the 2d of the following April he made an excursion to Esquivias, but, getting worse, he was obliged to return to Madrid. He narrates his journey back in his preface to “Persiles and Sigismunda:” and in this we find the only account we possess of his illness. “It happened, dear reader, that as two friends and I were returning from Esquivias – a place famous on many accounts, – in the first place for its illustrious families, and secondly for its excellent wines, – being arrived near Madrid, we heard, behind, a man on horseback, who was spurring his animal to its speed, and appeared to wish to get up to us, of which he gave proof soon after, calling out and begging us to stop; on which we reined up, and saw arrive a country-bred student, mounted on an ass, dressed in grey, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword and scabbard, and a smooth ruff with strings; true it is, that of these he had but two, so that his ruff was always falling on one side, and he was at great trouble to put it right. When he reached us, he said, ‘Without doubt your Honours are seeking some office or prebend at court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the king, neither more nor less, to judge by the speed you make; for truly my ass has been counted the winner of the course more than once.’ One of my companions replied, ‘The horse of señor Miguel de Cervantes is the cause – he steps out so well.’ Scarcely had the student heard the name of Cervantes than he threw himself off his ass, so that his bag and portmanteau fell to right and left – for he travelled with all this luggage – and rushing towards me, and seizing my left arm, exclaimed, ‘Yes, yes! this is the able hand, the famous being, the delightful writer, a

Translated from ‘Dedicatoria Al Conde de Lemos’, Don Quixote, pt 2 (1615).

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and, finally, the joy of the muses!’ As for me, hearing him accumulate praises so rapidly, / I thought myself obliged in politeness to reply, and taking him round the neck in a manner which caused his ruff to fall off altogether, I said, ‘I am indeed Cervantes, sir; but I am not the joy of the muses, nor any of the fine things you say: but go back to your ass, mount again, and let us converse, for the short distance we have before us.’ The good student did as I desired; we reined in a little, and continued our journey at a more moderate pace. Meanwhile, my illness was mentioned, and the good student soon gave me over, saying, ‘This is a dropsy, which not all the water of the ocean, could you turn it fresh and drink it, would cure. Señor Cervantes, drink moderately, and do not forget to eat, for thus you will be cured without the aid of other medicine.’ ‘Many others have told me the same thing,’ I replied; ‘but I can no more leave off drinking till I am satisfied, than if I were born for this end only. My life is drawing to its close; and, if I may judge by the quickness of my pulse, it will cease to beat by next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You have begun your acquaintance with me in an evil hour, since I have not time left to show my gratitude for the kindness you have displayed.’ At this moment we arrived at the bridge of Toledo, by which I entered the town, while he followed the road of the bridge of Segovia. What after that happened to me fame will recount: my friends will publish it, and I shall be desirous to hear. I embraced him again; he made me offers of service, and, spurring his ass, left me as ill, as he was well disposed to pursue his journey. Nevertheless, he gave me an excellent subject for pleasantry; but all times are not alike. Perhaps the hour may come when I can join again this broken thread; and shall be able to say what here I leave out, and which I ought to say. Now, farewell pleasure! farewell joy! farewell, my many friends! I am about to die; and I leave you, desirous of meeting you soon again, happy, in another life.”a Such is Cervantes’s adieu to the world; self-possessed, / and animated by that resigned and cheerful spirit which accompanied him through life. He wrote another farewell to his protector, the count of Lemos, in his dedication of this same work: it is dated 19th April, 1616. “I should be glad,” he says, “not to apply to myself, as I must, the old verses which men formerly celebrated, that begin ‘the foot already in the stirrup;’ for with little alteration, I can say, that with my foot in the stirrup, and feeling the agonies of death, I write you, great lord, this letter. Yesterday extreme unction was administered me; to-day, I take up my pen; my time is short; my pains increase; my hopes fail; yet I wish to live to see you again in Spain; and perhaps the joy I should then feel would restore me to life. However, if I must lose it, the will of heaven be done; but let your excellency at least be aware of my wish, and learn that you had in me an affectionate servant, who desired to show his service even beyond death.” Four days after writing this dedication, Cervantes died, on the 23d of April, 1616, aged sixty-nine. In his will, he a The long paragraph above, and the next (to ‘gives of himself.’) is mostly taken from Viardot, I, pp. 42–5.

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named his wife, and his neighbour, the licentiate Francisco Nuñez, his executors. He ordered that he should be buried in a convent of nuns of Trinity, founded four years before, in the Calle del Humilladero, where his daughter donna Isabel had a short time before taken the vows. No doubt this last wish of Cervantes was complied with; but in 1633, the nuns left the Calle del Humilladero, and went to inhabit another convent in the Calle de Cantaranas, and the place of his interment is thus forgotten; no stone, no tomb, no inscription marks the spot. We have to regret also the loss of his two portraits, painted by his friends Jauregui and Pacheco: the one we have is a copy made in the reign of Philip IV., and attributed to various painters; it resembles the description before quoted, which Cervantes gives of himself. In calling to mind all the events of this great man’s life, we are struck by the equanimity of temper preserved throughout. As a soldier, he showed courage; as a / captive, fortitude and daring; as a man struggling with adversity, honesty, perseverance, and contentment. He speaks of himself as poor, but he never repines. In all the knowledge of the world displayed in “Don Quixote,” there is no querulousness, no causticity, no bitterness: a noble enthusiasm animated him to his end. Despite his ridicule of books of chivalry, romantic in his own tastes, his last work, “Persiles and Sigismunda,” is more romantic than all. His genius, his imagination, his wit, his natural good spirits and affectionate heart, did, we must hope, stand in lieu of more worldly blessings, and rendered him as internally happy as they have rendered him admirable and praiseworthy to all men to the end of time.*a His life has been drawn to such a length, that there is no space for a very detailed account of his works; still something more must be said. His first publication, “Galatea,” is beautiful in its spirit, interesting and pleasing in its details, but not original: as a work it is cast in the same mould as other pastorals that went * Coleridge’s summary of the character and life of Cervantes, though not correct in letter, is admirable in spirit: “A Castilian of refined manners; a gentleman true to religion, and true to honour. A scholar and a soldier, he fought under the banners of don John of Austria, at Lepanto, and lost his arm, and was captured. Endured slavery, not only with fortitude, but with mirth; and, by the superiority of nature, mastered and overawed his barbarian owner. Finally ransomed, he resumed his native destiny – the awful task of achieving fame; and for that reason died poor, and a prisoner, while nobles and kings, over their goblets of gold, gave relish to their pleasures by the charms of his divine genius. He was the inventor of novels for the Spaniards; and in his ‘Persiles and Sigismunda’ the English may find the germ of their ‘Robinson Crusoe.’” “The world was a drama to him. His own thoughts, in spite of poverty and sickness, perpetuated for him the feelings of youth. He painted only what he knew, and had looked into; but he knew, and had looked into much indeed; and his imagination was ever at hand to adapt and modify the world of his experience. Of delicious love he fabled, yet with stainless virtue.”b a This summary paragraph marks the end of Mary Shelley's use of Viardot and Rios. She writes from this point onwards from the perspective of her own reading of Cervantes. b Coleridge was a family friend. His opinion of Cervantes is included in a review of his Literary Remains, ed. H. N. Coleridge, Quarterly Review, LIX (1837), 5.

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before. Nor was Cervantes a poet. Many men have imagination, and can write verses, without being poets. Coleridge gives an admirable definition: “Good prose consists in good words in good places; poetry, in the best words in the best places.”a Cervantes had imagination and invention: the Spanish language offered great facility, and he wrote it always with purity; so that here and there we find / lines and stanzas that are poetry, but, on the whole, there is a want of that concentration, severe taste, and perfect ear for harmony that form poetry. Yet when we recur to the “Numantia,” we find this sentence unjust, for there is poetry of conception and passion in the “Numantia” of the highest order; nor is it wanting in that of language. It has been mentioned that of the twenty or thirty plays which Cervantes says he wrote, soon after his marriage, “Numantia” and “El Trato de Argel” (Life in Algiers) alone remain.b They are written on the simplest plan, though not on the Greek; they are without choruses, without entanglement of plot, sustained only by impassioned dialogue and situations of high-wrought interest. The “Numantia” is founded on the siege of that city, under Scipio Africanus, when the unfortunate inhabitants destroyed themselves, their wives and children, and their property, rather than fall, and let them fall into the conquerors’ hands.c It is divided into four acts: the first two are the least impressive, though containing scenes of extreme pathos, and well calculated to raise by degrees the interest of the reader to the horrors that ensue. Scipio, desirous of sparing the lives of his men, resolves to assault the city no more, but, digging a trench round it on all sides, except where the river flows, means to reduce it by famine. The Numantines determine to endure all to the last. They consult the gods, and dark auguries repel every hope: the dreadful pains of hunger creep about the city; and when two betrothed meet, and the lover asks the maiden but to stay awhile that he may gaze on her, he exclaims— “What now? what stand’st thou mutely thinking, Thou of my thought the only treasure? Lira. I’m thinking how thy dream of pleasure And mine so fast away are sinking; It will not fall beneath the hand Of him who wastes our native land. For long, or e’er the war be o’er, My hapless life shall be no more. / a

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Table Talk (1835), entry for 12 July 1827. Numantia (written between 1580–87); cf. P. B. Shelley’s remarks on the play (1821): ‘after wading through the singular stupidity of the 1st act, began to be greatly delighted, & at length interested in a very high degree by the power of the writer in awakening pity & admiration, in which I hardly know by whom he is excelled. There is little, I allow, in a strict sense to be called poetry in this play, but the command of language & the harmony of versification is so great as to deceive one into an idea that there is poetry’ (PBSL, II, pp. 286–7). The play is summarised in the Quarterly Review, XXV (1821), 6–12 and by Sismondi, III, pp. 373–92. c Scipio Africanus (236 – 183 BC) conqueror of Spain. He defeated Hannibal in the Second Punic War, earning the cognomen ‘Africanus’ (Howatson, p. 511). b

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Morandro. Joy of my soul, what has thou said? Lira. That I am worn with hunger so, That quickly will th’ o’erpowering woe For ever break my vital thread. What bridal rapture dost thou dream, From one at such a sad extreme? For, trust me, ere an hour be past, I fear I shall have breathed my last. My brother fainted yesterday, By wasting hunger overborne; And then my mother, all out-worn By hunger, slowly sunk away. And if my health can struggle yet With hunger’s cruel power, in truth It is because my stronger youth Its wasting force hath better met. But now so many a day hath pass’d, Since aught I’ve had its powers to strengthen; It can no more the conflict lengthen, But it must faint and fail at last. Morandro. Lira, dry thy weeping eyes; But ah! let mine, my love, the more Their overflowing rivers pour, Wailing thy wretched agonies. But though thou still art held in strife With hunger thus incessantly; Of hunger still thou shalt not die, So long as I retain my life. I offer here from yon high wall, To leap o’er ditch and battlement; Thy death one instant to prevent, I fear not on mine own to fall. The bread the Roman eateth now, I’ll snatch away and bear to thee; For, oh! ’tis worse than death to see, Lady, thy dreadful state of woe.”*

After this the scenes of horror accumulate; – children crying to their mothers for bread; brothers lamenting over each other’s suffering; and some repining at, and others nobly anticipating the hour when death and flames are to envelope all. Such scenes, denuded of their poetry, are mere horrors; but clothed, as Cervantes has clothed them, in the language of the affections, and / of the loftier passions of the soul, the reader, even while trembling with the excitement, reads on and exults at last, when not a Numantine survives to grace Scipio’s triumph. Nothing * Quarterly Review, vol. xxv. [pp. 8–9].

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can be more truly national than the drama; and, as if fearful that a Spanish audience would feel too deeply the catastrophe, he introduces Spain, the river Duero, War, Sickness, and Famine, as allegorical personages, who, while they mourn over the present, prophesy the future triumphs of their country. Another merit of this play is one not usual in Spanish authors: it is of no more than the necessary length to develope its interest; there is no long spinning out, and except quite at the outset, before the poet had warmed to his subject, it has not a cold or superfluous line. It is indeed a monument worthy of Cervantes’s genius, and proves the height to which he could soar, and brings him yet in closer resemblance to Shakespeare; showing that he could depict the grand and terrible, the pathetic and the deeply tragic, with the same master hand. It is said that this tragedy was acted during the frightful siege of Saragossa by the French in the last war; and the Spaniards found in the example of their forefathers, and in the spirit and genius of their greatest man, fresh inducements to resist: this is a triumph for Cervantes, worthy of him, and shows how truly and how well he could speak to the hearts of his countrymen.a In the comedy “Life in Algiers” there cannot be said to be any plot at all. Cervantes brought back from his captivity an intense horror of Christian suffering in Africa; and he had it much at heart to awaken in the minds of his countrymen, not only sympathy, but a spirit of charity, that would lead them to assist in the redemption of captives. He thus brings forward various pictures of suffering, such as would best move the hearts of the audience, and such as he himself had witnessed. Aurelio and Silvia, affianced lovers, are captives, and are respectively loved by Yusuf and Zara, the Moors who own them. In the old Spanish style, feelings are personified and brought on the stage. Fatima, Zara’s / confidant, seeks by incantations to bend Aurelio to her mistress’s will. She is told by a Fury, that such power cannot be exercised over a Christian, but Necessity and Occasion are sent to move him by the suggestions they instil by whispers, and which he echoes as his own thoughts. He almost falls into the snare they present by filling his mind with prospects of ease and pleasure, in exchange for the hardships he undergoes; but he resists the temptation, and is finally set free with Silvia. Besides, these, we have the picture of two captives, who escape and cross the desert to Oran, as Cervantes had once schemed to do himself. One of them appears worn and famished – willing to return to captivity so to avoid death: he prays to the Virgin, and a lion is sent, who guards and guides him on his darksome solitary way. To rouse still more the compassion of the audience, there is one scene where the public crier comes on to sell a mother and father, and two children: the elder one has a sense of his situation and of the trials he is to expect with firmness; the younger knows

a

The performance at the siege of Sargossa (1808–9) during the Peninsular War is mentioned in Sismondi, III, 392; Mary Shelley omits Sismondi’s suggestion that the ferocity of the drama owes something to the auto da fé.

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nothing beyond his fear at being torn from his mother’s side. A merchant buys the younger, and bids him come with him.a “Juan. I cannot leave my mother, sir, to go With others. Mother. Go, my child – ah! mine no more, But his who buys thee. Juan. Mother dear, dost thou Desert me? Mother. Heaven! How pitiless thou art! Merchant. Come, child, come! Juan. Brother, let’s go together. Francisco. It is not in my choice – may heaven go with thee! Mother. Remember, oh, my treasure and my joy, Thy God! Juan. Where do they take me without you, My father! – my dear mother! Mother. Sir, permit For one brief moment that I speak to my Poor child – short will the satisfaction be, Long, endless sorrow following close behind. / Merchant. Say what thou wilt; ’t is the last time thou canst. Mother. Alas! it is the first that e’er I felt Such woe. Juan. Mother, keep me with thee; Suffer me not to go, I know not where. Mother. Fortune has, since I bore thee, my sweet child, Hidden her face – the heavens are dark – the sea And the wild winds combine for my dismay; The very elements our enemies! Thou knowest not thy misery, although Thou art its victim – and such ignorance Is happiness for thee! My only love, Since to see thee no more I am allow’d, I pray thee never to forget to seek The favour of the Virgin in thy prayers – The queen of goodness she – of grace and hope She can unloose thy chain, and set thee free. Aydar. Hark to the Christian what advice she gives! Thoud’st have him lost as thee, false infidel! Juan. My mother, let me stay – let not these Moors Take me away. Mother. My treasures go with thee. a

El Trato de Argel (The Manners of Algiers), is discussed by Sismondi, III, 393–403. The scene translated by Mary Shelley into verse is from Act II. Sismondi gives the Spanish and a French prose translation, which she bypasses. Her translation subtly shades the original, substituting, for instance ‘Mother dear’ for the Spanish ‘Ay! madre!’.

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Juan. In faith, I fear these men! Mother. But I more fear Thou wilt forget thy God, me and thyself, When thou art gone: thy tender years are such, That thou wilt lose thy faith amidst this race Of infidels – teachers of lies. Crier. Silence! And fear, old wicked woman, that thy head Pay for thy tongue!”

At the end of the play, Juan is seduced by fine clothes and sweetmeats to become a Mahometan. When we think of the Spanish horror of renegades, and its fierce punishment, we may imagine the effect that such scenes, brought vividly before them, must have had. The play ends with the arrival of a vessel, with a friar on board, charged with money to redeem the captives, and the universal joy the Christians feel; Cervantes had felt such himself, and well could paint it. The whole play, though without plot, and rendered wild and strange by the introduction of allegorical personages, yet is full of the interest of pathetic situations and natural feelings, simply, but vividly represented; such, / doubtless, roused every sentiment of horror and compassion, and even vengeance in a Spanish audience. In some respects we feel otherwise; and when one of the captives relates the cruel death of a priest burnt by slow fire, by the Moors, in retaliation of a Moor burnt by the inquisition, our indignation is rather levelled against that nefarious institution, which, unprovoked, punished those who adhered to the faith of their fathers, and filled the whole world with abhorrence for its name. Such, Cervantes could not feel; and in reading his works, and those of all his countrymen, nothing jars with our feelings so much as the praise ever given to the most savage cruelties of the Dominicans, and the merciless reprobation expressed towards those who dared revenge their wrongs.a From the publication of these works to “Don Quixote,” what a gap! He would seem to have lived as an unlighted candle – suddenly, a spark touches the wick, and it burst into a flame. “Don Quixote” is perfect in all its parts. The first conception is admirable. The idea of the crazed old gentleman who nourished himself in the perusal of romances till he wanted to be the hero of one, is true to the very bare truth of nature, and how has he followed it out? Don Quixote is as courageous, noble, princely, and virtuous as the greatest of the men whom he imitates: had he attempted the career of knight errantry, and afterwards shrunk from the consequent hardships, he had been a crazy man, and no more; but meeting all and bearing all with courage and equanimity, he really becomes the hero he desired to be. Any one suffering from calamities would gladly have recourse to him for help, assured of his resolution and disinterestedness, and thus Cervantes shows a Mary Shelley registers the difference between Catholic Spain and her own country while expressing the typical anti-Catholicism of her age. The sentiments on Don Quixote below are also characteristically hers.

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the excellence and perfection of his genius. The second part is conceived in a different spirit from the first; and to relish it as it deserves, we must enter into the circumstances connected with it. Cervantes was desirous of not repeating himself. There is less extravagance, less of actual insanity on the part of the hero. He no longer mistakes an inn for a castle, nor a / flock of sheep for an army. He sees things as they are, although he is equally expert in giving them a colouring suited to his madness. This, however, renders the second part less entertaining to the general reader, less original, less brilliant; but it is more philosophic, more full of the author himself: it shows the deep sagacity of Cervantes, and his perfect knowledge of the human heart. Its drawback, for the second part is not as perfect as the first, consists in the unworthy tricks of the duchess – very different from the benevolent disguise of the princess Micomicona, the deceptions of this great lady are at once vulgar and cruel.a The greatest men have looked on “Don Quixote” as the best book that ever was written. Godwin said, “At twenty, I thought ‘Don Quixote’ laughable – at forty, I thought it clever – now, near sixty, I look upon it as the most admirable book in the whole world.”b In Coleridge’s “Literary Remains,” there are some admirable remarks on “Don Quixote;” they are too long to be inserted here, but I cannot refrain from quoting the contrast he draws between the Don and Sancho Panza. He says, “Don Quixote grows at length to be a man out of his wits; his understanding is deranged; and hence, without the least deviation from the truth of nature, without losing the least trait of personal individuality, he becomes a substantial living allegory, or personification of the reason and moral sense divested of the judgment and understanding. Sancho is the converse. He is the common sense without reason or imagination; and Cervantes not only shows the excellence and power of reason in Don Quixote, but in both him and Sancho the mischiefs resulting from a severance of the two main constituents of sound intellectual and moral action. Put him and his master together, and they form a perfect intellect; but they are separated and without cement: and hence, each having need of the other for its whole completeness, each has at times a mastery over the other; for the common sense, though it may see the practical / inapplicability of the dictates of the imagination of abstract reason, yet cannot help submitting to them. These two characters possess the world – alternately and interchangeably the cheater and the cheated. To impersonate them, and to combine the permanent with the individual, is one of the highest creations of genius, and has been achieved by Cervantes and Shakespeare almost alone.”c Of the “Novellas,” or tales of Cervantes, I had intended to give a detail, but have no space; they are among the best of his works. They cannot compete with a The episode of the princess Micomicona (Don Quixote pt 1, ch. xxix) is contrasted with a trick played on him in pt 2, ch. xlvi. b Quoted in a review of Coleridge’s Literary Remains, ed. H. N. Coleridge, Quarterly Review, LIX (1837), 4, but also included as a tribute to Godwin. c See Quarterly Review, LIX (1837), 4.

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the best of Boccaccio:a they have not his energy of passion – his soul-melting tenderness – his tragic power and matchless grace; but the tales of Cervantes are full of interest and amusement: they possess the merit also of being perfectly moral; he calls them himself Novellas Exemplares, and there is not a word that need be slurred over or omitted. It is strange also that as afterwards the intrigue of his comedies was so bad, that that of some of his stories is so good, that Beaumont and Fletcher – than whom no dramatists better understood the art of fabricating plays – have adopted two, (“La Señora Cornelia” and “Las Dos Doncellas”), and so adopted them as to follow them line for line, and scene by scene. There is a very beautiful interview in “Las Dos Doncellas,” between a cavalier and a lady at night, by the sea-shore; Beaumont and Fletcher have but translated and versified this, and it stands among the most effective of their scenes.*b The “Voyage to Parnassus” has the inherent Spanish defect of length, otherwise it has great merit: the ridicule is playful – the machinery poetic – the story well adapted for burlesque. There had been a poem, written on the subject of a voyage to Parnassus, by Cezare Caporali – an Italian of Perugia.d Cervantes begins his poem by mentioning the return of the Italian, / and how he, who ever desired to deserve the name of poet, resolved to follow his example. In playful derision of his poverty, he describes his departure: a piece of bread and a cheese in his wallet, were all his provision – “light to carry, and useful for the voyage;” and then he bids adieu to his lowly roof – “Adieu to Madrid – adieu to its fountains, which distil ambrosia and nectar – to its prado – to its society – to the abodes of pleasure and deceit.” He arrives at Carthagena, and sees Mercury, who invites him to embark on board a boat, and to come to assist in the defence of Parnassus, which had been attacked by a host of poetasters. The skiff is fancifully described:– And lo! of verses framed, the bark,† From the maintop to water mark, Without a word of prose betwixt; * There is an excellent translation of ten from among them; we may also mention that there is an admirable old English translation of Don Quixote, by Shelton.c † “De la quilla á la gavia, ó estraña cosa! toda de versos era fabricada, sin que se entremiese alguna prosa. a

See ‘Boccaccio’, vol. 1; Boccaccio’s tales served as a model for Cervantes. The playwright Tirso de Molina, who admired the Novelas ejemplares called Cervantes ‘our Spanish Boccaccio’ (Durán, Cervantes, p. 51). b A number of works by Beaumont and Fletcher demonstrate the influence of Cervantes. The Chances (1613–25) is based on La Señora Cornelia and Love’s Pilgrimage (1616) is based on Las Dos Doncellas. See D. H. Orgill, The Influence of Cervantes on the Plays of John Fletcher (unpublished dissertation, University of Southern California, 1960). c Probably referring to The Exemplary Novels of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra [etc.], trans. Maria Sarah Moore, 2 vols (London: T. Cadell, 1822). This contains 9 tales and the History of Ruiz Dias. Thomas Shelton translated Don Quixote in 1612 and 1620. d Cesare Caporali (1531–1601) whose poem Viaggio di Parnaso was first published in 1582.

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The upper decks were glosses mix’d – A hodge-podge badly put together, Ill-married all with one another:– And of romances form’d, the crew, A daring people glad to do The wildest acts, however fierce. The poop was made of other verse: ’T was form’d of sonnets, each one rare, Written all with the nicest care. Two tercets, bold as muse could write, The gunnels framed from left to right, And gave free scope unto the oar. The gangway’s length was measured o’er By elegies most sad and long, More apt for tears than gladsome song. / The mast that rose unto the sky An ode embodied, long and dry, Tarr’d o’er with songs of dreary length, So to ensure its weight and strength. And all the yards that ran across Were burthens harsh – you’re at no loss Their hard material to find: The parrel creaking to the wind, Of redondillas gay and free; Las ballesteras eran de ensala da de glosas, todas hechas á la boda, de la que se llamó Malmaridada: era la chusma de romances toda gente atrevida, empero necesaria pues á todas acciones se acomoda. La popa de materia extraordinaria, bastarda, y de legitimos sonetos, de labor peregrina en todo y varia. Eran dos valentisimos tercetos los espaldares de la izquierda y diestra, para dar boga larga muy perfetos. Hecha ser la cruxia se me muestra de una luenga y tristisima elegia, que no en cantar, sino en llorar es diestra, Por esta entiendo yo que se diria lo que suele, decirse á un desdichado, quando lo pasa mal, pasó cruxia. El arbol hasta el cielo levantado de una dura cancion prolixa estaba de canto de seis dedos embreado. El y la entena que por el cruzaba de duros es trambotes – la madera de que eran hechos claro se mostraba. La racamenta, que es siempre parlera,

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So that more easy it might be. The ropes and tackle – rigging all – Of seguidillas light and small, Each twined with fancies gay and fickle, The which the soul are apt to tickle; The thwarts, of stanzas staunch and strong, Planks to support a world of song; While the pennants, flying lightly, Love songs framed so gay and sprightly. Sestinas grave, and blank verse ready, Shaped the keel both sharp and steady; That like a duck the bark might swim, And o’er the waters lightly skim.a

Embarked on board this fanciful galley, Mercury shows him a long catalogue of poets, asking his advice as to their admission. Cervantes takes this occasion to characterise several of his contemporary poets, in a manner that in his day might have been keenly satirical or warmly laudatory: there is no doubt that there is a good deal of irony in his praise, but a portion also is sincere. The whole is obscure and uninteresting to us. In the midst of the examination, a crowd of poets rush into the skiff, in numbers that threaten its safety; and / the syrens are obliged to raise a storm to scatter them. After this, he beholds a cloud obscure the day, and from this cloud falls down a shower of poets, and, among them, Lope de Vega, “a renowned poet, whom none excels, or even equals, in prose or verse.”b The voyage now proceeds prosperously; the vessel glides along impelled by oars formed of

Toda la componiàn de redondillas, Con que ella se mostraba mas ligera. las xarcias parecian seguidillas, de disparates mil y mas compuestas Que suelen en el alma hacer cosquillas. las rumbadas, fortisimas y honestas estancias, eran tablas ponderosas, que llevan un poema y otro á cuestas. Era cosa de ver las bulliciosas vanderillas que a ayre tremolaban, De varias rimas algo licensiosas. Los grumetes, que aqui y alli cruzaban de encadenados versos parecian, puesto que como libres trabajaban, todas las obras muertas componian O versos sueltos, ó sextinas graves que la galera inas gallarda hacian.” a Viaje del Parnaso (1614) is in eight capituli. All quotations up to this point are from cap. 1. The translation appears to be by Mary Shelley. b ‘Lope de Vega / Poet insigne’ appears in cap. 2.

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verses sdruccioli, (such as have a dactyl at the end of each line), and the sails, which are stretched to the height of the mast, were Woven of many a gentle thought, Upon a woof that love had wrought, Fill’d by the soft and amorous wind Which breathed upon us from behind – Eager to waft us swift along; While the fair queens of ocean-song – The syrens three, around us float, And so impel the dancing boat; And crested waves are spread around, Snowy flocks on a verdant ground; And the crew are at work reciting, Or sweet love laden sonnets writing, Or singing soft the sweetest lays All in their gentle ladies’ praise.a

They, at last, arrive at Parnassus; and then follows a description of the gardens of the Hesperides: arrived before Apollo, he invites them to sit down; on this, all the seats around are speedily occupied, and Cervantes remains standing. He then gives an account to Apollo of his writings, in which he praises himself modestly enough, and, after alluding to his poverty, sums up all, by saying, “that he is contented with little, though he desires much, and that his chief annoyance is to find himself standing there, when all others sit.” Apollo answers him complimentarily, and bids him double up his cloak, and sit on that; but poor Cervantes has no cloak. “‘Well,’ replies Apollo, ‘even thus I am glad to see you; virtue is a mantle with which penury can hide and cover its nakedness, and thus avoid envy.’ I bowed my head to this advice, and remained standing; for it is wealth or favour alone that can fabricate a seat.” Poetry herself now appears, and her description is the most poetic passage Cervantes ever wrote. The arts and sciences hovered round her, and, in serving her, were / themselves served; since thus all nations held them in higher veneration. All things he represents as bringing tribute to Poetry: – the rivers, their currents; the ocean, its changeful tides, and secret depths; herbs present their virtues to her; trees, their fruits and flowers; and stones the power they hold within; holy love presents her with its chaste delights; soft peace her happy rest; fierce war, her achievements. The wise and beautiful lady knew all, disposed of all, and filled all things with admiration and pleasure. There is real poetry in this description, melody in the verse, and truth and beauty in the imagery. But we get weary; for page succeeds to page, and the poem never ends. A second storm ensues. Neptune endeavours to submerge and destroy the poetasters; but Venus prevents them from sinking, by turning them into empty gourds and leathern bottles, which swim about in a thousand different manners. a

The translation, again apparently by Mary Shelley, is of the opening lines of cap. 3.

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A battle, at last, ensues between the real and would-be poets; while Cervantes, full of annoyance, hurries away, seeking out his old and dusky dwelling, and throws himself wearied upon his bed.a There is a whimsical postcript to the “Voyage to Parnassus,” written in prose, and very amusing.b It recounts the visit of a would-be poet, who brings Cervantes a letter from Apollo. The god reproaches him for having gone away from Parnassus without having taken leave of him and his daughters, and says the only excuse he can admit is his hurry to visit his Mecænas, the great count of Lemos at Naples: another token that Cervantes was disappointed in not receiving an invitation. The last of Cervantes’s works, the one he was occupied upon up to the hour of his death, was “Persiles and Sigismunda,” – a romance, full of wild adventures, of love and war, of danger, escape, and indeed every variety of accident of “flood and field.”c It shows the true bent of the author’s mind, who delighted to revel, like his own Don Quixote, in the very excesses of the imagination; and showing thus, how in his advanced age, he had forgotten none of his youthful tastes. He wrote it / in imitation of Heliodorus: it is amusing in parts, and in parts interesting; but now that the taste for this heterogeneous, though imaginative, species of writing has passed away it will scarcely find readers sufficiently persevering, and sufficiently fond of the fabulous and strange, to dwell upon its enchainment of impossible adventures.d /

a Mary Shelley moves more quickly through the poem. They reach the garden of the Hesperides at the end of cap. 3; Cervantes’ account to Apollo, Apollo’s reply and the appearance of Poetry come in cap. 4; the storm and Venus’ rescue in cap. 5 and the battle in cap. 7. b The ‘Adjunta al Parnaso’. c Persiles and Sigismunda (1617); the quotation is from Othello, I. iii. 135. d The source for the work is the Aethiopica, a romance in 10 books by Heliodorus, written in the third century AD, which tells the adventures of two lovers, a beautiful priestess from Delphi and a Thessalian prince, before their marriage.

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LOPE DE VEGA. 1562–1635. T HERE is a vulgar English proverb of such a one being born with a silver spoon in his mouth.a We are reminded of it when we compare the several careers of Cervantes and Lope de Vega. If we judged without inquiry, we should imagine no man more likely to obtain popularity through his works, than the author of “Don Quixote.” His disposition was cheerful and unrepining; to the last hour of his life he displayed lightness of heart, even to the censure of a dull envious rival (Figueroa), who remarks, that such was his weakness, that he wrote prefaces and dedications even on his death bed, – prefaces, as we have shown, full of animation and wit.b Yet he lived in penury, died obscurely, and went to his grave unhonoured, except by his friends; while all Madrid flocked to do honour to the funeral of Lope; and two volumes of eulogiums and epitaphs form but a select portion of all that was written to commemorate his death. It is true that posterity has been more just: great pains have been taken to give forth correct editions of Cervantes’s works, and to ascertain the events of his life; while the twenty-one volumes of Lope’s “Obras Sueltas” are full of errors, and his plays are only to be obtained in single pamphlets, badly printed, both to sight and sense.c It is curious to read the epithets of praise heaped on this favourite of his age, during his life and immediately on his death. His friend and disciple Montalvan adopts a phraseology very similar to that in use with / the emperor of China, when he is styled “Brother of the sun” and “Uncle of the stars.” He with all the pomp of Spanish hyperbole, names him “the portent of the world; the glory of the land; the light of his country; the oracle of language; the centre of fame; the object of envy; the darling of fortune; the phœnix of ages: prince of poetry; Orpheus of sciences; Apollo of the muses; Horace of poets; Virgil of epics; Homer of heroics; a ‘Born with a silver spoon in his mouth’ i.e., born wealthy, not needing the traditional godparents’ gift of a silver spoon. The proverb is in Peter Motteux’s translation (1712) of Don Quixote. Given Mary Shelley’s comparison of Lope and Cervantes, it is fitting that she should use the phrase; see also ‘If I was born, as the nurses say, with a “silver spoon in my mouth,” it has stuck in my throat’ (quoted from Byron’s letter of 4 Aug. 1814, in Thomas Moore, Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, 2 vols (1830), I, p. 573). b Doctor Christóbal Suárez de Figueroa. See Ríos, I, p. cxcix: ‘esta flaqueza en no pocos hasta la muerte, haciendo prólogos y dedicatorias hasta el punto de morir.’ Viardot mentions his jealousy (I, p. 31). c Obras Sueltas (1776–9). Mary Shelley is drawing upon comments in Holland, p. 219, pp. 236–7.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768-14

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Pindar of lyrics; the Sophocles of tragedy; and the Terence of comedy. Single among the excellent, and excellent among the great: great in every way and in every manner.”a Such was the usual style of speaking of Lope, – his common appellation being the phœnix of Spain. And now, while editions of “Don Quixote” are multiplied, and each hour adds to the fame of Cervantes, we inquire concerning Lope, principally for the sake of discovering the cause of the excessive admiration with which he was regarded in his own time. The life written by Montalvan, the biography compiled with such care and elegance by Lord Holland, and various researches given to light in several numbers of the “Quarterly Review,” (written we believe, by Mr. Southey), are (in addition to the works of Lope himself) our principal guides in tracing the following pages.b Lope de Vega Carpio was born at Madrid*, in the house of Geronimo de Soto, near the gate of Guadalaxara, on the 26th of November, 1562, on the day of St. Lope, bishop of Verona, and was baptized on the 6th of December following, in the parish church of San Miguel de les Octeos.c His parents were in the / same situation as those of Cervantes – hidalgos, but poor. We have an account of Felix de Vega, father of the poet, which shows him to have been a good and pious man, * In an epistle he mentions his father as having emigrated to Madrid – he speaks of him as living in the valley of Carriedo, but deficiency of means caused him to leave his ancestral inheritance of Vega, and to remove to Madrid. There had been a quarrel between him and his wife, who was jealous, and with reason, as Lope tells us he loved a Spanish Helen; she however followed him, and they were reconciled: “Y aquel dia fu piedra en mi primero fundamento la paz de su zelosa phantasia. En fin por zelos soy; que nascimiento! imaginalde vos, que haver nacido de tan inquieta causa fue portento.”

Belardo á Amarylis.d

a Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 27–8. For mention of the phrase ‘phoenix of Spain’, see Robert Southey’s article on Holland (Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 1). b Montalvan’s ‘Fama Posthuma a la Vida y Muerte del Doctor Frey Lope Felix De Vega Carpio’ appears in volume XX of Obras Sueltas, pp. 27–8. A brief description of the life of Juan Perez de Montalvan (Montalbán) (1603–39), friend and disciple of Lope who wrote over one hundred theatrical pieces and was a notary of the Inquisition, appears at the end of ch. xxxi of Sismondi (IV, p. 38); see p. 201. Some Account of the Life and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio by Henry Richard, Lord Holland appeared in 1806. Other than his review of Holland’s Life in volume XVIII of the Quarterly Review no other Quarterly articles on Lope have been attributed to Southey. Mary Shelley may be thinking of an essay on Spanish Drama that appeared in the Quarterly Review, XXV (April 1821), attributed to Henry Hart Milman. See Hill Shine and Helen Chadwick Shine, The Quarterly Review Under Gifford (Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1949) and Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey (London: Longman, 1850), VI, pp. 400–2. c Translated from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 28. Hayes gives the date of St. Lope’s Day and hence of Lope’s birth as Dec. 12. The parish church no longer exists (p. 11). d Obras Sueltas, I, p. 470.

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and a careful father.a He was very attentive to his religious duties, and had rooms in the Hospital de la Corte, whither his children accompanied him, and they performed several menial offices, and washed the feet of the poor – comforting and helping the convalescent with clothes and money. The good example thus implanted imparted a charitable and pious turn to Lope’s life, – and still more to that of his elder sister, Isabel de Carpio, who was singularly pious, and died in 1601.*b Felix de Vega was also a poet, as his son informs us in the “Laurel de Apolo,” in some verses of respectful and graceful allusion†; so that he added the inheritance of a poetical temperament to his pious instructions. The boy early displayed great tokens of talent. What we are told of him does not exceed the accounts given of other young prodigies, and we are willing to believe the relations handed down of this wonderful child, who, whatever his other merits were, showed himself to the end of his life the prince of words, having written more than any other man ever did, and we may believe, therefore, that he acquired the art of using them earlier than others. At two years old he was remarkable for the vivacity of his eyes, and the drollness of his ways, showing even thus early, tokens / of his after career; he was eager even then to learn; and knew his letters before he could speak, repeating his lessons by signs before he could utter the words. At five years old he read Spanish and Latin – and such was his passion for verses, that before he could use a pen he bribed his elder schoolfellows with a portion of his breakfast, to write to his dictation, and then exchanged his effusions with others for prints and hymns. Thus truly he lisped in numbers;d as * Pellicer, Tratado sobre el origen de la Comedia. † “Efectos de mi genio y mi fortuna, que me eseñastes versos en la cuna, dulce memoria del principio amado del ser que tengo, á quien la vida debo, en este panagyrico me llama ingrato y olvidado, pero si no me atrevo, no fue falta de amor, sino de fama, que obligacion me fuerza, amor mi inflama. Ma si Felix de Vega no la tuvó, basta saber que en el Parnaso estuvó, haviendo hallado yo sus borradores, versos eran á Dios llenos de amores; y aunque en el tiempo que escribió los versos, no eran tan crespos como ahora y tersos, ni las Musas tenían tantos brios, mejores me parecen que los mios.”

a

‘Belardo a Amaryllis’, Obras Sueltas, I, p. 470. See Pellicer, I, p. 235. c Quoted in Obras Sueltas, I, p. 78. d Alexander Pope, ‘Epistle to Arbuthnot’ (1735), l. 128. b

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he says of himself in the epistle before referred to, “I could scarcely speak when I used a pen to give wings to my verses;”a and is another proof, (if proof were wanting that the sun shines at noon day) of innate talent. At twelve he was master of rhetoric and grammar, and of Latin composition, both in prose and verse. To the latter accomplishment we must put the limit, that probably he was as learned as his masters; and that was not much, for the Latin verses he published in later life are excelled by any clever Etonian of the fourth form.b In addition to these classical attainments, he had learned to dance, and fence, and sing.c He was left early an orphan, and his vivacious disposition led him into various scrapes and adventures. The most important among these was an elopement from school when fourteen years of age, impelled by a desire of seeing the world. He concerted with a friend of his, Fernando Muñoz, who was filled with a similar desire: they both provided as well as they could for the necessities of the journey, and went on foot as far as Segovia, where they bought a mule for 15 ducats; with this they proceeded to Lavañeza, and Astorga – where meeting, we may guess, with several of those various discomforts we find detailed in “Lazarillo de los Tormes,” and other picaresco works, as inevitable in Spanish inns, they became disgusted, and made up their minds to return.d When they had got back as far as Segovia, their purses were emptied of small money, and they had recourse to a silversmith, the one to sell a chain and the other to change a doubloon. The silversmith’s / suspicions were awakened and he sent for a judge, and the judge, a miracle in Spain, was a just judge, as Montalvan says, “he must have had a touch of conscience about him” – for he neither robbed nor threw them into prison; but questioning them and finding them agree in their story, and that their fault was that of youth, not of vice, he sent them back to Madrid, with an alguazil, who restored them, doubloons, chain and all, into the hands of their relations, “which,” says Montalvan, “he did at small cost. Such then was the honesty of the ministers of justice, who now-a-days would have thought they had not gained enough had they not made an eight-days’ lawsuit about it.”e The youth soon after became an inmate in the house of the grand inquisitor, don Geronimo Manrique, bishop of Avila; it would appear that he was there as a protegé, and that the bishop thought his talents deserving protection and encouragement.f His own expression is, “Don Geronimo Manrique educated me.”g He a

‘Belardo a Amaryllis’, Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 470–1. P. B. Shelley excelled at writing Latin verses when at Eton. Mary Shelley follows Southey (Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 1) in comparing Lope adversely with a clever schoolboy but Southey’s schoolboy comes from Westminster School (where he himself had been a pupil). c Paragraph translated from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 28–9. d Nothing further is known about Hernando Muñoz than the reference in Montalvan. Mary Shelley adds the comment about ‘Lazarillo’. e Paragraph translated from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 29–30. f Don Jéronimo Manrique, Bishop of Cartagena, became Bishop of Ávila in 1591 and died in 1595 (Albert Rennert, Life of Lope de Vega (Glasgow, 1904) (hereafter, Rennert), pp. 13–15). g Obras Sueltas, IV, p. 481. b

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delighted the prelate with various eclogues that he wrote, and a comedy called the “Pastoral of Jacinto,” – from which Montalvan dates the change Lope de Vega operated in the Spanish theatre. This comedy is not extant, therefore it is impossible to pass a judgment upon it; but the name of pastoral rather seems to limit it to an imitation of the plays then in vogue; indeed his eulogist only mentions this difference, that he had reduced the number of acts to three. Montalvan goes on to speak as if he, at this time, brought out successful plays, but this arises rather from the confusion of his expressions, than mistake: he wrote them, it is true, for he tells us so himself; but there is no trace of any being played. Meanwhile, feeling that his knowledge was slight, and his education unfinished, with the assistance of the bishop, he entered the university of Alcala, where he remained four years, until he graduated, and was distinguished among his companions in the examinations.a / On leaving the university of Alcala, he entered the service of the duke of Alva*, who became attached to him, and made him not only his secretary but his favourite.c A doubt is raised as to which duke this is; whether it be the oppressor of the Low Countries, or his successor: chronology seems to determine that it was the former. It has already been mentioned in this work, that the duke of Alva, – whose name in the Netherlands, and with us, is stamped with all the infamy that remorseless cruelty, blind bigotry, and faithlessness bestows – was regarded in Spain as the hero of the age.d Lope introduces the mention of a statue in the “Arcadia,” and says, “This last, whose grey head is adorned by the ever verdant * Lope often mentions having been a soldier in early youth. These expressions are generally used in reference to his having served on board the Invincible Armada, but there is a stanza in the “Huerto Deshecho,” that intimates that he had entered the army at fifteen. “Ni mi fortuna muda ver en tres lustros de mi edad primera con la espada desnuda al bravo Portugues en la Tercera, ni despues en las naves Españolas del mar Ingles los puertos y las olas.” Yet in the following stanza he calls himself “Soldado de una guerra.” In these verses, and in many others indeed in which he speaks of himself, his expressions are so obscure, and the whole stanza so ill worded, that it is scarcely possible to guess even at what he means. The translation of these verses seems to be: – “Nor did my fortune change on seeing me in the third lustre of my tender age, with a drawn sword among the brave Portuguese at Tercera, nor afterwards in the English ports and waves on board a Spanish fleet.”b a

Paragraph translated from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 30–1. Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 379. c Mary Shelley’s chronology is at fault; Rennert, pp. 98–9, gives 1590 as the date Lope entered the service of Don Antonio, Duke of Alva (d. 1639). The oppressive Duke of Alva died in 1582. d See ‘Boscán’ above and the Quarterly, XVIII (1817), 2 as well as La Arcadia, Obras Sueltas, VI, pp. 192–3. b

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leaves of the ungrateful Daphne, merited by so many victories, is the immortal soldier, don Fernando de Toledo, duke of Alva, so justly worthy of that fame, which you behold lifting herself to heaven from the plumes of the helmet, with the trump of gold, through which for ever she will proclaim his exploits, and spread his name from the Spanish Tagus to the African Mutazend; from the Neapolitan Sabeto to the French Garonne. He is a Pompilius in religion; a Radamanthus in severity; Belisarius in guerdon; Anaxagoras in constancy; Periander in wedlock; Pomponius in veracity; Alexander Severus in justice; Regulus in fidelity; Cato in modesty; and finally a Timotheus in the felicity which attended all his wars.”a / At the request of the duke of Alva he wrote his “Arcadia.” It has been mentioned how the imitations of Sannazaro’s pastoral had become the fashion in Spain. The “Diana” of Montemayor, its continuation by Gil Polo, and the “Galatea” of Cervantes, were all read with enthusiasm. What the charm of this composition is, we can scarcely guess; yet we feel it ourselves when we read the “Arcadia” of sir Philip Sidney. The sort of purely sentimental life of the shepherds and shepherdesses, with their flocks, pipes, and faithful dogs, appears to shut out the baser portion of existence, and to enable us to live only for the affections, – a state of being, however impracticable, always alluring; and when to this is added the delightful climate of Spain, which invested pastoral life with all the loveliness and amenity of nature, we are the less surprised at the prevalence of the taste. Lope was very young when he entered the lists, and wrote his “Arcadia.”b There is exaggeration in its style, and in its sentiments; yet no one can open it without becoming aware of the talent of the author. The poetry with which it is interspersed possesses the peculiar merit of Lope – perspicuity, and an easy artless flow in its ideas; as for instance, the cancion imitated from the ancients, beginning, “O libertad preciosa No comparada al oro.”c

The story is meagre, and inartificial to a singular degree. But we follow an example set us, of giving some slight detail of it, for the sake of introducing a coincidence of a singular nature.* Anfrisio and Belisarda are lovers; Anfrisio is of so high descent that he believes Jupiter to be his grandfather; but Belisarda is designed by her parents to be the bride of the rich, ignorant, and unworthy Salicio. Anfrisio is forced to remove to a distant part of the country; but by a fortunate circumstance, thither also Belisarda is brought by her father, and the lovers meet and enjoy each other’s society till scandal begins to busy herself / with them, and, * Quarterly Review, vol. xviii. [(1817), 16] a

Quotation from Quarterly, XVIII (1817), 2n. Mary Shelley has pruned the catalogue. He wrote his Arcadia in 1590 when he was 26. It was published in 1598; 15 editions appeared in his lifetime and it remained popular during the 17th century (Hayes, pp. 12, 107). c Obras Sueltas, VI, p. 74. ‘O precious liberty, / Not comparable to gold.’ b

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at the request of his mistress, Anfrisio sets out for Italy, so to baffle the evil thoughts of the malicious. He loses his way during his wanderings, and comes to a cavern, wherein resides Dardanio, a magician, who promises to grant him any wish he may express, however impossible. Anfrisio, with a moderation astonishing to our more grasping minds, asks only to see the object on whom he has placed his affections. He beholds her in conversation with a rival, whom, in pure pity, she presents with a black ribbon; which sight transports Anfrisio with jealousy, and he meditates revenging her perfidy by putting her to death; but Dardanio carries him off in a whirlwind. Soon after he returns home, and to annoy Belisarda, pretends to be in love with the shepherdess Anarda; while she in revenge openly favours Olimpio. They are both very miserable; and still more so when driven to desperation, Belisarda marries Salicio. Soon after, an explanation ensues between her and Anfrisio, but it is too late. Anfrisio’s sole resource is to forget; and by means of the sage Polinesta, through a visit to the Liberal Arts, and an acquaintance with the lady Grammar and the young ladies Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, and Geometry, and others not less agreeable – Perspective, Music, Astrology, and Poetry – he arrives at the temple of Disengaño, or Dis-illusion; where things are seen as they are, the passions cease to influence, the imagination to deceive, and the lovelorn shepherd becomes a rational man. The composition of this story has given rise to a singular conjecture. When Montemayor wrote “Diana,” and Gil Polo continued it, and Cervantes composed “the robe in which the lovely Galatea appeared to the eyes of men,”a it is known that they embodied their own passions and sorrows in the pastoral personages they brought on the scene; but Lope is not the hero of his tale. Anfrisio is supposed to represent the duke of Alva himself – the tyrant, the destroyer – who, it would seem, requested his young protegé to immortalise his early loves in the manner other poets had done their own. A good deal of testimony is brought in support / of this hypothesis.* In the commendatory verses prefixed to the “Arcadia,” there is a sonnet from Anfrisio to Lope de Vega, which addresses him by the name of Belardo, under which he personified himself in the pastoral; and which shows by its context that it was written by a man of consequence, and a protector of the poet. “Belardo,” he says, “it has proved fortunate for my loves, that you came to my estate and became one of my shepherds; for now neither time nor oblivion will cover them. You have dwelt upon my sorrows, yet not to the full; since they are greater than you have described, though the cause wherefore I suffered lessened them. Tagus and my renowned Tormes listen to you. They call the shepherd of Anfrisio, Apollo. If I am Anfrisio, you are my Apollo!”b The painter Francisco Pacheco, in the eulogy that accompanies his portrait of Lope, speaking * Quarterly Review, vol. xviii. [(1817), 18] a See Cervantes, Viaje del Parnaso, cap. 4: ‘Yo corté con min ingenio aquel vestido, / Con que al mundo la hermosa Galatea / Salió para librarse del olvido.’ b Quotation from ‘Amphryso a Lope de Vega’, Obras Sueltas, VI, p.xxxii.

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of the “Arcadia,” says that the poet “had succeeded in what he designed, which was to record a real history to the pleasure of the parties.”a Montalvan hints at the same thing, when he says that Lope wrote this work at the command of the duke, and calls it a “mysterious enigma of elevated subjects, concealed in the disguise of humble shepherds.”b And Lope himself says, “The ‘Arcadia’ is a true story;” and again, in the prologue to the work itself, he insists several times on the fact that he describes the sorrows of another, not his own.c He assumes the name of Belardo for himself, but introduces himself only as a Spanish shepherd, poor and pursued by adversity. At the conclusion he comes forward as Belardo, addressing his pipe, and taking leave of the tale on which he was occupied. In this he talks of leaving the banks of the Manzanares (the river of Madrid), and seeking a new master and a new life. “What is better,” he says, “when one has lost a blessing, than to fly from the spot where one enjoyed it, so not to see it in the possession of another? My fortunes are dubious; but what evil can befall him who has once known happiness? I lost that which was / mine, more from not being worthy of it, than from not knowing its value; but I console myself with the expectation of fresh disasters.”*d As the “Arcadia” was written in early life, but not published till 1598, it is impossible to say to what particular period of his career or to what misfortunes the above alludes. It were a subject for a painter to portray the old grey-headed duke – the persecutor of heroes, the slayer of the innocent, but retaining throughout a satisfied conscience, and the dignity of virtue – pouring his love-tale in the young Lope’s ear, or listening with delight while Lope read to him the tale of his early love, clothed in the fantastic costume of a pastoral and the ideal imagery of poetry. Lord Holland has given a specimen of the poetry of the “Arcadia” in his life; but we refer to his pages, and will only conclude by mentioning that, despite the conceits, the false taste, and exaggeration, there is much genius, much real poetry, simplicity, and truth – lines full of sweetness and grace, and a lucidness of expression, which reminds the reader of Metastasio, who was indeed a lover of Spanish verse, and who has never been surpassed in the crystal clearness of his * In this and other quotations the reader must not expect sense. Even while reprehending Gongora for obscurity, from carelessness or from a notion of fine writing, Lope’s meaning can very often only be guessed at. This may partly be attributed to misprints; in his best poems he is, for a Spaniard, singularly perspicuous. a

Francisco Pacheco (1564–1654), nephew of the humanist also named Francisco Pacheco and a painter, biographer and poet, known for his El libro de descripcíon de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (1599), based on his encounters with men at his uncle's home; in 1619 he published a volume of the poetry of his uncle's pupil Herrera (Ward, pp. 435–6). b Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 31. c Quotation from ‘Amphryso a Lope de Vega’, Obras Sueltas, VI, pp. xxx–xxxi. d Quotation from Obras Sueltas, VI, p. 453.

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expressions, and the chiseled perfection (so to express ourselves) with which he represents his ideas.a The “Arcadia,” though written thus early, was not not published, as has been mentioned, till 1598; and it is conjectured that the death of its hero, the duke of Alva, was the cause of the delay. But it may be added, that Lope wrote a great deal but published nothing before that period, when, his plays having made him popular, he printed most of his early works. He left the service of the duke of Alva, when he married a lady of rank, donna Isabel de Urbino, daughter of don Diego de Urbino, king-at-arms.b The marriage took place to the satisfaction of the friends of both parties; and the / lady is praised as beautiful and discreet. He did not, however, long enjoy his domestic happiness. “It happened,” says Montalvan, “that there was a sort of half-and-half hidalgo* (for there is a twilight in the origin of nobility as well as in the break of day) of small fortune, but of great skill in contriving to dress and eat as well as the rest of the world, without other employment than frequenting society, when with little trouble to himself he lived cheaply by flattering those present and backbiting the absent. Lope heard that on one occasion he had entertained a company at his expense. He passed over the impertinence, not from fear, but contempt; but seeing that the man persisted in his attacks, he grew tired; so without quarrelling with him by sword or word – the first being impious, the second foolish – he depicted him in a song so pleasantly, that every body laughed.”c The would-be wit grew angry – none being more easily offended than those who take licence to offend – and he challenged Lope. They met; and the cavalier was dangerously wounded. This was the immediate cause that obliged Lope to quit Madrid; though Montalvan mentions other scrapes which he had got into in his youth, and which his enemies took this occasion to bring against him.d He left wife and home with a heavy heart, and took up his residence in Valencia, where he was treated with distinction and kindness. He remained at Valencia for some years, and doubtless wrote a great deal, though at that time he published nothing. He formed a friendship there with Vicente Mariner, himself a voluminous poet, whose compositions remain * Lord Holland calls Lope’s antagonist, a gentleman of considerable rank and importance – Montalvan’s expressions denote the contrary: “un hidalgo entre dos luces, de poca hacienda, &c.” a

See Holland, pp. 11–25. The reference to Metastasio is on page 18. i.e., royal herald. Isabel de Urbina was 17 when in 1588 Lope married her by proxy, having been banished Madrid for writing libellous poems about his lover Elena Osorio (the inspiration for his Dorotea) and her family. Isabel died in childbirth in 1594 (Hayes, pp. 25–7). c Quotation from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 31. d Lope was exiled from Madrid between 1588 and 1595, when Elena Osorio’s father presented a petition for Lope’s pardon. He lived in Valencia from 1588 until 1590, when he joined the service of the Duke of Alva (Hayes, pp. 25, 27). Rest of paragraph paraphrased from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 32. Montalvan either did not know about or suppresses the love affair. b

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inedited in the king of Spain’s libraries.a Among these are many to the honour and memory of Lope, and in fierce attack of his enemies – so fierce that they deserve the name of abuse, and show that the Spanish cavalier could descend, as so many literary men have before, to calling names, as argument.*b / After a few years, Lope returned to Madrid; and such was his joy in revisiting the scenes of his youth, and being reunited to his wife, that even his health was affected by it. He did not, however, long enjoy this new-found happiness: his wife died shortly after his return. The death of this lady was celebrated in an eclogue, written conjointly by Lope and Medina Medinilla. The strophes, composed by Lope, are full of the tenderest grief and impatient despair, but there is not a word relative to their separation; he exclaims at Death for having divided them, and implores her to take him to where she is – to where they might live for ever secure together.c Almost immediately after he became a soldier, and joined the Invincible Armada. The causes of this apparent freak are differently represented. Montalvan attributes it chiefly to his grief on losing his wife.d In the eclogue to Claudio, which Lope writes with the avowed intention of recording the events of his early life, but in which he mentions no adventures anterior to this period, he speaks of being banished from Filis, and that he sought relief from his tender sorrows by changing climate and element; and Mars coming to his aid, he marched to Lisbon with the Castilian troops, with a musket on his shoulder, and tore up for cartridges the verses he had written in his mistress’s praise. In several of his sonnets also he gives the same reason for his military career.†e It is the fashion of the present day to ransack every hidden corner of a man’s life, and to bring to light all the errors and follies which he himself would have wished to consign to oblivion. A writer offers a fairer mark than any other for these inquiries, as we can always fancy at least that we trace something of the man himself in his works, and so form a tissue of some sort from these patchwork materials; Lope felt this, and in one of his epistles, laments that by publishing his verses, he has perpetuated the memory of his / follies. “My love-verses,” he says, “were the tender error of my youth; would I could cover them in oblivion! Those poets do well who write in enigmas, since they are not injured by the hidden.”f We * Lord Holland’s Life of Lope de Vega. Were these MSS. examined, we might discover the real history of Lope’s life at this period. † Vide Sonnets 46. 66. 82. 92. &c. of Rimas Humanas, parte 1. a

Holland identifies Vicente Mariner as a Latin poet resident in Valencia (p. 27). Notes derived from Holland, p. 31 and pp. 26–7. c Holland, pp. 27, 30. d See Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 5, 7; Holland, p. 28; and Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 33. However Lope joined the Armada in 1588, the year he married; after the death of his wife he returned to Madrid in 1596 and began a brief liaison with a rich widow (Hayes, p. 28). e Obras Sueltas, IV, pp. 212, 222, 230, 235. f ‘Belardo a Amarylis,’ Obras Sueltas, I, p. 473. b

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do not know that we should have enlarged on this portion of his life, but for some conjectures given in the article before quoted in the eighteenth volume of the “Quarterly Review.” The author of that article, in mentioning Lope’s second marriage, says, “Lope speaks of this marriage as a happy one; yet among the sonnets there are two which may excite a suspicion that his heart was placed on another object. The inference from the first of these poems is, that he did not love the woman whom he married; and from the second that he had formed a miserable attachment to the wife of another man. This last inference will be much strengthened if there be any reason for supposing that he shadowed out his own character in the ‘Dorotea;’ one of the most singular, and, unless such a supposition be admitted, the most unaccountable of all his works.”a Taking it for granted that these sonnets and the “Dorotea” refer to himself, we think there is every proof to show that they allude to his early life, his first marriage, and all those subsequent disasters, to fly from which he embarked on board the Armada. Certainly great obscurity hangs over the period of his first marriage, and the causes of his long exile at Valencia.b His antagonist in the duel was a man of no consequence, and merely wounded; so, although that duel might have occasioned him to fly, it would not have forced so protracted an absence. He does not allude to any of these circumstances in his eclogue to Claudio. In his epistle to doctor Gregorio de Angulo he seems to imply that being married, he loved another woman, or that he was not happy in his first marriage.* Montalvan, in speaking of his flight to / Valencia, mentions, in addition to the duel, youthful scrapes, which his enemies took that opportunity of bringing against him.†e In a * “Crióme don Geronimo Manrique: estudié en Alcalá, bachilleréme, y aun estuve de ser clerigo á pique: cegóme una muger, aficionéme, perdoneselo Dios, ya soy casado, quien tiene tanto mal, ninguno teme.”

Epistola undecima.c

† “Este y otros desayres de la fortuna, ya negociados de su juventud, y ya encarecedos de sus opuestos, le obligaron á dejar su casa, su patria y su esposa, con harto sentimiento.” – Fama Postuma á la Vida de Lope de Vega.f a

Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 7–8, with omissions. Rennert (pp. 19–22) helpfully sorts out the confusions of Montalvan’s narrative. There was no duel; Lope was exiled for his libel of theatrical manager Jerónimo Velazquez, whose daughter was Lope’s mistress. Despite Mary Shelley’s doubts, there is agreement among modern critics that Dorotea (composed c. 1587–8 and published 1632) is based on the love affair of Elena Osorio and Lope (Hayes, pp. 109–110). c ‘Al Doctor Gregorio de Angulo. Regidor de Toledo,’ Epistle 11, Obras Sueltas, I, p. 420 ‘Don Manrique educated me. I studied at Alcalá, I graduated, and even was to have become a priest, to my ruin. A woman blinded me, she was fond of me, God have mercy, I am now a married man., who holds all ill and who fears nobody’. e Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 199. f Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 32. b

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funeral eulogium, written on Lope by don Joseph Pellicer, there are these expressions: – “The excellent qualities of Lope excited the animosity of several powerful enemies, who forced him several times to become a wanderer. His pen was his faithful companion in his disasters and exile, and secured him shelter and welcome in distant provinces.”*a Putting all these circumstances and hints together, it is plain that Lope suffered a good deal of adversity at this time. His illustrious patron, the duke of Alva, died soon after his marriage. When the duel and other circumstances caused him to fly, he had no powerful friend to assist him, but was driven to absent himself even for years. During so long a separation from home, and being only about fourand-twenty at this period, it is not impossible nor strange that he should have formed an unfortunate attachment. The sonnets Mr. Southey mentions, and which he translates, are the following:– “Seven long and tedious years did Jacob serve, And short had been the term if it had found Its end desired. To Leah he was bound, And must by service of seven more deserve His Rachael. – Thus will strangers lightly swerve From their pledged word. Yet Time might well repay Hope’s growing debt, and Patience might be crowned, And the slow season of expectance passed, True Love with ample recompense at last, Requite the sorrows of this hard delay. Alas for me – to whose unhappy doom, No such blest end appears! Ill fate is his, Who hopes for Rachael in the world to come, And chained to Leah drags his life in this.”†b / * Bouterwek says that all the panegyrics and epitaphs written on Lope, ought to be carefully consulted as to the circumstances of his life. We accordingly looked them over; but amidst an incredible abundance and variety of hyperbolical praise, there are but two or three that allude to any events of his life – the one above quoted, which, after all, speaks vaguely and confusedly; the other is an elegy by Andres Carlos de Balmaseda, which mentions his sailing with the Armada, and his two marriages. But it tells nothing new. One or two others recount some anecdotes of his old age to prove his charity and piety.c † “Sirvió Jacob los siete largos años, breves, si al fin, qual la esperanza fuera, á Lia goza – y á Rachel espera otros siete despues, llorando engaños, assi guardan palabra los estranos. a Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 246. Mary Shelley is generous in her assumptions, perhaps remembering her life and that of P. B. Shelley in her meditation on youthful folly. b Quoted in Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 8; Spanish versions are also taken from Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 8 rather than Obras Sueltas, VI, pp. 191, 194. c Bouterwek, I, p. 363n.

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“When snows before the genial breath of spring Dissolve – and our great Mother reassumes Her robe of green; the meadow breathes perfumes, Loud sings the thrush, the birds are on the wing, The fresh grass grows, the young lambs feed at will. But not to thee, my heart, doth nature bring The joy that this sweet season should instil: Thou broodest alway on thy cherished ill. Absence is no sore grief – it is a glass, Wherein true love from falsehood may be known; Well may the pain be borne which hath an end; But woe to him whose ill-placed hopes attend Another’s life, and who till that shall pass In hopeless expectation wastes his own.”*

These sonnets are two among many, all addressed to a lady whom he calls Lucinda.a Generally speaking, they treat only of her cruelty and his sufferings: there is no date given to certify at what period they were written; but they were published in 1604, during the life of his second wife – with whom there is every Pero in efecto vive, y considera que la podra gozar antes que muera, y que tuvieron termino sus daños; triste de mi, sin limite que mida lo que un engaño al sufrimiento cuesta, y sin rimedio que el agravio pida. Ay de aquel alma á padecer dispuesta que espera su Rachel en la otra vida, y tiene á Lia para siempre en esta.” Parte I. de las Rimas Humanas de Lope de Vega, 1604. Soneto v. * “Quando la Madre antigua reverdeze, bello pastor, y à quanto vive aplaze, quando en agua la nieve se dehaze, por el sol que en el Aries resplandeze, la yerba nace, la nacida crece, canta el silguero, el corderillo pace, tu pecho a quien su pena satisface del general contento se entristece. No es mucho mal la ausencia que es espejo de la cierta verdad ó la fingida; si espera fin, ninguna pena es pena. ¡ Ay del que tiene por su mal consejo El remedio impossible de su vida En la esperanza de la muerte agena!” Ibid. Soneto xi. a Lucinda is Lope’s poetic name for Micaela de Luján, actress and the wife of Diego Díaz de Castro, with whom Lope had at least two children. During his marriage to Juana De Guardo (1598–1613), he kept two separate households in Toledo (Hayes, pp. 28–30).

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proof that he lived in harmony, and he would never have pained her by publishing his desire for her death. This circumstance renders it conclusive that they referred to the passions of his youth. The “Dorotea” is indeed a singular performance, and we have read it with some care to discover what it contains that gives the idea that he shadowed forth himself. And / we will give some account of the work, which diffuse and tedious, will hardly attract the reader, but which at least presents a vivid picture of Spanish manners, and if relating to Lope himself, must be regarded with increased interest. We must premise that though this work was one of the last that he published, and that he mentions it as the favourite his of old age*, yet that it was written at Valencia in his youth.† “Dorotea” is not a play; it is a story told in dialogue, a sort of composition which has lately been named “Dramatic Scenes.” It is in prose, with a few poems interspersed. It is, as usual, very diffuse, and even incoherent and obscure in parts, and contains the story of the intrigues of a young man, whom it has been conjectured Lope intended for himself.c Don Fernando, the hero of the piece, says of himself that his parents dying, and leaving him in poverty, he went to the Indies to try his fortune, but not prospering he returned to Madrid, where he was hospitably received by a rich relation. This lady had in her house a daughter and a niece; with the niece, named Marfisa, Fernando fell, in some sort, in love. Unfortunately she was obliged to marry a gentleman of some rank and merit, but aged. The lovers parted with tears; but the marriage was of short duration, the husband dying soon after. Meanwhile Fernando, on the very day of Marfisa’s wedding, was introduced to Dorothea. He was then, he tells us, two-and-twenty, Dorothea fifteen, and beautiful beyond description. They seemed formed for each other, and though they now met for the first time, yet they felt as if they had known one another for years. Dorothea was already married, but her husband was far away in India. She was courted by a foreign prince, whom she coquetted with, giving him large hopes, * “Postuma de mis Musas Dorotea, y por dicha de mi la mas querida, ultima de mi vida publica luz desea, desea el sol de rayos de oro lleno entre la niebla de Guzman el Bueno.”

Ecloga á Claudio.a

b

† Prologo del Editor.

a Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 367. Lines 1–3 quoted in Quarterly Review, XVIII, p. 43. Their sense is given by Mary Shelley above in the text. b Obras Sueltas, VII, pp. 1–2. See also his comments in ‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 367. c Dorotea appears in Volume VII of Obras Sueltas. ‘Dramatic Scenes’ was a term popularised by Bryan Waller Procter’s work of that name (1819). The parallel is not exact since Procter’s scenes are short, complete in themselves, and entirely in verse-dialogue.

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and slight favours. This powerful rival Fernando at length / gets rid of: but he suffers from another evil, the evil of poverty; and the thoughts engendered by want of money fill him with melancholy. Dorothea observes his sadness, and he confesses its cause; she promises at once to give up all feasts and amusements, and sends to his house her jewels and plate in two coffers. He disposes of these, and even so draws on his mistress’s resources, that she is obliged to deny herself fitting dress, and to betake herself to unaccustomed labour for her maintenance. This lasted for five years; and the piece begins at this period, when an officious neighbour, Gerarda (who is set on by don Belia, a creole, who is another and a rich admirer of Dorothea) attacks Theodora, the mother of Dorothea, on the scandal the neighbours promulgate with regard to her daughter’s life. Theodora is alarmed, and commands Dorothea to see Fernando no more. She, in despair, hurries (accompanied by her maid) to his house, to impart the sad intelligence. Fernando takes it very coolly, and dismisses her in a manner to make her believe that he no longer loves. But when she is gone, he falls into a transport of despair; and partly piqued at her daring to think of obeying her mother, and partly too miserable to stay longer in a town where he may no longer behold her, he resolves to quit Madrid, and go to Seville. Being in want of means, he applies to his old friend Marfisa; and trumping up a story of having killed a man, and being obliged to fly (which, he says, is true, since he himself was dead, and at the same time obliged to absent himself), Marfisa gives him “the gold she possessed, and the pearls of her tears;” and thus enriched, Fernando departs for Seville.a Dorothea remains: she talks of her lover, and her hard fate, with her maid Celia. Among other things, Celia says, “The scandal that arose was greatly occasioned by Fernando writing verses in his lady’s praise.” Dorothea replies, “What greater riches can a woman possess, than to have herself immortalised? Her beauty fades, but the verses written in her honour are eternal witnesses of it.b The Diana of Montemayor was a lady / of Valencia; and the river Ezla and herself are immortalised by his pen. And the same has happened to the Philida of Montalvo, the Galatea of Cervantes, the Camila of Garcilaso, the Violante of Camoens, the Silvia of Bernaldes, the Philis of Figueroa, and the Leonora of Corte-real.” But though Dorothea loves Fernando, and is grateful for his verses, she proves false, and admits to her favour his rich rival, don Belia. Meanwhile Fernando, unable to endure his absence from her, returns. They meet by accident, and Dorothea feels all her affection revive. She exclaims on the cruelty of her mother, and the misery of her fate, and then intimates her falsehood. “All were against me,” she says; “my mother with ill usage, Gerarda with flattery, you by leaving me, and a cavalier by persuading me.”c However, notwitha Obras Sueltas, VII, p. 59. P. B. Shelley similarly claimed that the Advertisement to Epipsychidion (1821), which stated that the author had died, was ‘no fiction’ as the poem was ‘a production of a portion of me already dead’ (PBSL, II, pp. 262–3). b Obras Sueltas, VII, p. 84. c Obras Sueltas, VII, p. 297.

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standing this, they are for a time in some sort reconciled. But Fernando becomes cold and uneasy; assured that Dorothea loves him, he grows indifferent; certain of her falsehood, he is annoyed: he fancies that his honour is injured in the eyes of the world by his toleration, and he resolves to break with her. He sees in Marfisa the love of his early years. “We had been brought up together,” he says; “but although it is true that she was the object of my first attachment in the early season of my youth, her unlucky marriage, and the beauty of Dorothea, caused me to forget her charms as much as if I had never seen them. She returned home after the untimely death of her husband; and she regarded me with eyes of favour, but I vainly tried to admire her: yet I resolved to cultivate my attachment for her without giving up Dorothea. She (Dorothea) perceived a change, but attributed it to my honour being offended by the pretensions of don Belia; and in this she was right, since for that cause I had resolved to hate her. She indeed would have been willing to love me alone, but that was impossible – her fortunes forbade it.”a Meanwhile an unlucky encounter with his rival, to whom he is forced to give way, rouses him to revenge / against Dorothea; and fate puts the occasion in his hands. By mistake he sends her a letter from Marfisa to himself; a violent quarrel ensues; and they part to meet no more. A friend of Fernando prophesies to him the sequel of these disasters; he tells him that he will be persecuted by Dorothea and her mother, and thrown into prison, but afterwards liberated and banished; before this he will have become attached to a young lady, whom he will marry to the discontent of the relations on both sides. She will accompany him in his banishment with great constancy and love, but will die. He will then return to Madrid, Dorothea being then a widow, and will wish to marry him, but his honour has more influence over him than her riches, and he will refuse her. He will afterwards be very unfortunate in love, but by help of prayer will extricate himself, and enter another state of life. Marfisa will again marry a literary man, who will leave the kingdom with an honourable employment, but she will soon again be a widow, and then marrying a Spanish soldier, she will be very unhappy, and at last be assassinated by her husband in a fit of jealousy. Fernando is astonished at these prophecies, and announces his intention of joining the Invincible Armada. Dorothea, on her side, is teaching herself no longer to love him; she breaks his portrait, and burns his letters. But while she is looking forward to happiness with don Belia, he is killed in a duel. She rushes out in despair, and Gerarda falls into a well, and is drowned. “And thus ends Dorothea,” says the author, “the rest being only the misfortunes of Fernando; the poet could not fail in the truth, for the story is true. Look at the example, for which end it is written.”b All this strange medley of a story is told in dialogue, much of which is spirited and natural, but much, very much, pedantic, and beyond expression tedious. By some means, despite her misconduct, we are interested in Dorothea; she is so a b

Obras Sueltas, VII, pp. 390–1. Obras Sueltas, VII, pp. 448–9.

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frank, so beautiful, so generous; while Fernando is, on the contrary, an object of contempt. / He takes the money of Dorothea, and then angry at the first mention she makes of her mother’s interference, he flies from her rather in revenge than in grief: throughout he is selfish and ungenerous. Whether Lope shadowed forth himself is very doubtful. There is a sort of dwelling upon trifles, and a reality in the situations, that makes the whole look as if it were founded on fact; yet the facts do not accord with the circumstances known of his life. If it be himself that he portrays, it is himself at two or three and twenty, in the first inexperienced dawn of life, in all the heyday of the passions, when love was life, and moral considerations and the softer affections still lingered far behind in the background. To this period he often alludes in his epistles, when he mentions the troubled sea of love in which he was lost before his second marriage; from which period he dates his peace and felicity. And all this together proves to us that his allusions to an unfortunate attachment have no reference to that happier time. We deduce also from this various evidence that his taking up the life of a soldier, and joining the Armada, arose from his desire to fly from the adversity he had fallen into, “to change clime and element,” to begin a new career, in the hope of becoming a new man. Montalvan strengthens this view, when he says that this enterprise was undertaken in a fit of desperation, when he was desirous of finishing life and its sorrows at the same time; and thus driven by adversity, he enlisted under the banners of the duke of Medina Sidonia. Leaving Madrid, he traversed Spain to Cadiz, and thence repaired to Lisbon, where he embarked with a brother, who was an alferez de marina, a title probably answering to our midshipman, unless it be that he was ensign in a marine corps. Lope was a simple volunteer.*a / It is well known with what sanguine expectations of glorious victory the Invincible Armada sailed. The privateering or piratical expeditions of Drake and Hawkins though in accordance with the manners of the times, and, indeed, disgracefully imitated in late years, had excited feelings full of burning animosity and fierce vengeance in the hearts of the Spaniards.b Added to these natural feelings, * In his epistle to don Antonio de Mendoza, Lope alludes to his military life, but without assigning any cause for its assumption. “True it is,” he says, “that in early life I left my country and friends to encounter the vicissitudes of war. I sailed on a wide sea towards foreign lands – where I served first with my sword, before I described events with my pen. My inclinations caused me to break off the career of arms, and the Muses gave me a more tranquil life.”c a Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 32–3. Mary Shelley’s confusion is the result of the inaccuracies contained in Montalvan’s account. An ‘alferez’ is an ensign. b The Armada was a fleet of 130 ships sent by King Philip II in 1588 to invade England in conjunction with a Spanish army from Flanders. The Armada’s failure saved England and the Netherlands from possible absorption into the Spanish empire. There had been an upsurge in Caribbean piracy in the years after 1815. c ‘A Don Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza, Caballero del Habito De Calatrava, Secretario De Su Majestad,’ Epistle 1, Obras Sueltas, I, p. 285.

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was the odium of English heresy, which, deep rooted and rankling in Philip II.’s heart, was participated in by his subjects; they considered the expedition of the Armada as holy, as well as patriotic. Lope felt the full force of these sentiments; he bade the invincible fleet go forth and burn the world; wind would not be wanting to the sails, nor fire to the artillery, for his breast, he said, would supply the one, and his sorrow the other. Such was his ardour and such his sighs. Twelve of the largest vessels, according to the favourite Spanish custom, were named after the twelve apostles. Lope’s brother had a commission in the galleon San Juan, and he embarked on board the same vessel. In accordance with the crusading spirit of the expedition, all persons sailing in it were called upon to be duly shriven, and receive the sacrament with humility and repentance; and the general order went on to forbid all blasphemy against God, our Lady, and the saints; all gambling, all quarrels, all duels. Lope felt the enthusiasm of such an hour, and of such a character: a soldier of God going to relieve many contrite spirits oppressed by heretics, – a patriot about to avenge the disasters brought on his country by her enemies. Lope gives an animated description of the setting forth of the Armada, – its drums and clarions, its gay pendants, the ploughing up of the waves by the keels, and the gathering together of the busy crews.*a Of / himself, he says that Aristotle slept, with matter, forms, causes, and accidents; but he was not idle; and in another work, he mentions that in this expedition, in which, for a few years, he followed the career of arms, “my inclination prompted me to use my pen, and the general finished his enterprise when I did mine; for there, on the waters upon the deck of the San Juan, beneath the banners of the Catholic king, I wrote, ‘The Beauty of Angelica.’”b Thus, amidst storms and disasters, when his brother died * There is a very obscure stanza following this, it runs thus:– “¿ Quien te dixera che al exento labio, que apenas de un cabello se ofendia, amanciera dia de tan pesado agravio que cubierto de nieve agradecida? ¡ no sepamos si fue cometa ó vida!” In the Quarterly Review this is translated. “Who would have thought that this chin which had scarcely a hair upon it, should have sometimes been found in the morning so shagged with snow that it might have been mistaken for a comet?” This is obviously wrong. He alludes to his youth at the time of sailing with the Armada, and his age at the time of writing the eclogue to Claudio; and the swiftness with which the interval had passed. “Who could have told thee that there should come a day when the lip then scarcely deformed by a hair, should be so heavy covered with welcome snow (his beard turned white), [and that so swiftly that], we do not know whether it was a comet or life?” Nothing, however, can be so ill expressed and obscure. a

The above, from ‘Lope felt the full force’, derives from the Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 6–7. Mary Shelley’s footnote, querying Southey’s translation, is from ‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IX, pp. 356–7 and the same Quarterly, p. 7. b Quoted from ‘Prologo de Autor’, La Hermosura de Angelica (written 1588, published 1602), Obras Sueltas, II, p. xiii, a long poem of hybrid form.

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in his arms, struck by a ball in a skirmish with the Dutch at the very commencement of the expedition; while the ships around them were a prey to winds, and waves, and the enemy; and the fury of the violent tempests spread destruction around, Lope wrapped himself in his imagination, and beguiled his sorrows and anxieties by the pleasures of composition.a “The Beauty of Angelica” is a continuation of Ariosto’s poem. The Italian leaves the heroine on her road to Cathay, and Lope brings them to Spain. His tale is unconnected. Carried away by Spanish diffuseness, he frames neither plot nor story, but rambles on as his fancy leads. It opens with the marriage of Lido, a king of Andalusia with Clorinarda, a daughter of the king of Fez, who, meanwhile, loves Cardiloro, a son of Mandricardo and Doralice; a pair familiar to all the readers of Ariosto. The unhappy bride dies of grief, and her husband follows her to the tomb, leaving his kingdom to the most beautiful, be that either man or woman. The judges sit in judgment, and give their stupid opinions, on which Lope exclaims –b / “O dotards! through your spectacles who pry, And ask the measure of a lovely face; Measure the influence of a woman’s eye, And ye may then I ween compute the space; That intervenes between the earth and sky.”*c

Many candidates arrive, – the old and ugly and decrepit, leaving their homes, and braving every danger, – to claim the reward of beauty. Among them, but surpassing all in charms, Angelica and Medoro appear. Angelica is described with the greatest minuteness, – brow, eyes, nose, ears, and teeth are all depicted. But more beautiful than this sort of Mosaic portraiture are the verses that portray her companion. “Scarce twenty years had seen the lovely boy, As ringlet locks and yellow down proclaim; Fair was his height, and grave to gazers seemed Those eyes, which where they turned with love and softness beamed.”

The judges decide in favour of Angelica, and she and her husband are crowned. But their beauty gives rise to many a passion in the bosoms of others; and various are the incidents, brought about by enchantments and other means, which for a time disunite the beautiful pair, who, at last, discover their mistakes, and the poem ends with their happiness. This work possesses little merit, except here and there in short passages; but it is a singular specimen of Lope’s power of composition, amidst circumstances so foreign to the subject in hand. * Quarterly Review, vol. xviii. a

See Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 7–8. See Holland, pp. 31–41. c This and the next two verse translations are from the Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 23, 24 and 9, respectively. b

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On his return from the Armada, he quitted the career of arms, and entered the service, first, of the marquis de Malpica, and soon after of the count of Lemos,a leaving him only on occasion of his second marriage to donna Juana de Guardio, a lady of Madrid, of whom he thus speaks:– “Who could have thought that I should find a wife, When from that war I reached my native shore, Sweet for the love which ruled her life, Dear for the sorrows which she bore? Such love which could endure through cold and hot, Could only have been mine or Jacob’s lot.”* /

The sorrows to which Lope alludes, we conjecture to have arisen from straitened means. He brought out a vast quantity of plays at this time, and received no scanty remuneration; still he was not risen to the zenith of his fame, when on every side he received donations and pensions. He was extravagant we know, and prodigality might easily produce a gap between his expenses and his chance receipts as an author. This view is strengthened by his dedication of his play “El Verdadero Amante,” The True Lover, to his little son Carlos. This was not published till 1620, but must have been written long previous, as Carlos died before (how long, we know not) 1609, and is dedicated to him while he was learning the rudiments of the Latin language. He bids him follow his studies without impeding them with poetry, because he who had addicted himself to it was ill rewarded. He continues – “I possess only, as you know, a poor house, with table and establishment in proportion, and a small garden, whose flowers divert my cares and inspire me with ideas. I have written 900 plays, and twelve volumes on various subjects in prose and verse, so that the printed will never equal in quantity the unprinted; and I have acquired enemies, critics, quarrels, envy, reprehension, and cares; having lost precious time, and arrived nearly at old age without leaving you any thing but this useless advice.”b Notwithstanding this repining, Lord Holland is probably right in supposing that the years of Lope’s second marriage were the happiest of his life, though, perhaps, he felt at the commencement some pecuniary embarrassments. Through life he was extravagant, and on first setting out as an author might easily be in debt; yet, as he rose in fame his fortunes mended, and affection and content enshrined the family circle.c The period of his domestic happiness did not last long. At six years old, his little son died; his wife soon followed her child to the tomb, and Lope was left with * Ecloga á Claudio. Quarterly Review, xviii. a Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 8. According to Rennert (pp. 115–16), he joined Malpica’s service in 1596 and that of the Marqués de Sarriá (later Count of Lemos) in 1597 or 1598. But Hayes (p. 27) accepts Mary Shelley’s 1590 margin date. b The dedication is found in Pellicer's Origen y Progresso de la Comedia, p. 165. This source is mentioned in a note in Holland, p. 74. c Holland, p. 45.

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two daughters.*a From his own pen we give an / account of his wedded happiness, and his grief when his home again became desolate. In the Eclogue to Claudio, he says:– “I saw a group my board surround, And sure to me, though poorly spread, ’T was rich with such fair objects crowned – Dear bitter presents of my bed! I saw them pay their tribute to the tomb, And scenes so cheerful change to mourning and to gloom.”b

In addition to this affecting picture, he makes frequent mention of these circumstances in his epistles, and we subjoin extracts, which we are sure must interest the reader. One of these epistles is addressed to doctor Mathias de Porras, who had been appointed corregidor of the province of Canta in Peru. These epistles are in verse; but as their length is great, the abstract made from them might as well be in prose:– “Since you left me, Señor Doctor, and without dying went to the other world, I have passed my life in melancholy solitude; the evils of my lot increasing in proportion to the blessings of which you saw me deprived. Did not my new office (of priest) give me breath, the prop of my years would fall to the ground. O vain hopes! How strange are the roads that life passes through, as each day we acquire new delusions!” He then goes on to speak of his early loves and sorrows, and of the power of beauty, and continues, “But the vicissitudes of a life of passion were then over, and my heart was liberated from its importuning annoyances, when each morning I saw the dear and sincere face of my sweet wife at my side, and when Carlos – his cheeks all lilies and roses – won my soul by his charming prattle. The boy gambolled about me as a young lamb in a meadow at the morning hour. The half-formed words of his little tongue were sentences for us, interpreted by our kisses. I gave thanks to / Eternal Wisdom, and content with such mornings after such dark nights, I sometimes wept my vain hopes, and believed myself secure – not of life – but of reserving this felicity. I then went to write a few lines, having consulted my books. They called me to eat, but I often bade them leave * Montalvan and the other biographers mention only one daughter, Feliciana, the child of his second wife. The reader will presently see that we derive our knowledge of the existence of Marcella from Lope himself. It seems probable that she was the offspring of his first marriage, since when he speaks of Feliciana as an infant, he mentions that Marcela was fifteen. She entered a convent and was perhaps dead when Montalvan wrote. a Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 34, 40; Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 9; Holland, p. 46. Lope fathered at least 16 children. Marcela (1605–88) is one of the children he had with Micaela de Luján. The convent was the Trinitarian in Madrid. Her lyrical verse and short dramas survive in manuscript (Rennert, pp. 163–4; Hayes, p. 133). b See Holland, pp. 45–6.

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me, such was the attraction of study. Then bright as flowers and pearls, Carlos entered to call me, and gave light to my eyes and embraces to my heart. Sometimes he took me by the hand, and drew me to the table beside his mother. There, doctor, without pomp, an honest and liberal mediocrity gave us sufficing sustenance. But fierce Death deprived me of this ease, this cure, this hope. I lived no longer to behold that dear society which I imagined mine for ever. Then I disposed my mind for the priesthood, that that asylum might shelter and guard me. The Muses were idle for a time, and I refrained from all things worldly, and humbly attained the sacred stole.”a Another epistle is written under the feigned name of Belardo, the appellation he had assumed in his “Arcadia,” to Amaryllis.*b In this he gives a sketch of portions of his life. He speaks of his early turn for poetry and his predilection for study, and continues: – “Love, and love ever speaks false, bade me incline to follow him. What then befel me I now feel; but as I loved a beauty never to be mine, I had recourse to study, and thus the poet destroyed the love that destroyed him. Favoured / by my stars, I learned several languages, and enriched my own by the knowledge I gained through them. Twice I married; from which you may gather that I was happy – for no one tries twice a painful thing. I had a son whom my soul lived in. You will know by my elegy that this light of my eyes was called Carlos. Six times did the sun retrocede, equalling day and night, counting thus the time of his birth, when this my sun lost its light. Then expired life that was the life of Jacinta. How much better it had been that I had died, than that Carlos in his very * That unknown ladies should write anonymous letters to poets expressive of their admiration and sympathy, is, it seems, no mere modern fashion. The epistle from Amaryllis to Belardo, was certainly not written by Lope himself – it is too full of enthusiastic praise; and the style is not his. It is well written and interesting. Amaryllis addresses him from the New World. She describes herself as a creole, born of noble parents, in Peru. She and her sister were left early orphans – both endowed with beauty and talent. Her sister marries, but she dedicates herself to a life of celibacy, though she does appear to be a nun; she loves and cultivates poetry. She writes to Lope de Vega to offer her friendship – una alma pura á tu valor rendida – accepta el don, que puedes estimallo – and to exhort him to write religious poetry; and in particular, to celebrate St. Dorothea – a saint hitherto unsung, whom she and her sister hold in particular reverence. Lope replies with praises of her talents, and enters into a succinct account of his life, from which we have quoted, and says “I have written to you, Amaryllis, more than I ever thought to do concerning myself – this freedom proves my friendship for you.” He concludes by inviting her to celebrate St. Dorothea herself, and bids her immortalise the memory of her heroic ancestors, and bestow on them the eternal laurel of her pen. a ‘Al Doctor Mathias De Porras, Corregidor Y Justica Mayor De la Provincia De Canta en el Peru,’ Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 320–3. The final part of the quotation is compressed. Matias de Porres was the son of Gaspare de Porres, publisher of Lope’s Comedias and testifier on Lope’s behalf when he was pardoned from exile (Rennert, p. 217). b ‘Belardo a Amarylis’. Epistle 16, Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 468–76. See I, pp. 465, 475–6. Amarilis is identified with Marta de Nevares, a married woman whom Lope met in 1617 after he had become a priest, and whose jealous husband attempted to murder him. Lope wrote a bawdy comedy, The Valencian Widow, about the experience (Hayes, pp. 33–6).

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morning should encounter so long a night! Lope remained, if it be Lope who now lives. Marcella at fifteen obliged me to offer her to God, although, and you may believe me, though a father’s love might be supposed blind, she was neither foolish nor ugly. Feliciana showed me in her words and eyes the image of her lost mother, who died in giving her birth. Her virtues enforce tears, and time does not cure my sorrow. I left the gaieties of secular life; I was ordained. Such is my life; and my desires aspire to a good end only, without extravagant pretensions.”a In his epistle to don Francisco de Herrera he enlarges on the vocation of Marcella.b “Marcella,” he says, “the first care of my heart, thought of marrying, and one evening she spoke freely to me of her betrothed. I, seeing that it was prudent to examine her wish, since accident might have swayed it, grew attentive; at the same time that I desired to avoid shaking her intention if it were founded in the truth of her heart. But her anxiety increasing each day, I resolved to give her the husband to whom she aspired with so much love.” He then explains the Son of God to be her bridegroom – vows of chastity her nuptial benediction. He describes the whole ceremony of her taking the veil. The marchioness de la Tela was her godmother; the duke of Sesa and many other nobles being present.c Hortensio preached the sermon. “She asked me,” he says, “leave to conclude the marriage, and she whom I had / loved, and whose lovely person I had adorned more like a lover than a father, in gold and silk – like a rose that fades and falls to pieces at the close of day, losing the pomp of her crimson leaves – now sleeps upon rough straw, and barefoot and ill clad sits at a poor table.”d The dates of the various events of Lope’s life are very uncertain, and none more so than that of his second marriage. He mentions it as happening soon after his return from the expedition to England. Yet he speaks of taking orders soon after his wife’s death, and he took orders 1609. The term of his second marriage, however, endured only for eight years. It would therefore appear that several years elapsed after his return to Madrid before he married a second time.e As diligent a researcher as M. Viardôt in old parish books and official documents, would clear up this obscurity. As it is, we can only give the facts, as we find them stated, obscurely. a Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 471–2; Carlos was Lope’s son who died of tertian fever at the age of 7 in 1612 and Feliciana (b. 1613) his daughter by his second wife. (Rennert, p. 207; Hayes, pp. 31, 39, 40). b ‘A Don Francisco De Herrera Maldando,’ Epistle 4. Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 309–19. c Mary Shelley does not mention that Lope became employed by Don Luis Fernández de Córdoba, the Duke of Sessa (1579–1642) in 1605 and served as his secretary for 26 years (Rennert, pp. 161–2). d Quotations in the above paragraph from Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 311–12, 314. e Obras Sueltas, I, p. 315. Mary Shelley’s dates are slightly inaccurate. Lope’s second marriage, to Juana de Guardo, the daughter of a fish and meat wholesaler, took place on 25 Apr. 1598. Lope soon regretted the marriage. She had four children and died after giving birth to Feliciana on 4 Aug. 1613 (Hayes, p. 29). Lope took holy orders (1614) at age 51; however this did not stop his amours and he had two additional children.

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The effect of his bereaved condition was, as has been mentioned, to induce him to take vows, and be ordained. He prepared himself, by retiring from gay society, assumed a priestly dress, served in hospitals, and performed many acts of charity; and finally, visiting Toledo, took orders, and said his first mass in a Carmelite church. He entered a fraternity of priests dedicated to the performance of good works and the assistance of the poor, and fulfilled his duties zealously, so that he became named head chaplain, and was as generous as conscientious in the exercise of his office. To his other sacred employments he added that of being a familiar of the inquisition. His piety, which was catholic and excessive, led to this; but it is a painful circumstance, in our times especially, when we are told that he presided over the procession of the confraternity of familiars of the holy office, on the occasion of an auto da fé, when a relapsed Lutheran was burned alive. We feel sure that Cervantes would never have been led to a similar act.a Meanwhile his reputation as an author was rising to that height which it afterwards reached. In 1598, the / canonisation of St. Isidro, a native of Madrid, was the occasion of prizes being given to the authors of verses written in his honour. Each style of poetry gained its reward, but above one could not be gained by the same person. Lope succeeded in the hymns; but he had tried in all. He wrote a poem of ten cantos in short verse, numberless sonnets and ballads, and two comedies. These were published under the feigned name of Tomé de Burguilos, and are among the best of Lope’s compositions.b Already his dramas were in vogue, and the public were astonished by their number and excellence. In this year also he published the “Arcadia,” written long before. Afterwards he published others of his younger productions; for it is singular that he printed nothing while a very young man, and that he had established his reputation by his plays before he deluged the world with his lyric and epic poetry. The “Hermosura de Angelica” did not see light till 1604; and thus was it with many other of his productions, which he wrote probably at Valencia during his exile, and which when he found profit by so doing, he bestowed on the public. The reputation he attained awakened the enmity of rivals and critics. When Cervantes published “Don Quixote,” in 1605, Lope was risen high in popular estimation; he was generally applauded – almost adored. The abundance and facility of his verses, and the amiableness of his character, were in part the occasion of this; but the eminent cause was his theatre, which we delay considering, not too much to interrupt the thread of his history, but whose originality, novelty, vivacity, and adaptation to the Spanish taste, secured unparalleled success. Cervantes did not feel the merits of his innovations, and he considered himself a On 21 Jan. 1624 a Franciscan monk named Benito Ferrer was sentenced to be burned alive. Lope wrote a joking letter to the Duke of Sessa, adding ‘he was a low person, for that is the kind they burn’ (Rennert, pp. 309–10). b Relacion de las Fiestas que la insigne villa de Madrid hizo en la canonizacion de su bienaventurado Hijo y Patron San Isidro, con las Comedias que se representaron y los versos que en la Justa poetica se escrivieron (Obras Sueltas, XII).

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also the unacknowledged originator of many of the improvements attributed to Lope. We have seen in what Cervantes’s dramatic pretensions consisted – high wrought and impassioned scenes connected, not by the intricacies of a methodical plot, but by the simple texture of their causes and effects, such as we find in life itself. He felt that he had written well; he was / unwilling to acknowledge that Lope wrote better, nor did he, as a master of the human heart, and as presenting more affecting situations; but he did, as comprehending and representing more to the life the manners and feelings of his day. Cervantes easily perceived the faults of his rival; he discovered his incongruities, and noted the vanity or cupidity which made him more abundant than correct, and the currying to the depraved taste of the times, through a desire of popularity. In short, Lope was not perfect, but he had something that while he lived stood in the stead of perfection – he hit the public taste; he supplied it with ever fresh and ever delightful food; he pleased, he interested, he fascinated. To act posterity, and judge coolly of his works, was an invidious task; and though it was natural that a man so profound and sagacious as Cervantes should be impelled so to do, yet, by attacking him and proving him in the wrong, he could not weaken his influence, while he made an enemy. There is a sonnet against Lope attributed to him, of which the point is not acute; but it displays contempt for his pastorals and epics, and sarcastically alludes to his superabundant fertility. However, it is more than probable that Cervantes did not write this sonnet; for he wrote in praise of Lope in other works, and it was unlike the noble disposition of that single-hearted and excellent man to have contradicted himself. Still less likely is it that Lope wrote the answer. It is vulgarly abusive and ridiculously assuming: he calls Cervantes the horse to Lope’s carriage; bids him do Lope honour, or evil will betide him; and sums up by saying that “Don Quixote” went about the world in wrappers to parcels of spices. It looks more like the spurt of an over-zealous disciple than of a man of Lope’s judgment and character.*a His war with Gongora was of a more grave description, and we defer farther mention of it till in the life of Gongora we give some account of his poetic system. Meanwhile Lope rose higher and higher in the estimation / of the public. There is scarcely an example on record of similar popularity. Grandees, nobles, ministers, prelates, scholars – all solicited his acquaintance. Men came from distant lands to see him; women stood at their balconies as he passed, to behold and applaud him. On all sides he received presents; and we are even told that when he made a purchase, if he were recognised, the seller refused payment. His name passed into a proverb; it became a synonyme for the superlative degree, – a Lope diamond, a Lope dinner, a Lope woman, a Lope dress, was the expression used to

* Pellicer. a

This episode is taken from Holland, p. 57 and Pellicer, I, p. 212.

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express perfection in its kind.a All this might well compensate for attacks; yet as these were founded in truth, and he must sometimes have dreaded a reaction of popularity, he felt at times nettled and uneasy. His part was, however, warmly taken by his adherents. Their intolerance was such that they gravely asserted that the author of the “Spongia,” who had severely censured his works and accused him of ignorance of the Latin language, deserved death for his heresy.* His works were more numerous than can be imagined. Each year he gave some new poem to the press; each month, and sometimes every week, he brought out a play; and these at least were of recent composition, though the former consisted frequently in the productions of his early years, corrected and finished. He tried every species of writing, and became celebrated in all. His hymns and sacred poems secured him the respect of the clergy, and showed his zeal in the profession he had embraced. When Philip IV. came to the crown, he immediately heaped new honours on Lope; for Philip was a patron of the stage; and several plays of considerable merit, published as written “By a Wit of the Court” (Por un Ingenio de esta Corte), are ascribed to him. Lope published at this time his novels, imitated from Cervantes – whom he graciously acknowledges to have displayed some grace and ease of style, and whom he by no means succeeds in / rivalling – and several poems – which that they were ever read is a sort of miracle; and the Lope mania must have been vehement indeed that could gift readers with patience for his diffuseness. Still the taste was genuine, (though it seems to us perverted), as is proved by a rather dangerous experiment which he made. He published a poem without his name, for the sake of trying the public taste. It succeeded; and the favour with which his unacknowledged “Soliloquies on God,” were received must have inspired him with great reliance on his own powers. The death of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots at this time spread a very general sensation of pity for her and hatred for her rival through Spain. Lope made it the subject of a poem, which he called the Corona Tragica, which he dedicated to pope Urban VIII.; who thanked him by a letter written in his own hand, and by the degree of doctor of theology. This was the period of his greatest glory. Cardinal Barberini followed him in the streets; the king stopped to look at him as he passed; and crowds gathered round him whenever he appeared. The quantity of his writings is incredible. It is calculated that he printed one million three hundred thousand lines, and this, he says, is a small part of what he wrote.

* Lord Holland.[p. 60] a

The proverb was ‘Es de Lope’. Quoted in Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 13.

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“The printed part, though far too large, is less Than that which yet unprinted still remains.”*

Among these it is asserted that 1800 plays and 400 sacramental dramas have been printed. This account long passed as true. Lord Holland detected its fallacy; and the author of the article in the Quarterly follows up his calculations, and proves the absurdity of the account. He himself says, in the preface to the “Arte de Hacer Comedias,” that he had brought out 483. There are extant 497.b Some may be lost certainly, but not so many as this computation would assume. Many / of his pieces for the theatre, indeed, consist of loas and entremeses, small pieces in single acts, which may have been taken in to make up this number, but which do not deserve to rank among plays. With regard to the number of verses he wrote there is also exaggeration. He says he often wrote five sheets a day; and the most extravagant calculations have been made on this, as if he had written at this rate from the day of his birth, till a month or two after his death. It is evident, however, that the period when he wrote five sheets a day, and a play in the twenty-four hours, was limited to a few years. With all this he is doubtless, even in prolific Spain, the most prolific of writers, and the most facile. Montalvan tells us, that when he was at Toledo, he wrote fifteen acts in fifteen days, making five plays in a fortnight; and he adds an anecdote that fell under his own experience. Roque de Figueroa, a writer for the theatre of Madrid, found himself on an occasion without any new play, and the doors of his theatre were obliged to be shutc – a circumstance which shows the vast appetite for novelty that had arisen, and the cause wherefore Lope was induced to write so much, since the public rather desired what was new than what was good. But to return to Montalvan’s story. Being carnival, Figueroa was eager to open his theatre, and Lope and Montalvan agreed to write a play together; and they brought out the “Tercera Orden de San Francisco,” dividing the labour. Lope took the first act and Montalvan the second, which they completed in two days; and the third they partitioned between them, eight pages for each; and as the weather was bad, Montalvan remained all night in Lope’s house. The scholar finding that he could not equal his master in readiness, wished to surpass him by force of industry, and rising at two in the morning, finished his part by eleven. He then went to seek Lope, and found him in the garden, occupied by an orange-tree, which had been frost-bitten in the night. Montalvan asked how his verses speeded? Lope replied, “I began to write at five, and finished the act / an hour ago. I breakfasted on some rashers of bacon, and wrote an epistle of fifty triplets, and * The translation is from Lord Holland. The Spanish runs thus:– “Que no es minimo parte, aunque es exceso, De lo que está por imprimir, lo impreso.”c a b c

‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 369 and Holland, p. 76. See Holland, pp. 66–7 and Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 11–12. Roque de Figueroa: a writer of comedies and rival of Lope. See Holland, p. 78.

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having watered my garden, I am not a little tired.” On this he read his act and his triplets, to the wonder and admiration of his hearer.a He gained considerable profit by his writings. The presents made him by various nobles amounted to a large sum. His plays and autos, and his various publications, brought him vast receipts. He had received a dowry with each wife. The king bestowed several pensions and chaplaincies. The pope gifted him with various preferments. With all this he was not rich; his absolute income apparently amounted to only 1500 ducats, and profuse charities and prodigal generosity emptied his purse as fast as it was filled. He spent much on church festivals; he was hospitable to his friends, extravagant in his purchase of books and pictures, and munificent in his charities, so that when he died he left little behind him. We cannot censure this disposition; indeed it is inherent in property gained as Lope gained it, to be lost as soon as won; for being received irregularly, it superinduces irregular habits of expense. That Lope, the observed of all, he to whom nature and fortune had been so prodigal, should have been grasping and avaricious would have grated on our feelings. We hear of his profusion with pleasure: the wellwatered soil, if generous in its nature, gives forth abundant vegetation; the receiver of so much showed the nobility of his mind in freely imparting to others the wealth so liberally bestowed on him.b In his epistles and other poems, Lope gives very pleasing pictures of the tranquillity of his life as he advanced in age. Addressing don Fray Placido de Tosantos, he says: “I write you these verses, from where no annoyance troubles me. My little garden inspires fancies drawn from fruits and flowers, and the contemplation of natural objects.” In the epistle before quoted to Amaryllis, he says, “My books are my life, and humble content my actions – unenvious of the riches / of others. The confusion sometimes annoys me; but, though I live in Madrid, I am farther from the court than if I were in Muscovy or Numidia. Sometimes I look upon myself as a dwarf, sometimes as a giant, and I regard both views with indifference; and am neither sad when I lose, nor joyful when I gain. The man who governs himself well, despises the praise or blame of this short though vile captivity. I esteem the sincere and pure friendship of those who are virtuous and wise; for without virtue, no friendship is secure; and if sometimes my lips complain of ingratitude, this is no crime.” To Francisco de Rioja he writes: “My garden is small; it contains a few trees, and more flowers, a trained vine, an orange tree, and a rose bush. Two young nightingales dwell in it, and two buckets of water form a fountain, playing among stones and coloured shells.” “My hopes are fallen,” he says in another place, “and my fortune shuts herself up with me in a nook, filled with books and flowers, and is neither favourable nor inimical to me.” In the “Huerto Deshecho,” or Destroyed Garden, he gives further testimony of his love for his garden, which had just been laid waste by a tempest. He thus addresses his fair retreat:– a b

Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 52. Derived from Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 47–8.

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“Dear solace of my weary sorrow, Unhappy garden, thou who slept, Foreseeing not the stormy morrow, The while the tears that night had wept, Morning drank up, and all the flowers awoke, And I the pen that told my thoughts up took.”

and he goes on bitterly to grieve over the desolation the storm had made.a If there is a touch of melancholy, and a half-checked repining in any of these quotations, I do not see that he is to be reprehended. Covered with renown and gifted with riches – it is said, who can be happy, if Lope de Vega were not? But we must remember that neither wealth nor fame are in themselves happiness. Lope had through death lost the dearest objects of life; in a spirit of piety he had shut himself out from forming others. His heart was the source of his disquiet – / but he had recourse to natural objects for its cure, and often found repose among them. That his disposition was amiable and his temper placid, there is ample proof. He says of himself, “I naturally love those who love me, and I cannot hate those who hate me;”b and we may believe him: for this is a virtue a man never boasts of without possessing it; to a nature formed to hate and to revenge, hatred and revenge seem natural and noble. That he was vain is evident: his sort of character, vivacious, kindly and expansive, tends to vanity. He would have been more than man not to have been vain, flattered as he was. Lord Holland mentions his complaints of poverty, obscurity, and neglect, in the preface to the “Peregrino,” but they do not amount to much.c He certainly writes in a very ill temper, nettled, it would appear, by some plays having appeared with his name, which were not written by him. There is more of complaint in his poem of the “Huerto Deshecho,” one of the most elegant and pleasing of his poems. Alluding to his love of study, he says, “Though that be a work of praise, it was but the fatal prelude of the unhappy result of my hopes, since, in conclusion, my verses were given to the winds. Strong philosophy, and retired, but contented old age animate me on my way. If I do not sing, it is enough that others sing what I deplore – devouring time destroys towers of vanity and mountains of gold; one only thing, divine grace, suffers no change.”d It is strange, indeed, that he should say that he had given his verses to the winds – but he says himself, “No he visto alegre de su bien ninguno –” I ne’er saw man content with what he had.e a Quotations in the above paragraph from Obras Sueltas, I, pp. 297, 474, 493, 502–3; IX, p. 375; the fourth quotation is from ‘A D. Juan de Arguijo,’ The brief verse translation appears to be another of Mary Shelley’s. b Obras Sueltas, I, p. 469. c Holland, pp. 61–2. d Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 380. Mary Shelley is translating very loosely here. e ‘Al Reverendissimo Señor Don Fray Placido de Tosantos, Obispo de Oviedo, Del Conejo de su Majestad’, Epistle 2. Obras Sueltas, I, p. 297. Translation by Mary Shelley.

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Thus he passed many years, living according to the dictates of his conscience, with moderation and virtue; unmindful of life, but deeply mindful of death, so that he was ever prepared to meet it. His piety indeed was tinged with superstition; but he was a catholic and a Spaniard, and dwelt fervently on the means of satisfying the justice of God in this world, so as to secure / a greater stock of happiness in the next. Charitable he was to prodigality; and as he grew old he used his pen on religious subjects only, repenting somewhat of his labours for the stage. His health was good, till, within a very short time before he died, he fell into a state of hypochondria, which clouded the close of his existence.* His friend, Alonzo Perez de Montalvan, seeing him thus melancholy, asked him to dine with him and a relation, on the day of Transfiguration, which was the 6th of August. After dinner, as all three were conversing on several subjects, he said, that such was the depression of spirits by which he was afflicted that his heart failed him in his body, and that he prayed God to ease him by shortening his life. On which, Juan Perez de Montalvan (his biographer, friend, and pupil) remarked, “Do not feel thus. I trust in God and in your healthy looks, that this indisposition will pass away, and that we shall see you again in the health you enjoyed twenty years ago.” To which Lope replied with some emotion, “Ah, doctor, would to God, I were well over it!”a His presentiments were verified: Lope was soon to die; this his feelings foretold, and so prepared him for the event. On the 18th of the same month he rose very early, recited the divine service, said mass in his oratory, watered his garden, and then shut himself up in his study. At mid-day he felt chilled, either from his work among his flowers, or from having, as his servants averred, used the discipline on himself with severity, as was proved by the recent marks of blood being found on the discipline, and staining the walls of the room.b Lope was indeed a rigid catholic, as this circumstance proves, and also his refusing to eat any thing but fish, though he had a dispensation to eat meat, and it was ordered him during his indisposition. In the evening he attended a scientific meeting, but being suddenly taken ill, he was obliged to return home. The physicians / now gathered round with their prescriptions; and it happened that doctor Juan de Negrete, the king’s physician, passed through the street; and he was told that Lope de Vega was indisposed, on which he visited him, not as a doctor, as he had not been called in, but as a friend. He soon perceived his danger, and intimated that it were better that he should take the sacrament, with the usual excuse, that it was a relief to any one in danger, and could only benefit him if he lived. “If you advise this,” said Lope “there must be a necessity;” and that same night he received the sacrament. Extreme unction followed but two hours after. He then called for his * Montalvan. a b

Material in the above paragraph taken from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 36–7. Lope practised self-flagellation. Hayes (p. 40) says he scourged himself every Friday.

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daughter, and blessed her, and took leave of his friends as one about to make so long a journey; conversing concerning the interests of those left behind, with kindness and piety. He told Montalvan, that virtue was true fame, and that he would exchange all the applause he had received, for the consciousness of having fulfilled one more virtuous deed; and followed up these counsels with prayers and acts of catholic piety. He passed the night uneasily, and expired the next day, weak and worn, but alive to a sense of religion and friendship to the last.a His funeral took place the third day after his death, and was conducted with splendour by the duke of Sesa, the most munificent of his patrons, whom he had named his executor. Don Luis de Usategui, his son-in-law, and a nephew, went as mourners, accompanied by the duke of Sesa and many other grandees and nobles.b The clergy of all classes flocked in crowds. The procession attracted a multitude; the windows and balconies were thronged, and the magnificence was such, that a woman going by, exclaimed, “This is a Lope funeral!” ignorant that it was the funeral of Lope himself, and so applying his name as expressive of the excess of all that was splendid. The church was filled with lamentation when at last he was deposited in the tomb. For eight days the religious ceremonies were kept up, and on / the ninth, a sermon was preached in his honour, when the church was again crowded with the first people of Spain. By his will, his daughter, donna Feliciana de Vega, married to don Luis de Usategui, inherited the moderate fortune he left behind. He added in his will a few legacies of pictures, books, and reliques to his friends.c In person Lope de Vega was tall, thin, and well made; dark complexioned, and of a prepossessing countenance; his nose aquiline; his eyes lively and clear; his beard black and thick. He had acquired much agility, and was capable of great personal exertion. He always enjoyed excellent health, being moderate in his tastes, and regular in his habits.d To gather Lope’s character from the events of his life, and his accounts of himself, it may be assumed that while young his disposition had all the vivacity of the south – that his passions were ardent, his feelings enthusiastic – that he was heedless and imprudent perhaps, but always amiable and true. Generous to prodigality – pious to bigotry – patriotic to injustice, he was given to extremes, yet he did not possess the higher qualities, the cheerful fortitude, and fearless temper of Cervantes. Time and sorrow softened in after times some portions of his character; but still in his garden, among his flowers and books, he was vivacious, perhaps petulant (for his complaints of neglect are to be attributed to petulancy rather than to a repining temper); warm-hearted, charitable and social, vain he might also be, for that we all are. The activity of his mind resembled more a spontaneous fertility a

Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 37–41, condensed. Don Luis de Usatengui married Feliciana Felix de Vega Carpio in 1633. c Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 42–3. Mary Shelley omits the summary of the funeral sermon. Feliciana was his one surviving legitimate child. d Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, pp. 48–9. b

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of soil, than the exertion of labour: “plays and poetry were the flowers of his plain,” as he says: and this seems an unexaggerated picture of the ease with which he composed.a We need scarcely allude to the hypochondria that darkened his last hours, as Montalvan seems to mention it as a mere precursor of death. If it were more, it is only another proof that the mind must not work too hard, while it has this fragile body for its instrument and prop. / In drawing up Lope’s character, Montalvan* praises him as agreeable and unpresuming in conversation. He was zealous in the affairs of others, careless of his own; kind to his servants, courteous, gallant and hospitable, and exceedingly well bred. His temper, he says, was never ruffled but by those who took snuff before company; with the grey who dyed their locks; with men who, born of women, spoke ill of the sex; with priests who believed in gipsies; and with persons who without intentions of marriage asked others their age. Good taste as well as good feeling is displayed in most of these slight intimations of character: it is to be cleanly to dislike to see snuff taken; it is being unusually just always to speak well of women. As no writer ever surpassed him in quantity, so it will be impossible to give a full account of his works. We have already mentioned several: – His “Arcadia,” the production of his youth, which may be considered the best of such of his writings as are not dramas; – “The Beauty of Angelica,” is chiefly remarkable as showing how superior the Italian romantic poets are to any that Spain has produced. The “Dragontea” is another poem of which Sir Francis Drake is the hero, and the poet has not been sparing of vituperation. It is founded on the last expedition of Drake, when, to revenge the armada, and to inflict a deep blow on the Spanish power, injured by the destruction of its fleet, he scoured the Spanish coast, and did immense injury to the shipping.b The poem of Lope is very patriotic; the hatred felt in Spain for the English queen was furious and personal; the

* We cannot take leave of Montalvan without saying something of his merits as an author, and noticing his career. He was regarded by Lope as his favourite pupil and friend. He was notary to the inquisition. At the age of seventeen he wrote plays in the style of his friend and teacher, and continued to write after the death of Lope, with an assiduity and speed that rivalled him. He died in 1639, at the age of thirty-five only; and had already written nearly a hundred comedies and autos as well as several novels. These last are imaginative and entertaining. His comedies are not so finished nor well arranged as Lope’s, but they have great merit, and indicate still greater powers, had he flourished in an age when such could have been developed, or if he had lived long enough to bring them to perfection.c a Possibly a paraphrase of ‘Un campo a quien cultura y arte faltan, / barbaras flores sin labor matizan’ from ‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IX, p. 368 and of Southey’s ‘The fields, the running waters, and the flowers were his books of divinity’ (Quarterly Review, XVIII (1818), 37). b Mary Shelley, translating loosely from Montalvan, Obras Sueltas, XX, p. 49, on Drake the Pirate (published 1598). c Derived from Bouterwek, I, pp. 446–7.

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marriage of Philip II. with / bloody queen Mary, having caused much intercourse between the two nations, and the accession of Elizabeth being the signal of our island again falling off from the Roman Catholic faith; all therefore that could be imagined of horror for her heresy and wickedness, and that of her ministers, animated the soul, and directed the pen of Lope. The “Jerusalem” was his next attempt at an epic; of this Richard Cœur de Lion is the hero, though the English of course are rendered subordinate to the Spaniards. We have not read it. Lord Holland pronounces it a failure; and the critic of the Quarterly observes, “A failure indeed it is, and a total one; the plan, when compared to that of the ‘Angelica’ is as “confusion worse confounded,” – it has neither beginning, middle, nor end; neither method, nor purpose, nor proportion; and many of the parts might be extirpated, or, what is more extraordinary, might change places without any injury to the whole. But there is more vigour of thought in it, and more felicity of expression than in any other of his longer poems.”a And thus Spaniards alone write; with them a poem resembles a pathless jungle: you come to a magnificent tree, a wild and balmy breathing flower, a mossy pathway, and clear bubbling fountain; and beside these objects you linger a moment, but soon you plunge again among tangled underwood and uncultivated interminable wilds. When Lope takes a subject in hand he does not follow it up as a traveller who has a bourne in view; but he scrambles up every mountain, visits every waterfall, and plunges into every cavern; and like a tourist without a guide in an unknown country, he often loses his way, and often leads his reader a wild chase after objects, which, when reached, were not worth visiting. This prodigality of verse, which caused him to be named the Potosi of rhymes, was indulged in to the utmost, when, on the canonisation of St. Isidro, he entered into the lists to win the prize instituted for poems in celebration of the event.b Isidro had been elevated / into a saint at the solicitation of Philip III., who had been cured of a fever by the body of the defunct miracle-maker being brought to him. Every Spanish poet of the age, and they were all but innumerable, entered the lists. There are two volumes of Lope’s productions, some in his own name, consisting of a sort of epic, composed in quintillas, or stanzas of five short lines each, a measure more suited to the genius of the Spanish language than longer ones; and a play, and a vast quantity of lyrics given under the name of Burguillos. These were all burlesque; but subsequently Lope continued to adopt the name, and published several poems under it, among others, the “Gatomaquia, or War of Cats,” a mock heroic, which is a great favourite in Spain. The “Corona Tragica,” a poem written on the death of Mary, queen of Scots, brought him an increase of reputation: it is bigoted to the excess of blind Spanish inquisitorial bigotry, and, a Jerusalem Regained (published 1609). Holland, pp. 57–8 and Quarterly Review, XVIII (1817), 30. b ‘Potosi of rhymes’: alluding to the wealth of the mines of Potosí in Bolivia. El Isidro was published in 1599 and went through 8 editions in the 17th century (Hayes, pp. 114–15).

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except in a few passages, does not rise above mediocrity.a It is impossible to give even a cursory account of Lope’s lyrics and sacred poems. The best of the former are to be found in the “Arcadia” and the “Dorotea.” But it is not on any of these productions that the reputation of Lope really rests. That was founded on his theatre, and on that it must continue to subsist. There he showed himself master of his art: original, fecund, national, universal, true and spirited, he produced a form of dramatic writing that, to this day, rules the stage of every country of the world. It was with considerable difficulty that the theatre established itself at all in Spain, the church setting itself against theatrical representations. This prejudice has continued even to modern days. No Spanish monarch since Philip IV. has entered a theatre; and Philip V., when he found in Farinelli the solace of his painful distemper, not only never heard him in a theatre, but caused him to give up the public stage, when he was admitted to sing privately before him.b In the early day of which we are writing, the clerical outcry was / furious, and the drama only became tolerated by making over the theatres to two religious corporations, one a hospital, and the other of flagellants; and the wickedness of the stage was permitted*c for the sake of the benefits to charity and religion to result therefrom. The sites of the theatres then consisted of two open court yards, corrales – corral is the Spanish term for farmyard, or any enclosure for cattle, and long continued to be synonymous with a theatre. The representations took place at first in the open air. Alberto Gavasa, an Italian, who brought over a company of buffoons, was enabled by the greatness of his success to cover his corral with an awning, the court yard itself was paved and provided with movable benches, and called the patio, or pit, which no women ever entered.d The grandees sat looking out of the windows of the houses that looked into the court yard, which government appropriated and distributed on this occasion. A prince or very great man having a room allotted to him, and minor gentlemen a single window, and this primitive arrangement was we are told the origin of our boxes. In addition, there were several galleries, into some of which women only were admitted. It was called the cazuela, and open to all classes. Yet even this pious dedication of the proceeds of the theatre did not silence the clergy. In 1600, Philip III. ordered the subject to be referred to a junta of theologians. This council established certain conditions on which the performances * Pelicer – Tratado sobre el Origen de la Comedia. Quarterly Review, No. 117. a The Tragic Crown (1627) and War of the Cats (1634) in Obras Sueltas, XIX and Sedano, II; see Holland, p. 95. b Carlo Broschi Farinelli (1705–82), a famous castrato singer; his therapeutic effect on Philip V is mentioned in ‘Metastasio’ (vol. 1). c Pellicer, I, pp. 109–10; Richard Ford, 'El Teatro Español’ [4 vols. 8 vo. London, 1817, 1820] Quarterly Review, LIX (1837), 78–9. d Alberto Nazeri de Ganassa brought a company of Italian players in 1574 and erected a theatre in the Corral de la Pacheca in Madrid. A ‘corrale’ is the yard of a house (Rennert, pp. 120–1).

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were to be tolerated, the principal being that women were not to act, nor to mingle with the audience. It was at this time, and with this licence that Lope’s career was run. He alone furnished all Spain with plays; and so great a favourite was he, that none but his were received with any approbation. On the accession of Philip IV., a man of pleasure, the theatre was more frequented than ever. Yet still, it may be observed, the clergy nourished a prejudice against it, censured Lope for / being the occasion of much sin, and caused him on his death bed to express his regret at having written for the stage, and to promise that if he recovered he would do so no more. Cervantes boasts of the improvements he occasioned in theatrical representations. Still his plays, though they have great merit from the passion and poetry they display, are inartificial in their construction, while Lope on the contrary, became popular from the admirable nature of his plots. His dramas are praised by a Spanish critic for “the purity and sweetness of his language, for the vivacity of his dialogue, for the propriety of many of the characters, for his invention, his exact description of national manners, for his serious passages, his merriment and his wit.”a There is often something barbaric in his carelessness of time and place, and also in the hinging on of his incidents: still the plot was preserved carefully throughout, and the catastrophe showed the intention of the author to have been always in his mind, even when he most seemed to swerve from it. The number of plays that Lope wrote has been alluded to, and is really astonishing: there is something of sameness, perhaps, at the bottom of all, but this is joined to prodigious variety and novelty within the circle by which his invention is circumscribed. He says himself – “Should I the titles now relate Of plays my endless labour bore, Well might you doubt, the list so great, Such reams of paper scribbled o’er; Plots, imitations, scenes, and all the rest, To verse reduced, in flowers of rhetoric drest. The number of my fables told Would seem the greatest of them all; For, strange, of dramas you behold Full fifteen hundred mine I call, And full an hundred times – within a day, Passed from my muse, upon the stage, a play.”b

a

The comments ressemble those offered by Holland (pp. 229–30), though the source is to be found in the eulogies collected by Montalvan and included in volumes XIX–XXI of Obras Sueltas. b ‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IX, pp. 367–8; Holland’s translation, pp. 83–4.

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And so entirely did he possess the ear and favour of the audience, that many a play of which he was innocent was brought out under his name, and thus obtained applause. The causes of his success are easily discovered. / The Spaniards had hitherto wanted a national literature. Their poetry and their pastorals did not express the heroism, the bigotry, the tenacious honour and violent prejudices that formed their character. Their ballads did, and so did the romances of chivalry; but the latter had become mere imitations, and while they echoed some of the sentiments they entertained, did not mirror their manners. It was like a new creation when the poetic genius of Spain embodied itself in the drama, and under the guise of tragedy and comedy, each romantic, made visible to an audience the ideal of their prejudices and passions, their virtues and vices; and these, in connection with a story that engaged their interest and warmed their hearts with sympathy. The plays of Lope were either romantic tragedies, or plays of la Capa y Espada, of the sword and cloak, sometimes tragic and sometimes comic, but which were founded on the manners of the day. Of course there is a great deal of killing and slaving, but none of the horrors that startle the reader of “Titus Andronicus,” and other English tragedies of that period.a The point of honour, loyalty, love, and jealousy, form the standard groundwork of the dramas of Lope. Lord Holland has analysed the “Star of Seville,” in which the interest depends on an affianced lover killing the brother of his betrothed at the instance of the king, and then refusing to betray his royal master’s secret.b Love and jealousy take singular forms. It was the custom of the lover to watch beneath the barred windows of the house of his lady, and she, if she favoured him, descended and conversed with him from her casement. They never hesitate to acknowledge their love, but it must never be suspected by others. Were it known that a cavalier were thus favoured, the relations of the lady would at once assassinate him, and stab her or shut her up in a convent. Yet when the lovers have escaped these dangers, they marry, and at the sound of wedlock the honour of the family is secured; the injury, to be so mortally avenged, is no longer an injury, and all is / well and happy. If a husband is jealous, it is not that he doubts the fidelity of his wife, or even her attachment, but that she has been placed in a situation which might have led to dishonour. Others know this, and she must expiate the fault with her life. In the “Certain for the Doubtful,”c a lady wishing to dissuade the king from marrying her, confesses that his brother, who is his rival, had once kissed her without her permission. The king instantly resolves to have him assassinated, since he cannot marry the lady till his brother’s death has freed a Comedias de Capa y Espada (comedies of the cloak and sword) were, according to Bouterwek ‘founded on subjects selected from the sphere of fashionable life, and exhibited the manners of the age; they were likewise performed in the costume of the times’ (I, p. 366). Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus (c. 1592–3) includes the rape of a woman, whose hands and tongue are cut off. b Holland, pp. 133–76. c Mary Shelley is translating from a speech in Act III, scene xvi of Lo Cierto por lo dudoso.

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her from the dishonour that must accrue, while the perpetrator of such an act lives. He says at the same time “I know that there is no reality in what you tell me, but, although this strange incident be a falsehood invented for the purpose of inducing me not to marry you, it suffices that it has been said, to force me to revenge it. If love makes me in any manner give credit to your story – Henriquez shall die, and I marry his widow; for then, if what you tell me shall be discovered, we shall neither of us be dishonoured; for you will be the widow of this kiss, as others are of a husband.” Accordingly assassins are commissioned to to waylay his brother. Meanwhile Henriquez and the lady marry, and the king seeing the evil without remedy, and his honour safe, pardons the lovers. Schlegel observes, “Honour, love, and jealousy are uniformly the motives: the plot arises out of their daring and noble collision, and is not purposely instigated by knavish deception. Honour is always an ideal principle, for it rests, as I have elsewhere shown, on that higher morality which consecrates principles without regard to consequences: the honour of the women consists in loving only one man, of pure, unspotted honour, and loving him with perfect purity: inviolable secrecy is required till a lawful union permits it to be publicly declared. The power of jealousy, always alive, and always breaking out in a dreadful manner, – not like that of eastern countries, a jealousy of possession, but of the slightest emotions of the heart, and its most imperceptible demonstrations, / serves to ennoble love. In tragedies, this jealousy causes honour to become a hostile destiny for him who cannot satisfy it, without either annihilating his own felicity, or becoming even a criminal.”a Schlegel, in his hatred of the French, espouses with too much warmth, and elevates too highly the nobleness of the passions on which the interest of the Spanish drama is founded. Where jealousy is the main spring of every action, there is little tenderness; however, it is in the comedies that this passion displays itself in the worst light. In tragedies, death, hovering over the scene, gives dignity and elevation to that which otherwise must seem the excess of self-love. The comedies present a tissue of intrigues and embroglios; but these are arranged with so much art, carried on with so much spirit, and aided by sparkling and natural dialogue, that it is impossible not to be amused, and even interested. To these subjects are added plays in which religion is the master passion, where Catholicism is raised to the height which makes its assumed truth a justification for the worst crimes; and the vengeance which Moor or Jew pursue for infinite injuries, be considered a crime to be expiated by a cruel death. In the same way, the point of honour led to falsehood and dishonourable actions, all of which were considered venial, as founded on, or tending to, a lofty aim. Even in the lighter comedies, there is a dangerous and ticklish sense of honour always on the alert to create danger, and enliven the interest. a A. W. Schlegel, Über dramatische Kunst und Literature (1809–11); derived here from extracts translated into French by Sismondi (Sismondi, IV, pp. 113–16).

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Lope also wrote many sacred dramas and Autos Sacramentales.a Some of these are allegorical; others founded on the lives of the saints. God Almighty, the Virgin, the Saviour, and Satan are among his dramatis personæ. But in this species of writing he was far surpassed by Calderon. It required sublimity to give a proper tone to such subjects, and to this quality Lope cannot pretend. His entremeses or interludes, farces they may be called, are full of merriment; his vast facility in inventing plots enabled him to bestow a subject that might easily be drawn out into a comedy of five, on a / piece of one act. French and English writers have consulted him as a mine. In him originated also the introduction of the Grazioso, or jester – a clown who makes ludicrous observations on what is going on, and turning tragic sentiment into burlesque, acts as censor upon the motives and actions of the personages, and often disturbs the current of interest excited; but often also the sprightly wit he thus introduces, relieves the monotony of passion on stilts, and he is always a convenient personage in explaining away a difficulty, and disclosing a secret. Lope, of course, wholly disregards unity of time and place. The incongruities of his plots are manifold. Success, popular success, was what he aimed at, and he gained it; but he was aware of the barbarism of many of his dramas, and has himself warmly censured his plays. In his “Arte de hacer Comedias” he says*:– “I, doomed to write, the public taste to hit, Resume the barbarous dress ’twas vain to quit: I lock up every rule before I write, Plautus and Jerome drive from out my sight, Lest rage should teach those injured wits to join, And their dumb books cry shame on works like mine. To vulgar standards then I square my play, Writing at ease, for, since the public pay, ’Tis just methinks we by their compass steer, And write the nonsense that they love to hear:”

And again in the same poem:– “None than myself more barbarous or more wrong, Who, hurried by the vulgar taste along, Dare give my precepts in despite of rule, Whence France and Italy pronounce me fool. But what am I to do? who now of plays, With one complete within these seven days, * Arte de hacer Comedias. Lord Holland’s Translation.b a Autos Sacramentales are defined by Bouterwek as having ‘a reference to the administration of the sacrament’, with ‘autos’ meaning acts. b Arte Nuevo de Hacer Comedias, and ‘Egloga a Claudio’, Obras Sueltas, IV, pp. 405–17 and IX, p. 369; see Holland, pp. 82–3 and pp. 103–4 for translations.

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Four hundred eighty-three, in all have writ, And all, save six, against the rules of wit.”

And in his eclogue to Claudio:– “Then spare, indulgent Claudio, spare The list of all my barbarous plays; For this with truth I can declare, And though ’tis truth, it is not praise, The printed part, though far too large, is less Than that which yet unprinted waits the press.”

To this severe censure of his own works was joined considerable study of the dramatic art. It had engaged / his attention, he says, since he was ten years old; and in the “Dramatic Art” from which we have just quoted, he shows great good taste and penetration in his observations. His plays are not now acted in Madrid. The theatre, indeed, has declined in Spain, and melodrames and vaudevilles have taken place of the higher species of drama. Still Lope’s works are a mine of wealth for any dramatist, whence to draw situations, plots, and dialogue. Dryden borrowed much from him; and, notwithstanding his faults, there may be found in his plays a richness of invention, a freshness and variety of ideas, and a vivacity of dialogue unsurpassed by any author.a /

a

Holland, p. 127.

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VICENTE ESPINEL. 1544–1634.

ESTEBAN DE VILLEGAS. 1595–1669. T HE vast number of poets who flourished in Spain at this epoch renders the task of furnishing the biography of even a selection from among them, hopeless. When we turn to the “Laurel de Apolo” of Lope de Vega, and see stanza after stanza devoted to different poets; and when, in the “Voyage to Parnassus” of Cervantes we find poets rain in showers, we give up the task as hopeless – especially when we are told that, although many of those so brought forward are unknown, many there are, who wrote well, who are not mentioned at all in these works.a Poetry was then the fashion; and it was easy to spin many hundred lines with few ideas, and those few common-place, though pretty and graceful. Despotism and the inquisition gave the creative or literary spirit of Spain no other outlet. Thought was forbidden. Description, moral reflection, where no originality nor boldness was admitted, and love and sentiment, – these were all the subjects that Spanish poets rung the changes on, till we wonder where they found fresh words for the same thoughts. In any longer poems they wholly failed: and the only compositions we read with pleasure are songs, madrigals, redondillas, and romances, which are often fresh and sparkling – warm from the heart, either dancing with animal spirits or soft with pathetic tenderness.b Among the writers of such, none excelled Vicente Espinel. The following is a specimen, and may be taken as an a

Reference to Lope comes from Sedano, III, pp. xxi–xxii. Mary Shelley’s choice of these two poets may be influenced by restating, though not as strongly, P. B. Shelley’s conviction that when the conditions for great poetry and drama are no longer present, the poet can at least give pleasure and delight: ‘Had that corruption [of society under the tyrannous governments under which they lived] availed so as to extinguish in them the sensibility to pleasure, passion, and natural scenery, which is imputed to them as an imperfection, the last triumph of evil would have been atchieved [. . .] Poetry ever communicates all the pleasure which men are capable of receiving; it is ever still the light of life–the source of whatever of beautiful, or generous, or true can have place in an evil time’ (‘A Defence of Poetry’, pp. 492–3 in Shelley’s Poetry and Prose, ed. D. H. Reiman and Sharon Powers (New York: Norton, 1977), p. 493). b

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768-15

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example of that style of Spanish / poetry, simple, feeling and elegant, which preceded the innovations of the refined school. It is taken from Dr. Bowring’s translation, and is good, though not comparable to the charming simplicity of the original:– “A thousand, thousand times, I seek* My lovely maid; But I am silent still – afraid That if I speak, The maid might frown, and then my heart would break. I’ve oft resolved to tell her all, But dare not – what a woe ’t would be From doubtful favour’s smiles to fall To the harsh frown of certainty. Her grace, her music cheers me now; The dimpled roses on her cheek; But fear restrains my tongue – for how, How should I speak, When, if she frown’d, my troubled heart would break? No, rather I’ll conceal my story In my full heart’s most secret cell: For though I feel a doubtful glory, I ’scape the certainty of hell. I lose, ’t is true – the bliss of heaven, – I own my courage is but weak, – That weakness may be well forgiven, * “Mil veces voy á hablar á mi zagala, pero mas quiero callar, por no esperar que me envie noramala Voy á decirle mi daño pero tengo por mejor, tener dudoso el favor que no cierto el desengaño; y aunque me suele animar su gracia y gala, el temer me hace callar, por no esperar que me envie noramala. Tengo por suerte mas buena mostrar mi lengua á ser muda, que estando la gloria en duda no estara cierta la pena y aunque con disimular se desiguala, tengo por mejor callar,

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For should she speak In words ungentle – O, my heart would break!”a

Vicente Espinel was born at Ronda, a city of Granada, in the year 1544. He was of poor parentage, and left his native town early to seek his fortunes. A countryman, / don Francisco Pacheco,b bishop of Malaga, so far favoured as to ordain him, and he became a beneficiary of the church at Ronda. He sought better preferment at court, but met with no success, either in his own native place nor out of it. In Ronda itself he had enemies, who pursued him with such calumnies and malignity that he withdrew into a sort of voluntary exile, which, loving Granada as he did, he bitterly lamented. He was at first a friend, and then an attacker, of Cervantes, which circumstance does not redound to his credit.* Lope de Vega speaks of his poetry with the approbation it deserved. He was a musician as well as a poet, and added a fifth string to the Spanish guitar.d He died poor and in obscurity at Madrid, in 1634, in the ninetieth year of his age. He describes himself in some spirited and comic verses, as singularly ugly – a tub with a priest’s cap at top, a monster of fat; – large face, short neck, short arms, each hand looking like a tortoise, slow of foot: “whoever sees me,” he says, “so fat and reverend-looking, might think that I were a rich and idle epicure. – What a pretty figure for a poet!”e Another writer of the natural school, named the Anacreon of Spain, more easy, sweet and spirited even than Vicente Espinel, was Estévan Manuel de Villégas. He was born in the city of Nagera or Naxera, in the province of Rioja, in Old Castile, in the year 1595. He was of a noble and distinguished family. He spent his boyish years at Madrid. At fourteen he was entered in the university of Salamanca, and studied the law. His tastes inclined him, however, to the more que no esperar que me envie noramala.” * Viardôt, in his life of Cervantes, mentions that Vicente Espinel became his enemy. I have not discovered on what he grounds this assertion.c In the postscript to the “Voyage to Parnassus”, one of the latest of Cervantes’s works, he feigns that Apollo sent messages to various Spanish poets:– “You will give my compliments,” the God writes, “to Vicente Espinel, as to one of the oldest and truest friends I have.” a

Bowring, pp. 196–7; the poem is quoted in Sedano, III, pp. 308–9. Francisco Pacheco (1535–99), Latin poet and humanist who as Canon of Seville Cathedral formed a literary academy, which included his pupil Fernando de Herrera (Ward, p. 435); information on Espinel’s life from Sedano, III, pp. xviii–xx, from which both Bouterwek (I, pp. 414– 15) and Sismondi (IV, p. 95) draw for information about Espinel, Sismondi indirectly through Bouterwek. c Jealousy of the success of Don Quixote is the motive named by Viardot (pp. 31–2). d Espinel was an accomplished musician and did much to promote the five-string guitar, though he did not add the fifth string, a myth popularised by his friend Lope de Vega (Heathcote, pp. 29–30). e See Sedano, III, pp. xx–xxi for verses. b

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agreeable parts of literature: he was a proficient in Latin and Greek; and, at fourteen, translated from Anacreon and Horace; and at the same time wrote original anacreontics, which he published in 1618, in his twenty-third year.a / On the death of his father, he returned to Nagera, to assist his widowed mother, and attend to the interests of his estate. Here, in retirement and peace, he dedicated himself to the acquirement of knowledge and the cultivation of poetry. He married, in the year 1626, donna Antonia de Leyva Villodas, a beautiful and distinguished lady. Having six children, he endeavoured, by means of powerful friends, to obtain some employment that might add to his scanty income, and give him leisure at the same time to prosecute various designs in literature and poetry which he projected on a large scale, but he only succeeded in being appointed to a place of slight importance and emolument. “Thus,” says Sedano, “this great man was, in common with almost every other person of eminence, pursued by adversity, which was the cause that his talents did not shine as brilliantly as they might have done, and that his name has not come down with due celebrity to our days.” At last, giving up hope of worldly advancement, he retired to his estate, where he died in 1669, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.b Although the conceits, the fashion of the age, sometimes deteriorate from Villégas’s poetry, he has more natural facility, added to classical correctness, than almost any other Spanish poet. His verses flow on with elegance and softness, joined to a nature and feeling quite enchanting. His translations of Anacreon have the simplicity and pure unencumbered expression of the original; that of the “Dove” breathes Anacreon himself.c For the sake of the Spanish reader it is appended at the bottom of the page*, and he can compare it with the Greek, and * “Amada, Palomilla, ¿ de dónde, di, ú adonde vienes con tanta prisa, vas con tantos olores? ¿ Pues a ti que te importa? Sabras que Anacreonte me envia a su Batílo, Señor de todo el orbe: que como por un himno me emancipo Dione: nómbrome por su page, y el por tal recibióme. Suyas son estas cartas, suyos estos renglones, por lo qual me prometo libertad quando torne. a

Two volumes of Eróticas o amatorias (Sedano, II, p. viii). Paragraph translated from Sedano, II, pp. viii–ix. c Anacreon (born c. 570 BC), Greek lyric poet known for his witty and sensuous love poems, which survive in fragments. Quintana suggests that Villegas was the first to introduce Anacreontics to Spanish poetry (Wiffen, p. 53). b

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perceive that Anacreon never found poet so capable of transfusing into another language the vivacity, and grace of his lyrics.a / His original Anacreontics may almost be said to deserve a place beside the immortal Greek. We copy from Mr. Wiffen’s pages one of his sapphics, rendered pre-eminent by its delicacy and beauty:–b Pero yo no la quiero, ni quiero que me ahorre; porque ¿de que me sirve andar cruzando montes comer podridas bacas, ni pararme en los robres? A mi pues me permite el mismo Anacreonte comer de sus viandas, beber de sus licores: Y quando vien brindada doy saltos voladores, le cubro con mis alas, y el dulce las acoge. Su citara es mi cama, sus cuerdas mis colchones, en quien suavamente duermo toda la noche. Mi historia es esta, amigo, pero queda á los dioses, que me has hecho parlera mas que graja del bosque.” a Quoted in Sedano, II, pp. 73–4. Thomas Moore’s version of the same poem gives the general sense though the wording is more florid than Villegas’s: Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, / Thus your humid pinions move, / Shedding through the air in showers / Essence of the balmiest flowers? / Tell me whither, whence you rove, / Tell me all, my sweetest dove. Curious stranger! I belong / To the bard of Teian song; / With his mandate now I fly / To the nymph of azure eye; / Ah! that eye had madden’d many, / But the poet more than any! / Venus, for a hymn of love, / Warbled in her votive grove, / (’Twas in sooth a gentle lay) / Gave me to the Bard away. / See me now his faithful minion, / Thus with softly-gliding pinion, / To his lovely girl I bear / Songs of passion through the air. / Oft he blandly whispers me, / ‘Soon, my bird, I’ll set you free.’ / But in vain he’ll bid me fly, / I shall serve him till I die. / Never could my plumes sustain / Ruffling winds and chilling rain, / O’er the plains, or in the dell, / On the mountain’s savage swell, / Seeking in the desert wood / Gloomy shelter, rustic food. / Now I lead a life of ease, / Far from such retreats as these. / From Anacreon’s hand I eat / Food delicious, viands sweet; / Flutter o’er his goblet’s brim, / Sip the foamy wine with him. / Then I dance and wanton round / To the lyre’s beguiling sound; / Or with gently-fanning wings / Shade the minstrel while he sings: / On his harp then sink in slumbers, / Dreaming still of dulcet numbers! This is all – away – away – / You have made me waste the day. / How I’ve chatter’d! prating crow / Never yet did chatter so. (Anacreon, Ode XV; translation taken from Ugo Foscolo, Essays on Petrarch (London: John Murray, 1823), Appendix II, pp. 236–7). b Not a strict attempt at the metre named after the Greek poet Sappho, but an adaptation of the Sapphic quatrain, which has a short fourth line, to English rhymed verse. Included in a note to the ‘Essay on Spanish Poetry’ by Quintana (Wiffen, pp. 54–5).

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“TO THE ZEPHYR. “Sweet neighbour of the green, leaf-shaking grove, Eternal guest of April, frolic child Of a sad sire, life-breath of mother Love, Favonius, Zephyr mild! If thou has learned like me to love, – away! Thou who hast borne the murmurs of my cry; Hence – no demur – and to my Flora say, Say that ‘I die!’ Flora once knew what bitter tears I shed; Flora once wept to see my sorrows flow; Flora once loved me – but I dread, I dread Her anger now. So may the Gods – so may the calm blue sky, For the fair time that thou in gentle mirth Sport’st in the air, with love benign deny Snows to the earth! So never may the grey cloud’s cumbrous sail, When from on high the rosy day-break springs, Beat on thy shoulders, nor its evil hail Wound thy fine wings!” /

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GONGORA. 1561–1627. D ON L UIS DE G ONGORA Y A RGOTE was born at Cordova on the 11th July 1561. His father was don Francisco de Argote, corregidor of Cordova, his mother was donna Leonor de Gongora, both of ancient and distinguished noble families; and, as the name of his father was equally patrician with that of his mother, his having given preference to the latter has excited surprise among his Spanish biographers.a At the age of fifteen he entered the university of Salamanca, and studied the law; but his inclination led him rather to the cultivation of poetry and general literature; and while at Salamanca, he wrote many amatory, satirical, and burlesque poems.b At this time he had so severe an illness, that for three days he was believed to be dead, and his resuscitation was regarded almost as a miracle. He passed his early life at Cordova, known and esteemed as a poet and a man of talent. His spirit was high, his character ardent and penetrating, and his pen ready, so that he was induced to indulge in personal satire, a circumstance which in after years he deeply regretted; and he changed so much that a friend of his writes, “he became the most ingenuous, candid, and unoffending man in conversation and writing that Spain ever saw.” At the age of forty-five he took holy orders, and soon after visited Madrid, invited by several nobles who, esteeming his worth, and regretting his slender means, believed that he would there be enabled to increase them. But though he frequented the society of the great, he was but slightly benefited. However, through the patronage of the duke of Lerma and the marques de Siete Iglesias, he was named honorary chaplain to Philip III.c He was held in much esteem by those nobles who cultivated literature, on account of

a

Translated from Sedano, VII, pp. xv–xvi; also see Bouterwek, I, p. 431 (who is himself using Sedano). According to Penney, while the inversion was not uncommon in Andalusia, there is no consensus about why he did so and he is the only member of his family to adopt his mother’s name. One plausible theory is he was acting in tribute to a maternal uncle who gave him money for study and travel (Clara Louisa Penney, Luis de Gongora y Argote (New York : Hispanic Society of America, 1926), pp. 11–14). b Góngora left Salamanca in 1580 without taking a degree; see David William Foster and Virginia Ramos Foster, Luis de Góngora (New York: Twayne, 1973), hereafter Foster and Foster (p. 12). Luis de León was reinstated as a lecturer at Salamanca while Góngora was a student. Góngora later published an edition of León’s poetry (Penney, pp. 3–4). c Duke of Lerma, Francisco Gómez de Sandoval y Rojas (1553–1625), in whose hands Philip III (reigned 1598–1621) largely placed the rule of Spain.

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his / great talents; and he founded a sort of school of literature whose disciples were bigotted, zealous, and intolerant.a He thus wasted eleven years at court, not deceived by vain hopes, for his experienced understanding prevented his entertaining any such illusions, but forced by necessity. He was then taken suddenly and dangerously ill, while attending on the king in a journey to Valentia, away from all his friends; the queen, however, hearing of his illness, sent a physician to attend him. His head was attacked in a manner not so much to destroy reason, as to take from him all memory; and in this manner he continued lost to the end of his life. At one time, during a short interval of comparative health, he returned to Cordova that he might be buried in his native place. Not long after he died, on the 24th May, 1627, at the age of sixty-six.b In person Gongora was tall and robust, his face large, his eyes penetrating and lively, his whole appearance venerable, though severe and adjust, bearing marks of the causticity and satire of his disposition, which however softened as he grew older. He was a disappointed man. His talents, his understanding, the grasp of mind of which he felt himself capable, nourished an internal ambition, which being ungratified, turned to discontent. It was some satisfaction to his imperious disposition to found a school of poetry, and attack the chief writers of the day, Cervantes and Lope de Vega, the Argensolas and Quevedo, in reply to their just criticisms on his inflated and tortuous style; and it was balm to his pride to hear the applause of his followers. But it is greatly to his discredit that, while heretofore the disputes of the Spanish poets with regard to literature were conducted with temper, and for the most part with urbanity, Gongora indulged in scurrility and abuse. His excuse, Sedano tells us, is, that this sort of insolence was the fruit of youthful arrogance: yet, as he was a year older than Lope, and contemporary with most of the others, he could not have been so very young when / he entered the lists against them. However, as he grew older, visited Madrid, went to court, and took orders, he threw off the presumption he nourished in his native town, and became gentle, humane, and modest, and regretted his former excesses of temper.c The terms in which his friends speak of him, prove that the honesty and integrity of his disposition, and his great understanding, inspired them with love and veneration; for, though their language be exaggerated, still it bears marks of sincerity. A friend and disciple writing his life, soon after his death, speaks of him as “the greatest man that not only Spain, but the world ever saw.” He laments his a

The above paragraph, including the quotation, is taken from Sedano, VII, pp. xv, xvii; see also Quintana, pp. 72–4. Góngora was ordained a priest and became a prebendary in 1604. He was made honorary chaplain to Philip III in 1617 (Foster and Foster, pp. 12–13). Sismondi, IV, p. 63 makes a similar judgement on his followers. b Translated from Sedano, VII, pp. xv–xvi. Foster and Foster (p. 13) suggest he suffered a stroke. The king was Philip IV, who ruled 1621–65. c See Sedano, VII, p. xvii.

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brief career, as he names sixty-six years; but his praises being written in the excess of the culto style, it is impossible almost to understand – quite impossible to translate them. In this style the literal translation only offers nonsense: there is a hidden meaning which is to be guessed at, and that, so metaphoric and obscure, that it very much resembles a Chinese puzzle – difficult to put together, and, when discovered and arranged, not worth the trouble.a The cultoristos themselves nourished unbounded contempt for any thing that was at all explicable to common understandings in a common manner. It is remarkable that in the early poetry of Gongora there is no trace of this style which he afterwards invented (as his followers called it), and insisted upon as a prodigy of good taste and poetic genius. His early poetry is peculiarly simple and plain. He wrote redondillas or seguidillas in the old Spanish style, on the most common-place topics, which yet he treats with spirit and power; others of his poems are softly pathetic; but all are written without inflation – without conceits, but with all that fire and brilliancy – that gaiety and poignancy which characterised his vivid imagination. Of the first mentioned, those that even verge on the common-place, we may mention the “Child’s Address to his Sister,” as to how they should amuse themselves on a holiday; in which he describes the pleasures / of Spanish children, with infinite vivacity and nature.b The subject of another, is the story of Hero and Leander. He transforms the hero and heroine of this romantic love story, into two poor peasants – she too poor to buy a lantern, he to hire a boat. The catastrophe, the last swimming of Leander, his coming to the dreary, stormy sea beach, and his throwing himself in – though tarnished by vulgarisms, is lively and picturesque. In all that he wrote there was fire and spirit, facility and a diction truly poetic.c One of his sweetest lyrics is the “Song of Catherine of Arragon,” lamenting her sad destiny; it will prepossess the reader in favour of Gongora’s pure style, and we therefore quote the translation of Dr. Bowring:– “THE SONG OF CATHERINE OF ARRAGON. “O take a lesson, flowers! from me, How in a dawn all charms decay – Less than my shadow doomed to be, Who was a wonder yesterday. I, with the early twilight born, Found ere the evening shades, a bier, And I should die in darkness lorn, But that the moon is shining here. a

Sismondi, IV, p. 57, who remarks on the difficulty of translation. 'Romance, XIV.' ‘Hero and Leander’, an early ballad based on the legend of the lovers of Sestos and Abydos. Leander swam across the Hellespont to Hero every night, guided by a light in a tower. He drowned one stormy night when the light was extinguished; Hero threw herself into the sea in despair. (The poem is quoted in Sedano, VII, pp. 171–82.) b c

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So must ye die – though ye appear So fair – and night your curtain be; O take a lesson, flowers! from me. My fleeting being was consoled When the carnation met my view: One hurrying day my doom has told – Heaven gave that lovely flower but two. Ephemeral monarch of the wold – I clad in gloom – in scarlet he; O take a lesson, flowers! from me. The jasmin, sweetest flower of flowers, The soonest is its radiance fled; It scarce perfumes as many hours As there are starbeams round its head. If living amber fragrance shed, The jasmine sure its shrine must be: O take a lesson, flowers! from me. The bloody-warrior fragrance gives, It towers unblushing, proud and gay; More days than other flowers it lives, It blooms through all the days of May. I’d rather like a shade decay, Than such a gaudy being be: O take a lesson, flowers! from me.”a

The following song, sent with flowers, and asking from his lady a kiss for every sting he received while gathering them, is tender and elegant:– / “From my summer alcove, which the stars this morn With lucid pearls o’erspread, I’ve gathered these jessamines, thus to adorn With a wreath thy graceful head. From thy bosom and mouth, they, as flowers, ere death, Ask a purer white, and a sweeter breath. Their blossoms, a host of bees, alarmed Watched over on jealous wing, Hoarse trumpeters seemed they all, and armed Each bee with a diamond sting: I tore them away, but each flower I tore Has cost me a wound which smarteth sore. Now as I these jessamine flowers entwine, A gift for thy fragrant hair, a 'Canciones Amorosas. Cancion I' (Bowring, pp. 209–10). The two spellings of ‘jasmine’ are found in Bowring’s text.

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I must have, from those honey-sweet lips of thine, A kiss for each sting I bear: It is just that the blooms I bring thee home Be repaid by sweets from the golden comb.*”a

His poems in Spanish metres, his letrillas and romances, have the same brilliancy of expression, warmth of emotion, and vivid colouring. The “Ballad of Angelica and Medora” is particularly airy and fresh, but rich and strong as a deep clear inland river that reflects the gorgeous tints of the sky.c Gongora surpasses every other Spanish lyrist, in the brilliant colouring of his poetry, and the vivacity of his expression. But all this he voluntarily set at nought. Instead of writing as a poet, he adopted the crabbed critic’s art, and, extreme in all things, gave no quarter even to the beauties of his own compositions. He might reprove the / diluted interminable poems of Lope, and the unpoetic style of Cervantes; he might have been displeased with the poverty of ideas and enervated conceptions of many of his contemporaries; but he might have been satisfied with his own ease, purity, and * This translation is from Mr. Wiffin, to show how simply and beautifully Gongora wrote in his young and unspoiled style, and we give the Spanish of this last song: “A UNA DAMA PRESENTANDOLA UNAS FLORES. “De la florida falda que oy de perlas bordó la Alba luciente, tegidos en guirnalda, translado estos jazmines a tu frente, que piden con ser flores blanca a tus sienes, y a tu boca olores. Guarda destos Jazmines de avejas era un esquadron volante, ronco, si, de clarines, mas de puntas armado de diamante, puselas en huida y cada flor mi cuestra una herida. Mas Clori que he texido jazmines al cabello desatado, y mas besos te pido que avejas tuvo el esquadron armado, lisonjas son iguales, servir yo en flores, pagar tu en panales.”

a

Obras de Gongora, 1633.b

Included in Quintana’s ‘Essay on Spanish Poetry’(p. 70). Góngora’s works were published in 1627 by his friend Juan López de Vicuña as The Poetic Works of the Spanish Homer, but the Inquisition prohibited its sale. The 1633 edition is the first of a series of 17th-century reissues of his writings (Foster and Foster, p. 13). c Romance de Angélica y Medoro (1602) based on a passage from Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso; the ballad, which tells of the brief, ideal love between Medoro, a Moor wounded in battle, and Angelica, Princess of Cathay, is one of Góngora’s best-known works. b

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strength: he, however, rejected even these, and instituted a system: a new dialect was invented, a new construction adopted, – new words, a dislocated construction, a profusion and exaggeration of figures were introduced. “He rose,” one of his disciples writes, “to the sublime height of refinement (cultura), which ignorance holds in distaste, and accomplished the greatness of ‘Polyphemus,’ the ‘Soledades,’ and other shorter, but not less, poems.”a He grew almost frantic in the dissemination of his system; and in his vehemence against its opponents, he became lost to poetry, and lives, even to this day, more remembered as a fantastic and ill-judging innovator, than as one of the most natural, brilliant, and imaginative poets that Spain ever produced. Lope de Vega has written a letter, or rather essay, upon Gongora and his system, and gives the following account of both:b “I have known this gentleman for eight-and-twenty years, and I hold him to be possessed of the rarest and most excellent talent of any in Cordova, so that he need not yield even to Seneca or Lucan, who were natives of the same town. Pedro Linan de Riaza, his contemporary at Salamanca, told me much of his proficiency in study, so that I cultivated his acquaintance, and improved it by the intercourse we had when I visited Andalusia; and it always appeared as if he liked and esteemed me more than my poor merits deserve. Many other distinguished men of letters at that time competed with him: – Herrera, Vicente Espinel, the two Argensolas, and others, among whom this gentleman held such place, that Fame said the same of him as the Delphic oracle did of Socrates.c “He wrote in all styles with elegance, and in gay and festive compositions his wit was not less celebrated than Martial’s, while it was far more decent. We have / several of his works composed in a pure style, which he continued for the greater part of his life. But, not content with having reached the highest step of fame in sweetness and softness, he sought (I have always believed with good and sincere intentions, and not with presumption, as his enemies have asserted), to enrich the art, and even language, with such ornaments and figures as were never before imagined nor seen. In my opinion he fulfilled his aim, if this was his intent; the difficulty rests in receiving his system: and so many obstacles have arisen, that I doubt they will never cease, except with their cause; for I think the obscurity and ambiguity of his expressions must be disagreeable to many. By some he is said to have raised this new style into a peculiar class of poetry; and they are not mistaken: for, as in the old manner of writing, it took a life to become a poet, in this new one it requires but a day: for, with these transpositions, four rules, and six a Quoted in Bouterwek, I, p. 439 with the comment ‘How pompously this poem commences in the original!’ b ‘To Señor Destos Reynos’, in Lope, Obras Sueltas, IV, pp. 465, 468, 477. c The Dephic Oracle, asked if any man was wiser than Socrates, replied that there was none. Socrates concluded that his wisdom lay in knowing his own ignorance (Howatson, p. 529). Some of the works of Pedro Liñán de Riaza (?1558–1607), poet, playwright and friend of Lope de Vega, were mistakenly attributed to Góngora. The Argensolas were among those who reacted against the culto style of Góngora (Ward, pp. 30, 329).

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Latin words or emphatic phrases, they rise so high that they do not know – far less understand themselves. Lipsius wrote a new Latin, which those who are learned in such things say Cicero and Quintilian laugh at in the other world;a and those who have imitated him are so wise that they lose themselves. And I know others who have invented a language and style so different from Lipsius that they require a new dictionary. And thus those who imitate this gentleman produce monstrous births – and fancy that, by imitating his style, they inherit his genius. Would to God they imitated him in that part which is worthy of adoption; for every one must be aware that there is much that is deserving of admiration, while the rest is wrapt in the darkness of such ambiguity as I have found the cleverest men at fault when they tried to understand it. The foundation of this edifice is transposition, rendered the more harsh by the disjoining of substantives from adjectives, where no parenthesis is possible, so that even to pronounce it is difficult: tropes and figures are the ornaments, so little to the purpose, that it is as if a woman, when painting herself, instead of putting the rouge on her cheeks, should apply it to her nose, forehead / and ears. Transpositions may be allowed, and there are common examples, but they must be appropriate. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Herrera use them. Look at the the elegance, softness, and beauty of the divine Herrera, worthy of imitation and admiration! for, it is not to enrich a language, to reject its natural idiom, and adopt instead phrases borrowed from a foreign tongue; but, now, they write in the style of the curate who asked his servant for the ‘anserine reed,’ telling her that ‘the Ethiopian licour was wanting in the cornelian vase.’b These people do not attend to clearness or dignity of style, but to the novelty of these exquisite modes of expression, in which there is neither truth nor propriety, nor enlargement of the powers of language; but an odious invention that renders it barbarous, imitated from one who might have been an object of just admiration to us all.”* In addition to these grave and reasonable arguments, Lope attacked the culto style with ridicule, better suited to explode the would-be invention of the unintelligible. In several plays he alludes to it with good humoured raillery. In one of them, a cavalier desirous of making use of the talents of a poet to write for him, asks – Cav. A plain or polished bard? † Poet. Refined my style. * Discurso sobre la Nueva Poesia por Lope de Vega. † Lord Holland’s Life of Lope de Vega. a Lipsius or Joest Lips (1547–1606) Flemish humanist, classical scholar, moral and political theorist; Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero) (106–43 BC), Roman orator and statesman, whose prose-style was clear, ample and balanced; Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus) (c. 35–c. 100), born in Calagurris in Spain and a famous teacher of rhetoric in Rome. Unlike Lipsius, they were considered stylistic models who wrote a pure Latin. b The curate is asking for his quill pen to be brought and for his ink-well to be filled.

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Cav. My secrets then remain with me to write. Poet. Your secrets? Why? Cav. For, with refinement penned, Their meaning sure no soul shall comprehend.*a

In another play, a lady describing her rival, ridicules her as, “She who writes in that high polished style, That language so charmingly Greek, Which never was heard in Castile, And her mother ne’er taught her to speak.”† /

In addition to these quotations, there are many more chance arrows let fly at the absurdity, in his volume of burlesque poetry, written under the name of Tomé de Burguillos, in the shape of parodies on this style. We select one which however ridiculous it reads, is a very moderate representation of the bombast Gongora brought into fashion. “TO A COMB, THE POET NOT KNOWING WHETHER IT WAS OF BOX OR IVORY. “Sail through the red waves of the sea of love, O, bark of Barcelona, and between The billows of those ringlets proudly move, And now be hidden there, and now be seen! What golden surges, Love, who lurks beneath, Weaves with the windings of that splendid hair! Be grateful for thy bliss, and leave him there, In joyance unmolested by thy teeth. O tusk of elephant, or limb of box, Gently unravel thou her tangled locks, Gently the windings of those curls unfold, Like the sun’s rays, in parallels arrange them,

* Lop. Sev. Lop. Sev. Lop.

Sois vulgar o culterano? Culto soy. Quedaos en casa Y escribireis mis secretos. Sus secretos! por que causa? Porque nadie los entienda.

† “Aquella que escribe en culto por a quel Griego lenguage; que no lo supo Castilla, ni se enseñole su madre.” a Holland, pp. 51–2. Quoted in Spanish by Holland; Mary Shelley has made some changes to Holland’s translations.

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And through the labyrinth shape thy paths of gold, Ere yet to silver envious time shall change them.”*a

While Lope on these occasions, and on many others, takes occasion to reprehend and satirise this new system, his disciples held it up as the wonder of the world; they called it the estilo culto, or refined style, and themselves cultoristos: each phrase was to be twisted, each word to receive a new and deeper meaning, while mythology, and all sorts of phantastic imagery, gave a bombastic gilding to the whole; and when they had written verses high in sound, but obscure and simple in meaning, they fancied they had arrived at sublimity.b Thus, a petty hill / assumes the proportions of a mountain in the evening mist. We may look at it with wonder, we may lose our way or tumble into a ditch in endeavouring to reach it; but, once at its summit, and we find ourselves scarcely elevated above the plain. The “Polyphemus” and the “Solitudes” of Gongora, are, as has been mentioned, the poems written in his most exaggerated style.c The “Polyphemus” begins with a description of the giant, who “was a mountain of members eminent.” His dark hair was a “knotty imitation of the turbid waves of Lethe; and, as the wind combs them stormily, they fly dishevelled, or hang down disordered: his beard is a torrent, the dried-up offspring of this Pyrenees! Trinacria has no wild beast in its mountains armed with such cruelty shod with such wind, whose ferocity can defend, nor whose speed may save! Their skins, spotted with a hundred

* “A UN PEYNE, QUE NO SABIA EL POETA SI ERA DE BOX O DE MARFIL. “Sulca del mar de amor las rubias ondas, barco de Barcelona, y por los bellos lazos navega altivo, aunque por ellos tal vez te muestres, y tal vez te escondas. Ya no flechas, Amor, dorados ondas teje de sus esplendidos cabellos; tu con los dientes no lo quites dellos, para que a tanta dicha correspondas. Desenvuelve los rizos con decoro, los paralelos de mi sol desata. box o colmillo de elephante Moro, y en tanto que esparcidos los dilata forma por la madeja sendas de ora antes que el tiempo los convierta en plata.” a

Palacio ascribed this translation to Mary Shelley (p. 686), but it is in Robert Southey’s review of Lord Holland’s Life and Writing of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Guillen de Castro, Quarterly Review, XVIII (1818), 41–2. The poem is quoted in Spanish on page 42. b The estilo culto and the cultoristos are described and explained in Sedano, VII, p. xix and Sismondi, IV, p. 63. c ‘Polyphemus’ and ‘Solitudes’, written 1611 and circulated in 1613 are considered his two most important works. See Sismondi, IV, pp. 58–62. Translations by Mary Shelley probably draw on both Sismondi’s extracts in Spanish and a fuller text of Góngora.

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colours, are his cloak; and thus he drives in his oxen to their stall, treading the doubtful light of morn.”a His “Soledades” or “Solitudes,” commence even more in the estilo culto, and with such very refined phrases and images that no one can make any thing of it. We give a short passage with Sismondi’s translation, and the Spanish, that the reader may judge in what a jungle of interminable words, and heterogeneous ideas,b this mistaken poet lost himself:– “’T was in the flowery season of the year, When fair Europa’s ravisher disguised, (A crescent moon, the arms upon his brow, And strewed with sunbeams all his glitt’ring skin), Shines out the glowing honour of the sky, And the stars pastures in the azure fields, When he who well the cup of Jove might fill More gracefully than Ida’s shepherd boy, Was wrecked – and scorned as well as far away, The tears of love and amorous complaints Gave to the sea, which he then pitying Imparts to rustling leaves, that to the wind Repeats the saddest sighs, Soft as Arion’s softest instrument – And from the mountain top a pine which aye Struggled with its fierce enemy the North, There rent a pitying limb – and the brief plank Became a no small dolphin to the youth Who wand’ring heedlessly, was forced t’intrust His way unto a Libyan waste of sea, / And his existence to an ocean-skiff, At first sucked in, and afterwards thrown forth, Where not far off a rock there stood, whose top Was crowned with bulrushes, and feathers warm With seaweed dank and foam besprent all o’er, And rest and safety found there where a nest The bird of Jove had built. He kissed the sands, and of the broken skiff, The portion that was thrown upon the beach He gave the rock – and let the rugged cliffs Behold his loveliness, for naked stood The youth. – The ocean first had drunk, and then Restored his vestments to the yellow sands, And in the sunshine he extended them, And the sun licking them with his sweet tongue a

1).

Despite omissions, closer to the Spanish than Sismondi’s French prose version (IV, pp. 60–

b ‘Heterogeneous ideas’ may be an echo of Samuel Johnson’s ‘heterogeneous ideas yoked by violence together’, describing the poetry of the Metaphysical poets in his ‘Life of Cowley’.

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Of tempered fire, slowly invests them round, And sucks the moisture from the smallest thread.”*a

Sismondi only gives half this sentence,b but the latter part is the most intelligible; and besides it was difficult to refrain from presenting the reader with the refined image / (culta figura) of the manner in which the shipwrecked boy’s * “Era del año la estacion florida, en que el mentido robador de Europa (media Luna las armas de su frente, y el Sol todos los rayos de su pelo) luziente honor del cielo en campos de zafiro pace las estrellas, quando el que ministrar podia la copa a Jupiter, mejor que el garçon de Ida naufragò, y desdeñado sobre ausente lagrimosas de Amor, dulces querellas Dá al mar, que condolido fue a las ondas, que al viento el misero gemido, segundo de Arion dulce instrumento del siempre en la montaña opuesto pino, al enemigo Noto piadoso miembro roto, breve tabla, Delfin no fue pequeño al inconsiderado peregrino, que a una Libia de ondas su camino fio, y su vida a un leño del oceano, pues antes sorvido y luego vomitado, no lexos de un escollo coronado de secos juncos, de calientes plumas, (Alga todo, y espumas) hallò hospitalidad donde hallò nido de Jupiter el ave, besa la arena, y de la rota nave aquella parte poca que lo expuso en la playa, dio a la roca, que aun se dexan las peñas lisongear de agradecidas señas, desnudo el joven, quanto ya el vestido oceano ha bevido restituir le haze a las arenas, y al sol lo estiende luego, que lamiendolo apenas su dulce lengua de templado fuego lento lo embiste, y con suave estilo la menor honda chupa al menor hilo.” a b

‘Soledad Primera’ translated by Mary Shelley (see Palacio, p. 686). Sismondi, IV, p. 58. Sismondi’s French prose attempt covers lines 1–14 only.

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clothes were dried. In a hurried translation of this sort, the harmony of verse is not preserved; and that, it must be remarked, is great, and one of Gongora’s chief beauties. There is, indeed, a sort of dusky gorgeousness throughout; but it makes the reader smile, to be told that this style of poetry was new and unknown, and “superior to aught that man ever before imagined or composed:” that it was to supersede Garcilaso, Herrera, and Gongora himself in his better days.a Such was the faith of the cultoristos, such their hope in the estilo culto. Sismondi’s translation of the first part of this sentence runs thus: – “C’était la saison fleurie de l’année dans laquelle le ravisseur déguisé d’Europe, portant sur son front pour armes une demie-lune, et tous les rayons du soleil disséminés sur son front, devenu un honneur brillant du ciel, menait paître des étoiles dans des champs de saphir; lorsque celui qui était bien plus fait pour présenter la coupe à Jupiter que le jeune homme d’Ida, fit naufrage, et confia à la mer de douces plaintes et des larmes d’amour; celle-ci pleine de compassion les transmit aux feuilles qui répétant le triste gémissement du vent comme le doux instrument d’Arion ––”b Here Sismondi breaks off, for here Gongora becomes particularly obscure. We guess (it is all guessing with the cultoristos), that the poet intends to say, that the pitying waves repeated to the winds the complaints of the wrecked youth, which in compassion tore from the pine the limb that served him as a skiff to save him. Whether the instrument, soft as Arion’s,c typifies the voice of the youth, or the waves, or the wind, or the pine tree, is an enigma beyond our solving. /

a Not traced, but representative of the opinion of his followers and echoed in Lope’s initial comments on Góngora, which are quoted by Quintana (p. 72). b Quoted in its entirety with slight miscopying and changes of punctuation; see above, p. 225, note b. c Arion, the lyric poet, was thrown overboard by sailors who wanted his treasure, but a dolphin, charmed by his song, carried him to land.

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QUEVEDO. 1580–1645. S PANIARDS may look back with pride to this epoch, so fertile in genius, so prolific of the talent and high character that germinates in the Spanish soul, and which it required unexampled despotism and cruelty to crush and efface. Not that the inborn greatness of that people is lost, but its outward demonstration, after this period, became the unheard and sightless prey of political oppression. The words of Gray, wherein he speaks of the heroes and poets who may have been born and died without achieving distinction, or performing any act capable of winning it, is so true, perhaps, in no country as in Spain: but with them it cannot be said, that “Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.”a

It was the stake and the dungeon, a system of misrule, and the aspect of the merciless deeds committed by their governors on helpless multitudes, that destroyed the energies, and blighted the genius, of the people. When we read of such acts as the banishment of the Moriscos,b and the history of all that that high-hearted people suffered – torn from their native vales and hills, and cast out upon the stranger – we wonder what manner of men lived in Spain, and feel that these inhuman and impious deeds must have poisoned the very air. But, politically speaking, it is not the act, but its effects, that are so baneful; national crime influences by causing the degeneracy of the race. The youth may live a life of sin; it is the man that is the sufferer. And thus the heroes of Spain of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, might glory in their children of the sixteenth; but the / infection of evil had touched these, and their descendants made good the awful denunciation, – that the children are to suffer for their parents’ crimesc – an annunciation of divine will, so carried out in the vast system of the world, though often omitted in particular instances, as to demonstrate that it is one of the laws bestowed by heaven to govern the human race.

a

Gray, ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ (1753) ll. 51–2. Descendants of the Moors expelled by Phillip III with the encouragement of the Duke of Lerma. c A paraphrase of the words spoken by God to Moses just before he utters the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:5). See also ‘The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children’, Merchant of Venice, III. v. 1. b

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Among the men who, last of the Spaniards of renown, flourished at that epoch, Quevedo deserves particular mention. He was a man of genius – a man who acted as well as wrote, and displayed in both originality, penetration and rectitude; whose character was as admirable as his intellect. He was the victim, also, of the most frightful misrule; and the fate of Quevedo alone might be brought forward as an example of the infamy of the political institutions of Spain.a Don Francisco Gomez de Quevedo Villegas, was born at Madrid in September 1580. His father, Pedro Gomez de Quevedo, was a courtier. He had been secretary to the empress Mary, and afterwards filled the same situation to queen Anne, wife of Philip II. His mother, donna Maria de Santibanez, also was attached to the court, and was a lady of the bedchamber to the queen. They were both of noble family, and descended from the most ancient landed proprietors of the Montana, in the Valle de Toranzo.b His father died when he was a child; and he was brought up in the royal palace by his mother, but she also died when he was young*, as we gather from one of his ballads, in which he gives a jocosely bitter account of the ill luck that pursued him through life. He went early to the university of Alcalà, and there his passion for study developed itself in all its intensity, so that we are told that he took his degree in theology, to the wonder of every body, at fifteen. This seems almost / incredible; but it is plain he took it with credit, and a the expense of great labour. This science and success, however, did not satisfy him. He gave himself eagerly up to the acquirement of other knowledge: civil and canon law, medicine and natural history, the learned languages, and the various systems of philosophy, were in the number of his studies and acquirements: poetry was added to the list. * “Muríeron luego mis padres, Dios en el cielo los tenga, porque no vuelvan acà, y a engendrar mas hijos vuelvan.” a

Musa, VI – Romance, XVI.c

Bouterwek traces a similar decline, notably at the beginning of Book II and II, pp. 459–60, 464–5; see also Sismondi, IV, pp. 49–53. Sismondi, like Mary Shelley, believes that a decline in literary excellence is one result of loss of liberty; that Spaniards are not vicious by nature, but that the despotic government of Charles V, which destroyed ancient rights, and the dominance of the Church, had over time degraded the national character and instilled into it a mixture of imperiousness and servility. Mary Shelley’s assessment is similar, but she lays more stress on the individual’s power of self-assertion. A perhaps surprising turn to this piece is that bitter mirth and sarcasm appear to be positively regarded. The language is reminiscent of ‘Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy!’ (P. B. Shelley, ‘Scenes from the Magico Prodigioso of Calderon’, sc. III, l. 2). b See Sedano, IV, pp. xxv–xxvi. c Romance 16, ‘Refiere su nacimento y las propiedades que le comunicò’. Translated as ‘Afterwards my parents died, / May God keep them in heaven / Because they are not coming back / To engender more sons.’ References to the poems of Quevedo are to the edition by Gonzales de Salas, El Parnaso Español, Monte en dos cumbres dividido, likely to be the edition produced in Madrid in 1729.

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His grasping and clear mind became informed by all the learning of the times; it converted it all to nutriment, and acquired power from the various intellectual weapons he taught himself to wield.a His career was checked by a circumstance that may rather be looked on as fortunate, since it forced him to quit the immediate atmosphere of the court, and to make his way elsewhere, through his own exertions and merits. He was, though so young, held in high esteem for his conduct, and, as the most accomplished cavalier of his time, was often made the arbitrator of quarrels: in which character he displayed his good sense and good feeling by the care he at once took, to watch over the point of honour and to reconcile adversaries. He himself wielded all weapons of defence with singular dexterity; though, being born with both his feet turned in, this deformity must have impeded the full developement of his powers, which, nevertheless, exceeded those of most men in strength and skill, and were aided by his bravery and greatness of mind. These qualifications had brought him off the conqueror in several unexpected and inevitable rencontres, where he had been obliged to defend or assert himself.b On one occasion a man, calling himself a gentleman, entirely unknown to him, took advantage of the darkness in which churches are plunged during the evening of Holy Thursday, to insult a lady (equally unknown to Quevedo), in the church of St. Martin, at Madrid. Quevedo came forward to her assistance, forced the insulter into the street, and, reproving him for his brutality, they drew on each other, and Quevedo ran his adversary through the body.c The friends / of the cavalier endeavoured to seize him, and he was obliged to fly: he took refuge in Italy, and thence, invited by the viceroy, repaired to Sicily. At this time Don Pedro Giron, duke of Osuna and grandee of Spain, was viceroy of Sicily. He was a man of singular character; and the career he ran, in which Quevedo was involved, was as strange and various as was his disposition and designs.*d The character of the Spanish, under the gloomy influence of Philip II., had become dignified, grave and ceremonious. His son Philip III. was of a different character. His father had taken pains to inculcate all his own bigotry in matters * Cespedes. a

Translated from Sedano, IV, p. xxvi. See Sismondi, IV, pp. 75–6 and Sedano, IV, p. xxxii. c See Pablo Antonio de Tarsia, Vida de Don Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas, in Obras Completas, ed. Luis Astrana Marin (Madrid: M. Aguilar, 1943), p. 756. d Sedano, IV, p. xxvi. Pedro Téllez Girón, Duke of Osuna and Viceroy of Sicily may have met Quevedo in Madrid in 1608. As his diplomatic envoy and aide, Quevedo assisted the Duke’s nomination as Viceroy of Naples in 1616 and arranged the marriage for his first-born son. In spite of Quevedo’s efforts Osuna was found guilty of plotting the overthrow of the Venetian Republic in 1618; he was imprisoned until his death in 1624. See Donald W. Bleznick, Quevedo (New York, Twayne, 1972), pp. 32–3 and Tarsia, pp. 756–8. Cespedes has not been certainly identified, but may be Gonzalo de Cespedes y Menenses (1585–1638), historian and fiction-writer, a contemporary of Quevedo who wrote a history of Philip IV. b

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of religion, and, at the same time, to inspire him with application, judgment, and a knowledge of the arts of government. In the first part of his education he succeeded; in the latter he wholly failed. Philip III. was a weak prince and as such given up to favouritism. On coming to the crown, he devolved all the labours of government on the marquis of Denia whom he made duke of Lerma, who again entrusted much of the royal patronage and power to Don Rodrigo de Calderon, a man of low birth, but of high and haughty mind, who became count of Oliva and marquis de Siete Iglesias. The court of Philip III., however, preserved much of the dignity, the severe etiquette and solemn gravity brought in by Philip II. In this serious and ceremonious circle the duke of Osuna was almost regarded as a madman. He displayed the fervour and spirit of youth in a gaiety and recklessness of demeanour, wholly at war with courtly decorum and seriousness. His wit was brilliant, his understanding penetrating, his imagination full of fire and extravagance; his temper ardent and joyous. He was often called insane, and the sober tried to bring him into disesteem. His high birth and vast fortunes, however, gave him rank and weight, and he had distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, not only by his bravery but by his military skill. His / disposition prompted him to love the trade of war; and he made such use of his experience during the struggle carried on in that disturbed country, that he became reputed fit to command an army. His valour was undoubted; on one occasion he had three horses killed under him, and the success that attended his enterprises surrounded them with still greater lustre. He was licentious in his habits, but so grossly so, that he was never the slave of love. His ambition was unbounded; his designs vast: his imagination suggested a thousand strange modes of satisfying it, and engendered schemes so wild and daring that, while the world was amazed, and its repose disturbed, their very singularity, in many instances, commanded success. His military reputation was the cause, joined to the influence of Uzeda, son of the duke of Lerma,a who was his friend, that, notwithstanding his indiscretions and levity, he came to be named viceroy of Sicily. Quevedo was an invaluable acquisition to such a man. His gaiety and wit recommended him as a companion: his understanding, his integrity, his elevated character, his resolution, his capacity for labour, and his great knowledge, caused him to be a useful servant to one, whose vast designs required instruments of power and skill.b The duke showed his great confidence in his talents and fidelity by sending him as his ambassador to Madrid, to recount his exploits and explain his designs. Quevedo succeeded so well that, the king and council bestowed a pension on him, and the duke of Osuna was advanced to the viceroyalty of Naples – which opened a new scene for his schemes and a wide field for his towering a The Duke of Uceda deposed his father the Duke of Lerma on 4 Oct. 1618 and imprisoned and tortured his father’s favourite Rodrigo Calderón. After the death of Philip III in 1621 his son Philip IV named a new favourite, Count-Duke of Olivares, who ruled Spain for 22 years and beheaded Calderón and left Osuna and Lerma to die in prison (Bleznick, pp. 24–5). b Sedano, IV, pp. xxvi–xxvii.

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ambition.a Osuna’s first acts were directed against the Turkish power, and he obtained several splendid victories in the Mediterranean and on the coasts of Africa, but he had designs more at heart than a victory over the Turks. The war of the Low Countries was concluded, and there was peace between France and Spain. The Spanish power, possessed of Sicily and Naples and Milan, threatened to become omnipotent in / Italy. Charles Emanuel, duke of Savoy, a gallant and patriotic prince in vain endeavoured to make head against it: he was forced to submit. Still in heart he was at war; and this sovereign and the republic of Venice made a quiet but determined stand against the encroachments of Spain in Italy. The Duke of Osuna set himself in opposition to them, and, in particular, used every means he could command, to weaken and injure the Venetians. The methods he took were lawless and dishonourable, but they shewed his despotic and daring spirit. He encouraged the Uscocchi, a tribe of pirates who inhabited Istria, and infested the Mediterranean. A Spanish fleet protected their attacks on the Venetians, intercepted the forces of the republic sent against them, and seized upon their merchantmen in the Adriatic. Corsairs and pirates of all nations brought their prizes to the ports of Naples, and found shelter and protection: they were permitted to trade; and Osuna thus gathered together a number of desperate men whom he could use in the execution of any daring enterprise. The fair traders and merchants of Naples, however, finding commerce decline, complained at the court of Madrid; the French also made representations against the nefarious acts of the pirates protected by Osuna; and the court, which had entered on a treaty of peace with Savoy, and was negotiating one between Venice and Ferdinand of Austria, sent an order to the viceroy to suspend all hostilities.b Osuna would not obey. He sent a fleet into the Adriatic, and threatened with death any one who should dare carry complaints to Madrid. His pretence was the alarm of an intended invasion by the Turks, while at the same time he was endeavouring to induce the Porte to attack Candia. This fleet was driven into port by a storm: but he had a number of privateers which, notwithstanding Spain was at peace with Venice, captured the vessels of that state; and, when he was ordered to restore them, he obeyed by sending back / the vessels and keeping the cargoes. In vain did the Venetians complain. Osuna declared that he would persist while he detected latent enmity to Spain in the councils of the republic, and the Spanish ambassador was forced to allow that the viceroy was beyond royal control. But his designs did not end here; his heart was set on the destruction of Venice: and, his daring and uncontrouled imagination suggesting the wildest schemes, he set on foot another attempt even less venial than his encouragement of the Uscocchi. It is true that Spanish historians, and, among them, Ortiz, deny the complicity of Spain in the conspiracy formed against Venice, and throw upon a b

The Duke of Osuna was Viceroy of Naples from 1616–20. The source has not been traced.

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the Venetian senate the accusation of trumping up a plot, for the sake of getting rid of the Spanish ambassador: but all other nations concur in believing the conspiracy to have been real, and in affirming that the interesting account Saint Real gives, is, in the main, founded on undoubted facts.a The name of the Bedmar conspiracy against Venice is familiar to us through Otway’s play. This is not the place to go into minute detail. The marquis of Bedmar was a man of great talent and acquirements. The Spanish government held him in high esteem; he was sagacious and discerning, and he had that zeal for the glory of his country, which in that day distinguished the Spaniards: and it was of the first importance to the prosperity of Spain to weaken, how much more to destroy the state of Venice. His design was to introduce foreign troops surreptitiously into the town – to fire the arsenal and other parts of the city, and to seize on its places of strength. The senators were to be massacred; and if the citizens offered resistance, artillery was to be turned on them, and the city laid in ruins. The plot was discovered: it is not known exactly how. It seems probable, that a conspirator, a Venetian, a Jaffier, betrayed it through the suggestions of fear or humanity, and Venice was preserved.b Bedmar, it is said, communicated his plot to Osuna, and they acted in concert. There can be no doubt, but / that both ministers were zealously bent on weakening the power of Venice; and, as there appears ample proof that this conspiracy originated in the marquis of Bedmar, so is it also probable that he associated in it a spirit so lawless, a man so bold and resolute as Osuna. Quevedo was the emissary that passed between them, and if Osuna was privy to the plot, it seems certain that Quevedo also was. This is a painful circumstance. We hear so much of the integrity and excellence of Quevedo’s character, that we are averse to believe his complicity in the nefarious attempt to destroy a rival state, not by the fair advantages of war, but by conspiracy, incendiarism, and massacre; that state also not only being at peace, but the plot originating in, and carried on by one who bore the sacred character of an ambassador. But, nurtured under the poisonous influence of the Inquisition, fraught with a zeal, which does not deserve the name of patriotic, since the true honour of their country was not consulted, the Spaniards a See James O. Crosby, ‘Quevedo’s Alleged Participation in the Conspiracy of Venice’, Hispanic Review, XXIII (1955), 259–60. ‘Saint Real’ is undoubtedly César Vischard de Saint-Réal, Conjuration des Espagnols contre la République de Venise en l’année M.DC.XVIII (Paris, 1674), translated into English in 1675, and one of the sources of Otway’s Venice Preserv’d. This short book went into many editions, the most recent of which was an 1835 Paris edition, bound up with Saint-Réal’s history of the Conspiration des Gracques (the Gracchi). However, as Mary Shelley makes reference earlier to Don Carlos, perhaps she used an 18th-century collected edition of Saint-Réal’s works, and came across his version of the Don Carlos story. ‘Ortiz’ has not been identified. b See Sismondi, IV, p. 76. Don Alfonso de la Cueva, Marqués de Bedmar and Spanish ambassador to Venice, was the alleged co-conspirator with the Duke of Osuna. They planned to blow up the Palace of the Doges and the Arsensal and then take the city (Crosby, p. 259). Mary Shelley is referring to Thomas Otway’s tragedy in blank verse, Venice Preserv’d, or a Plot Discovered (1682); Jaffier (or Jaffeir) is one of the two leading male characters.

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nourished a false conscience; and the men who could serve God by the murder of the innocent and helpless, could serve their king by perjury and assassination. During his various political services the life of Quevedo had been several times attempted, and this also might tend to blunt his sense of right: he might fancy that it was but fair retaliation to use towards others the secret weapon levelled against himself. However this may be, whether or not he were acquainted with the secret of the conspiracy, and took a part in it, it is certain that he was in Venice at the time that the plot was discovered. Many of his intimate friends were seized and perished by the hands of the executioner; but he contrived to elude the vigilance of the senate, and finally made his escape in the guise of a mendicant.a Osuna continued viceroy of Naples, and it began to be suspected that he intended to arrogate power independent of the king his master. His success at sea against Venice raised him many enemies, as he gained it through the destruction of all fair trade, and also by the imposition of vast and burthensome taxes. The / Neapolitan nobility were, in a body, inimical to him; and all those disaffected to the Spanish rule made him the apparent object of their hatred and complaints. He, aware of their aversion, endeavoured to crush them; he visited all those crimes severely which they had hitherto, under shadow of their rank, committed unpunished. He excluded them from all offices of power and trust, and took occasion when he could, to confiscate their property. He encouraged a spirit of sedition among the common people; he surrounded himself by foreign troops; he encouraged men of desperate fortunes – he commanded the sea – and his power became unbounded. He utterly despised the king his master, calling him the great drum of the monarchy, as if he had been a mere tool and instrument, and possessed no real authority. With all this it is not probable that he really conspired to seize on Naples. He wished to rule absolutely and unquestioned, but did not go beyond into forming designs of putting his power on a new and independent foundation. His wild projecting brain was well known, and caused many of his acts to pass unnoticed; but his enemies increased, and their complaints at court were frequent. They fabricated accusations to his dishonour, exaggerated his weaknesses and faults, and combined together for his overthrow. Finding that he became aware of their attempts, they, fearful of his revenge, renewed them with increased fervour. Men of the highest rank in Naples visited Madrid, and put themselves forward to misinterpret his actions. They artfully represented that the ruin of commerce, and the desolation of the kingdom arose from his dissolute life and misrule. The king and his ministers gave ear to these representations, and commanded Osuna to a The source for this information, including his escape as a beggar, comes from Tarsia, pp. 268–73; see also Sismondi, IV, p. 76. Crosby calls the entire story into question. He suggests that Quevedo was actually in Spain and that the charge of knowing about the conspiracy originated in a rumour spread by the Venetians (who hated him); the rumour was accepted as truth by Tarsia. Mary Shelley inserts her own opinions here in regretting Quevedo’s actions and rationalising that he was acting under the poisonous influence of the Inquisition.

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return to Madrid. This was a great blow to the duke: though he received it with apparent constancy, he neither liked to lose his place, nor, above all, to lose it under dishonourable imputations, and he delayed obedience. Thus colour was given to the idea that he meant to assert his / independence. The court of Madrid, therefore, proceeded more warily: they contrived to get possession of his galleys and other vessels of war; and orders were dispatched to cardinal don Gaspar de Borgia, who was named his successor, to proceed instantly from Rome, where he was residing, to Naples, and to seize on the government. Borgia arrived at Gaëta, but still Osuna protracted his stay under various pretences. The nobles represented that he was endeavouring to raise an insurrection among the populace and soldiers; and Borgia, to put an end to the struggle, having gained the support of the governor of the Castel Nuovo, introduced himself into that fortress by night. The following morning the discharge of artillery proclaimed his arrival, and Osuna was obliged to submit. He returned by slow journies to Spain. He presented himself at court, and the king turned his back on him. Osuna eyed his sovereign with contempt, muttering, “The king treats me not as a man, but as a child.” Not long after, Philip III. died. The enemies of Osuna were not idle; fresh accusations of his treasonable intents at Naples were perpetually made; and one of the first acts of the reign of Philip IV. was to throw him into prison. The distress of his mind increased the disease of which he was the victim, and he died in prison of a dropsy, in the year 1624.a Quevedo was enveloped in his ruin. He had been a zealous and laborious servant to Osuna and to his government. He had, by his attention to the finances discovered various frauds, and brought large sums into the treasury. He crossed the sea seven times as ambassador to the court of Madrid, and fulfilled the same employment at Rome. He had been rewarded by the gift of the habit of Santiago. He loved and revered Osuna, and testified his attachment by writing several sonnets in his honour.b One is on his death, in which he says, “The fields of Flanders are his monument – the blood-stained Crescent his epitaph: Spain gave him a prison and death; but though his country failed him, / his deeds were his defence.”* He wrote three other sonnets as epitaphs†: Ortiz mentions them as containing an epitome of the duke’s life. He says of him that he was “The terror of Asia, the fear of Europe, and the thunder-bolt of Africa. His name alone was victory, there where the Crescent ruled. He divorced Venice and the Sea.” In another he sums up his achievements against the Turks: – “He liberated a thousand Christians from the galleys; he assaulted and sacked Goletta, Chicheri, and * “Memoria immortal de D. Pedro Giron, duque de Osuna, muerto en la Prision.” Musa I. Soneto 13. † Musa III. Sonetos 4, 5. 9. a b

The exact source for this account of the career of Osuna has not been identified. See Tarsia p. 763 and Sedano, IV, p. xxviii.

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Calivia: the Danube, and Moselle and the Rhine paled before his armies.”a The fall of Osuna included his own. There can be no doubt that he was innocent of all participation in any treasonable designs of the viceroy, but innocence was a slight resource in Spain against powerful accusers. He was arrested and carried to his villa of Torre de Juan Abad, and imprisoned there for three years and a half. He was confined with such rigour, that in default of medical aid he fell severely ill, so that he wrote to the president of the council, to represent the miserable state of his health, and obtained leave to attend to his cure in the neighbouring city of Villa Nueva de los Infantes. A few months after he was liberated, under the restriction that he was not to appear at court. But the total absence of all proof against him, caused this sentence to be taken off soon after. Unfortunately he was not satisfied with freedom from persecution. His fortunes had suffered during his imprisonment, and he sought to mend them by claiming the arrears of his pension, the payment of which had been suspended during his disgrace. This lighted again the fire of persecution, and he was again exiled, and retired to his villa of Torre Juan Abad, till after the lapse of another year he was allowed to return to Madrid. No longer persecuted, and restored to his proper place in society, he resided for some time at court, where he enjoyed the reputation his talents, prudence, / and conduct commanded, so that the king, to reward his services, and compensate for his sufferings, named him one of his secretaries.b But such honours had ceased to charm Quevedo. Misfortune and disgrace had taught him to look with aversion on public employments; his long imprisonment had accustomed him to study, and engendered a love of tranquility. Several places were offered him by the count-duke Olivarez, minister and favourite of Philip IV., such as minister for state dispatches, and the embassy to Genoa, but he declined them and gave himself up to study and philosophy. His writings were many, and gained for him a high reputation; he was in correspondence with all the most learned men of Europe, and was enriched by the revenue of several benefices; thus for several years he enjoyed reputation and prosperity. He gave up, however, his church preferments for the sake of marrying. His wife was donna Esperanza de Aragon y la Cabra, Señora of Cetina, and she belonged to one of the highest families in the kingdom. With her he retired to Cetina; but he was not long allowed to enjoy the happiness he promised himself: his wife died within a few months, and this last misfortune, destroying the fabric of felicity he had erected, and counted upon possessing to the end of his life, was the heaviest blow of all. His resource and consolation was retirement and study. He took up his abode at Torre Juan Abad, and gave himself up to the cultivation of literature and poetry. a The first quotation comes from the sonnet ‘Inscripcion en el tumulo de Don Pedro Giron’ and the second from ‘Compendio de las hazañas del mismo’ The last of the ‘three other sonnets’ mentioned is ‘Epitafio del sepulcro y con las armas del propio’. b Material in the above paragraph is taken from Sedano, IV, pp. xxviii–xix and that in the next (as far as ‘poetry.’) from ibid., p. xxx.

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Several of his poems are expressive of the delight he felt at leaving Madrid for the solitude of his villa which was placed in the Sierra of La Mancha. One of his romances describes his progress from Madrid through Toledo, la Mancha, and the Sierra, to his estate: the poem is burlesque, and in ridicule of all he sees; but there are others in which he dwells with satisfaction on his tranquil occupations. “Retired to the solitude of these deserts,” he writes, “with few but wise books, I enjoy the conversation of the dead, and with my eyes / listen to those who are no more. The press gives into our hands those great souls whom death has freed from injury. The hour takes its irrevocable flight, but that is spent best which improves us by reading and study.”*a He was an excellent landlord, and a kind master; he exerted himself in acts of charity towards his vassals, and conducted himself with Christian humility and mercy. For a few years he was permitted to enjoy this tranquillity; it was a sort of calm after storm, where the absence of sorrow is called happiness. His active mind furnished him with occupation, while his piety and philosophy taught him content. He might now hope that he was assured of such a state of peace to the end of his life, – for he had relinquished every ambitious project, and limited his views to the narrowed sphere immediately around him. But Quevedo was one of those men marked by destiny for misfortune. He playfully, and yet with some bitterness, alludes to his evil fate, in a poem before quoted. He says: “My fortunes are so black, they might serve me for ink: I might be used as an image of a saint; – for, if the country people want rain, they have but to turn me out naked, and they are sure of a deluge; if they want sun, let me be covered by a mantle, and it will shine at night; I am always mistaken for some object of vengeance, and receive the blows intended for another. If a tile is to fall, it waits till I pass under. If I wish to / * The last three lines of this sonnet would serve admirably for a motto to a time-piece in a library. The whole, from which the above is an extract, runs thus:– “Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos, Con pocos, pero doctos libros juntos, Vivo en conversacion con los difuntos, Y escuchocon mis ojos à los muertos. Sino siempre entendidos, siempre abiertos, O enmiendan, o fecundan mis assuntos, Y en musicos callados contrapuntos Al sueño de la vida hablan despiertos. Las grandes almas, que la Muerte ausenta De injurias, de los años vengadora, Libra, o gran Don Joseph, docta la emprenta. En fuga irrevocable huye la hora; Pero aquella el mejor calculo cuenta Que en la leccion y estudios nos mejora.”

Musa II. Soneta 90

a ‘Gustoso el Autor con la Soledad y Sus Estudios, Escribió Este Soneto’. Quoted by Tarsia, p. 768. Mary Shelley offers an abridgement rather than a complete translation.

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borrow from any one, he replies so rudely, that, instead of borrowing, I am obliged to lend my patience. Every fool prates to me; every old woman makes love; every poor person begs; every prosperous one takes offence. When I travel, I always miss my road; when I play, I always lose; every friend deceives, every enemy sticks to me; water fails me at sea, – in taverns I find it in plenty, mingled with my wine. I have given up all employments, for I know that if I turned hosier, people would go bare-legged; if physician, no one would fall ill. If I am gallant towards a woman, she listens to or refuses me, – both are equally disastrous. If a man wished to die neither by poison nor pestilence, he has but to intend to benefit me, and he will not live an hour. Such is the adverseness of my star, that I submit and try to propitiate its pride by my adoration.”*a But worse luck was in store for him, and a misfortune so heavy, as to put an end to his life, after exhausting him by suffering. He was suspected of being the author of certain libels against the court, and to the injury of public morals; – and an accusation was brought against him, either by some malicious enemy, or officious and mistaken medler.b Happening to visit Madrid for some cause, and being in the house of a grandee, his friend, he was arrested at eleven at night, in the month of December 1641, and imprisoned in a dungeon of the royal Casa de San Marcos de Leon, and his possessions seized on. His confinement was cruel as well as rigorous, – his dungeon was damp; – a stream flowed through it close to his pillow. He was allowed no money, and lived by charity; his clothes became rags, and he could not renew them. This frightful situation produced sores on his body, and not being allowed medical aid, he was forced to dress them himself. There are two letters of his extant, written in prison, – one addressed to a friend, – the other, a memorial to the count-duke Olivarez, soliciting inquiry into his / case.† These letters are far less interesting than might have been expected from so vivid a writer as Quevedo, describing the squalid wretchedness of a dungeon, and the horrors of his lot; but they are curious monuments of the manners of the day, shewing how men endured the evils of misrule, and evincing the resignation and dignity Quevedo could preserve throughout. The first is addressed to a gentleman whom his biographers name his intimate friend, don Diego de Villagomez, a cavalier of the city of Leon; but the style is as cold and ceremonious as if written to an archbishop. It begins by saying: – “I who am a warning write to you who are an example to the world, – but different as we are, we both travel to the same end, – and adversity has this of good, that it serves * Musa VI., romance xvi. † Vida de Quevedo por Tarsia. a Romance 16.‘Refiere su nacimento y las propiedades que le comunicò’. Quoted in Sismondi, IV, pp. 92–4; see also above, p. 228. b An archaic spelling, found in Shakespeare and Milton, and sometimes in the 18th century. In the next sentence ‘eleven at night’ shows Mary Shelley following Sedano (‘à las once de la noche’) for the account of Quevedo’s imprisonment, whereas Bouterwek has twelve o’clock.

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as a lesson to others. Even in learning the military profession, you have shewn yourself a good captain. For you have not left it, but attained preferment. War endures to all men through life, for life is war; and to live and to struggle is the same thing.” – He then makes a religious application of this maxim, saying, that to leave a worldly service for that of Jesus, is to follow a better banner and to be assured of the pay; and, after a long disquisition on this subject, and in praise of St. Ignatius, he concludes by saying: “I can count, señor don Diego, fourteen years and a half of imprisonment, and may add to this the misery of this last dungeon, in which, I count the wages of my sins. Give me pity in exchange for the envy I bear you; and since God gives you better society, enjoy it, far from the solitude of your friend, who lies in the grasp of persecution, far short in his account, though he pays much less than he owes. And may God give you his grace and benediction. From prison, the 8th of June, 1643.”a The memorial to the count-duke is far more to the purpose, but, even that is very diffuse and pedantic, though the facts he details were impressive enough to obtain compassion without quotations from the ancients; but such was the tone of that age. / “My lord,” he writes, “a year and ten months have passed since I was thrown into prison, on the seventh of December, on the eve of the Conception of our Lady, at half-past ten at night; when I was dragged in the depth of winter, without a cloak, and without a shirt, in my sixty-first year, to this royal convent of San Marcos de Leon; where I have remained all the time mentioned, in most rigorous confinement; sick with three wounds, which have festered through the effects of cold, and the vicinity of a stream that flows near my pillow; and not being allowed a surgeon, it has been a sight of pity to see me cauterise them with my own hands. I am so poor that I have been clothed, and my life supported by charity. The horror of my hardships has struck every one with dread. I have only one sister, a nun among the barefooted Carmelites, from whom I can hope nothing, but that she should recommend me to God. I acknowledge (for so my sins persuade) mercy in this cruelty. For I am myself the voice of my conscience, and I accuse my life. If your Excellency found me well off, mine would be the praise. To find me miserable, and to do me good, makes the praise yours; and if I am unworthy of pity, your Excellency is worthy to feel it, and it is the appropriate virtue of so great a noble and minister. ‘There is nothing,’ says Seneca, when consoling Marcia, ‘that I consider so meritorious in those who hold a high station, as the pardoning many things, and seeking pardon for none.’ What worse crime can I commit, than persuading myself that my misfortunes are to be the limit of your magnanimity? I ask time from your Excellency to revenge myself on myself. The world has already heard what my enemies can say against me; I desire now that they should hear me against myself, and my accusations will be the more true from being exempt from hatred. I protest, before God, our Lord, that in all that is said of me, I am guilty of a

Quoted in Tarsia, pp. 772–3.

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no other crime, than not having lived an exemplary life, so that my sins may be attributed to my folly. Those who / see me, do not believe that I am a prisoner on suspicion, but under a most rigorous sentence; wherefore I do not expect death, but live in communion with it. I exist only through its generosity, – and I am a corpse in all except the sepulture, which is the repose of the dead. I have lost every thing. My possessions, which were always trifling, are reduced to nothing, between the great expenses of my imprisonment, and the losses it has occasioned. My friends are frightened by my calamity, and nothing remains to me but my trust in you. No mercy can bestow many years on me, nor any cruelty deprive me of many. I do not, my lord, seek this interval, naturally so short, for the sake of living longer, but of living well for a little while.”a He then sums up, by quoting Pliny and Trajan on the merits of mercy, and the preferability of being loved rather than feared.b This memorial had the effect of drawing attention to his cause and sufferings. The accusation on account of which he was imprisoned was examined, and it was discovered that he had been calumniated, and the real author of the libel came to be known; on this he was set at liberty, and allowed to return to court. His first labour was to recover his property, the whole of which, except the portion he had entrusted to his powerful friend, doctor Francisco de Oviedo, had been sequestered. It was a work of difficulty; and, meanwhile, he found himself too poor to live with becoming respectability at court, so he retired to his country seat. Here he soon fell ill from the effects of neglect during his last, long, and cruel imprisonment; and he was obliged to remove to Villa Nueva de los Infantes, for the sake of medical treatment. He was long confined to his apartment, suffering great pain and annoyance, all of which he endured with exemplary patience. He made his will, and prepared his soul for death. He named his nephew his successor, on condition that he took the name of Quevedo. His death was lingering.c To the / last he displayed fortitude and a tranquil spirit of resignation. He died the 8th of September, 1647, at the age of sixty-five.d In person, Quevedo was of middle height, and robust, though his feet were deformed. He was handsome in face, fair, and with curly hair inclined to red. He was short-sighted – but his countenance was full of animation. Notwithstanding his deformity, he was vigorous, – addicted to, and excelling in, manly exercises. His life was spent in a series of vicissitudes; at one time enjoying power and reputation; at another, a prisoner, suffering all the evils of poverty and neglect. He bore all with fortitude: his active mind gave him employment, his genius caused a

Quoted in Tarsia, pp. 773–4. Pliny the Younger (AD 62–c. 112), who was known for his letters, including a correspondence with the Roman Emperor Trajan. See Tarsia, p. 774. c Adapted from Tarsia, p. 775. d Sedano, IV, xxxi–xxxii and Tarsia, pp. 776–7. The correct year of his death is 1645, as Mary Shelley states on the first page of the life; a simple misprint may be involved as she also gives Quevedo’s correct age when he died. b

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him to find a resource in writing; – and the vivacity and energy of his works display the unabated vigour of his soul. Nearly fifteen years of his life he spent in prison, as be mentions in his letter above quoted. Meanwhile his character remained uninjured by adversity. His disposition was magnanimous, so that he never revenged himself on any of his enemies: he was generous and charitable to those in need; and so diffident of his own merit, that the only poems he published saw light under a feigned name. His integrity had been put to the proof at Naples, where bribes were offered him to conceal the frauds practised on the royal revenue; but he was far above dishonesty and peculation. The only slur on his character is his possible complicity in the Bedmar conspiracy; but in those days the advantage of the state to which a man belonged was deemed preponderant to all the suggestions of justice and right. Quevedo also acted on this occasion (if he did act) under the command of his superiors; and believed that fidelity to his patron was his first duty. Of his “Affaires du Cœur,“ the great subject with poets, we know little. Several ladies are celebrated in his verses; but a great proportion of his erotic poetry / is dedicated to one, whom he names Lisi, and to whom he appears to have been faithfully attached for a considerable space of time. In one of his sonnets to her, he says that ten years had taken their swift and noiseless flight since first he saw her; and for these ten years the soft flame had warmed his veins, and reigned over his soul; “for the flame,” he says, “that aspires to immortal life, neither fears to die with the body, nor that time should injure or extinguish it.”a Many of his poems express great aversion to matrimony, and when, at last, in advanced age, he did marry, we have seen that he was widowed almost as soon as wed. With the never-to-be-omitted exception of Cervantes, Quevedo is the most original prose writer Spain has produced; but at the same time he is so quaint, referring to local peculiarities, and using words unknown, except colloquially, that he is often unintelligible, especially in his burlesque poetry, to a foreigner. His countrymen esteem him highly. One of the most pleasing stanzas of Lope de Vega’s Laurel de Apolo is dedicated to his praise. He speaks of him as “Possessing an acute but gentle spirit; agreeable in his wit, and profound in his serious poetry.”b He adopted something of the culto style and conceits blemish his verses. Quintana says of him, “Quevedo was every thing in excess; no one in the same manner displays in the serious, a gravity so rigid, and morals so austere; no one in the jocose, shows a humour, so gay, so free, and so abandoned to the spirit of the thing. His imagination was vivid and brilliant but superficial and negligent; and the poetic genius that animates him, sparkles but does not glow, surprises but does not move deeply, bounds with impetuosity and force, but neither flies nor supports itself at the same elevation. I am well aware that Quevedo often diverts with a Mary Shelley is quoting from ‘Amor de sola una vista nace, vive, crece y se perpetúa’. The sonnets to Lisi join elements of platonic love and courtly love. Lisi may be a composite of several women. One recent theory is that she was Queen Isabel de Borbón, the wife of Philip IV (Bleznick, pp. 128–30). b See Obras Sueltas, I, vii, p. 139 and Sedano, IV, p. xlvi.

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what he writes, and raves because it is his pleasure. I know that puns have their proper place in such compositions, and that no one has used them more happily than he. But every thing has its / bounds; and heaped together with a prodigality like his, instead of pleasing they only create weariness. “His verse, however, is for the most part full and sonorous, his rhyme rich and easy. His poetry, strong and nervous, proceeds impetuously to its end; and if his movements betray too much of the effort, affectation and bad taste of the writer, their course is yet frequently seen to have a wildness, an audacity, and a singularity that is surprising.*”a To give some idea of Quevedo’s style to the English reader we may liken him to Butler; but it is Butler rather in his fragments than in Hudibras, for a more elevated poetic tone is displayed in those. Quevedo could be sublime, though only by snatches. Serious he could be, to the depths of grave and profound disquisition, as his ethical and religious treatises testify. One singular circumstance appertains to Quevedo’s literary career – that he published none of his poetry himself, except that portion which he gave to the world under the feigned name of the Bachiller Francisco de la Torre. These are the choice of all. Being more elevated, more sweet, more pure in their diction and taste, several critics would deprive Quevedo of the merit of being their author. But who Torre was, if he were not Quevedo, nobody can tell: while, these poems appearing under his editorship, and the very name – Francisco being his own, and the surname, “of the / Tower,” appropriate to his position, as the verses were written while he was living secluded in his patrimonial villa of Torre Juan Abad, seems to fix them unquestionably on him. Of the rest, a friend of Quevedo assures us that not a twentieth part of what he wrote has escaped destruction. His dramas * As a specimen of Quevedo’s poetry, Quintana quotes a sonnet, which Wiffen has translated, and which has the merit of force and truth. “THE RUINS OF ROME . “Pilgrim, thou look’st in Rome for Rome divine, And ev’n in Rome no Rome can find! her crowd Of mural wonders is a corse, whose shroud And fitting tomb is the lone Aventine. She lies where reigned the kingly Palatine, And Time’s worn medals more of ruin show From her ten thousand fights than even the blow Struck at the crown of her imperial line, Tiber alone remains, whose rushing tide Waters the town, now sepulchred in stone, And weeps its funeral with fraternal tears: O Rome! in thy wild beauty, power, and pride, The durable is fled; and what alone Is fugitive, abides the ravening years!”b a

Excerpted from Quintana, pp. 75, 76, 77, 78. ‘A Roma sepultada en sus ruinas’, which Wiffen translates literally as ‘Rome buried in her Ruins’ (p. 79). Mary Shelley’s title appears to be taken from Spenser, one of her favourite poets. Also quoted in Sismondi, IV, p. 91. b

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and historical works have perished; by which he has lost the right to being considered the universal writer his contemporaries name him. This friend, and afterwards his nephew and heir, published his poems, distributed under the head of six muses, pedantically headed with mottos from Seneca. There is Clio the historic, consisting chiefly of sonnets on great events addressed to great people; Polyhimnia the sententious; Melpomene, composed chiefly of epitaphs; Erato the erotic, or as it is styled, “singing of the achievements of love and beauty:” the greater part of which is dedicated to Lisi; Terpsichore the light, gay and satirical, a large portion of which are written in the jargon of the gypsies, and are unintelligible on this side of the Pyrenees; and Thalia, longest of all, which sings, “de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis.”a It is as a prose writer, however, that Quevedo has acquired fame out of his own country. And this not from his serious works; nor from his “picaresco,” in which he relates the life of the great Tacaño, or captain of thieves, the type of a Spanish rogue. This tale, by its familiarity with vice, squalid penury, and vulgar roguery, becomes tiresome; nor is it to be compared in richness of humour to Mendoza’s history of Lazarillo de los Tormes. The letters of the “Cavallero de Tenaza,” or knight of the pincer, are very whimsical. They are in ridicule of avarice, a sin, which Quevedo declares in another work to be the most unnatural of all. They are addressed to a lady; and are lessons to teach how little can be given, and how much preserved, by a man on all occasions. This sort of dry humour turning on one idea amuses at first, but at last becomes wearisome. It is on his Visions however, his most original work, / that his European reputation rests. Nothing can be more novel, singular and striking.b They consist of various visions of the other world; where he sees the end of earthly vanities and the punishments that await crime. They are full of knowledge of human nature, vivacity, wit and daring imagination; they remind the reader of Lucian; and if they are less airy and fanciful, they are bolder and more sarcastic.c They have the fault, it is true, of dwelling too exclusively on subjects of mean and vulgar interest – alguazils, attornies, ruffians, and all sorts of rogues of both sexes; among which, tailors figure preeminently. Now that tailors provide their own cloth, we have lost that intense notion of “cabbaging,” which was so deeply impressed on the minds of our ancestors, when they only fashioned cloth sent to them.d Tailors are with a

‘Of everything and more besides.’ The Sueños, written between 1606 and 1622 and published in 1627, were translated (very freely) into English by Sir Roger L’Estrange (1667). They are discussed by Sismondi, IV, pp. 86– 9, but Mary Shelley is drawing upon her own experience of reading the works. c See Bouterwek, I, p. 471. Lucian of Samosata (AD c.125–c.200), a Greek writer of prose satires, many of which are dialogues in which historical or imaginary figures are made to speak from beyond the grave, often in ridiculous situations. Mary Shelley read Lucian in 1816 and in a French translation in 1818 (MWSJ, II, p. 660). d Sismondi (IV, pp. 86–7) also remarks on the singular focus on tailors; Mary Shelley develops the idea. ‘To cabbage’ (OED vb.2a) is to pilfer, originally said of a tailor who went beyond taking just the shreds and small off-cuts (the ‘carbage’ or ‘garbage’ to which he was traditionally entitled as ‘perks’). It was still current in the 1830s. b

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Quevedo the very ne plus ultra of a thief. As lord Byron styles a pirate “a sea-solicitor,” so Quevedo calls a robber “a tailor of the highways.”a Several of these visions were written while their author was comparatively young: (one, dedicated to the duke of Osuna, is dated 1610, when he was thirty years of age), and possess the glow and spirit of early life.b Nothing can be more startling and vivid than the commencement of the “Vision of Calvary.” The blast of the last trump is described, and then he goes on to say: “The sound enforced obedience from marble, and hearing from the dead. All the earth began to move, giving permission to the bones to seek one another. After a short interval, I beheld those who had been soldiers arise in wrath from their graves, believing themselves summoned to battle: the avaricious looked up with anxiety and alarm fearing an attack, while men of pleasure fancied that the horns sounded to invite them to the chase. Then I saw how many fled with disgust or terror from their old bodies, of which some wanted an arm, some an eye; and I laughed at the odd figures they cut, while I admired the contrivance of Providence, that all being confounded together, no mistake was made. In one churchyard only, / there was some confusion and exchanging in the appropriation of heads; and I saw an attorney who denied that his own soul belonged to him. But I was most frightened at seeing two or thrée merchants who put on their souls so awry, that all their five senses got into their fingers.”c The commencement of the “Alguazil possessed” is equally spirited. A spectator calling him a man be-devilled, the bad spirit, within, cries out that “He is not a man but an alguazil; and you must know that it is against their will that devils possess alguazils; so that you ought rather to call me a devil be-alguazilled than an alguazil bedevilled.”d He is almost as inveterate against duennas, a race of people peculiar to Spain, and he disposes of them ludicrously enough in the infernal regions. “I went a little further,” he says, “and came to an immense and troubled swamp, where there was so much noise that my head was bewildered: I asked what it was, and was told that it proceeded from women who had turned duennas on earth. And thus I discovered that those who are duennas in this life, are frogs in the next, and like frogs, are for ever croaking amidst the wet and mud; and very properly do they act the parts of infernal frogs, since duennas are neither fish nor

a

Byron, Don Juan, III. 201. L’Estrange’s version is ‘Your highwayman is but a wild tailor’ (found in Vision III, called ‘Of the Last Judgement’ in L’Estrange’s translation). b The Sueño,‘El Mundo Por de Dentro’ (‘The World from Within’), completed in 1612 (L’Estrange’s Vision IV, ‘Of Loving Fools’, about the folly of love). c Quoted in Sismondi, IV, pp. 87–8, but collation shows that Mary Shelley is translating from the Quevedo text, not Sismondi (Vision III in L’Estrange’s translation). d The first Sueño, ‘El alguacil endemoniado’ (‘The Bedevilled Constable’), which ridicules a notorious exorcisor in Madrid, the Italian priest Genaro Andreini (Bleznick, p. 46) (Vision I, ‘The Alguazil or Catchpole Possesed’, in L’Estrange).

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flesh. I laughed to see them turned into such ugly things, with faces as care-worn and wrinkled as those of duennas here on earth.”a Such is the sort of wit that Quevedo indulges in; terse, pointed, bitter, and driven home with an unsparing hand. Extravagant in its imaginations, yet so proportioned to the truth of nature as to excite admiration as well as surprise, and to be the model of a variety of imitations, none of which come up to him in penetration, vivacity and subtle felicity of expression. /

a Translated from ‘El sueño del infierno’ (‘The Vision of Hell’), Vision VI in L’Estrange. Dueñas were elderly women placed in charge of young women in a household to act as governesses and companions but above all as chaperones and moral guardians.

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CALDERON. 1601–1687. W E draw to a close. Misrule and oppression had their inevitable results, crushing and destroying the spirit and intellect of Spain; and after, by an extraordinary harvest of writers, the soil had shown what it could do, it became waste and barren. For a long time, the purists, the Gongorists, the partisans of a glittering and false style, exerted their influence. A critic and poet of eminence, Luzan, exerted himself to restore Spanish poetry. He succeeded in exploding the false taste; and Moratin, the author of some excellent dramas, followed in his steps:a but, latterly, the state of the country has been too distracted for literature to gain any attention.b Before we close the series of Spanish Lives, however, one more is to be added, and it is that of the greatest poet of Spain. Little, very little, however, is known of him. We regret that we have not fuller accounts of Cervantes. We search the voluminous works of Lope de Vega to acquire knowledge of his character and of the events of his life; while the career of one far greater than he, and, as a poet, infinitely superior to Cervantes himself, is wrapped in such obscurity that we can discern only its bare outline, and no one has endeavoured to fill up the sketch, nor by seeking for letters and other documents, to give us a fuller, and as it were coloured picture, of what Calderon was. This partly arises from the prosperity of his life: adversity presents objects that catch the attention and demand research: an even course of happiness, like a champaign country, eludes description. The a

Gongorists: followers of Góngora’s ornamented and obscure style of allusions, archaic words, hyperbole and Latinised syntax; Calderón partakes of Góngorism; Ignacio Luzán (1702– 54) used French neo-classical rules to attack Calderón’s plays in his La Poética (1737); Nicolás Moratín (1737–80), poet and playwright who with Clavijo influenced the Spanish government in 1765 to prohibit Calderón’s autos sacramentales (see note b, p. 249) from being performed (Sismondi, IV, pp. 223–5;Ward, pp. 347–8, 398–9; Hesse, pp. 17, 157). b Mary Shelley is referring to the Peninsular wars and later political unrest in Spain. Her statement that literature has played no part in modern Spanish life, however, is too sweeping to be true, and may reflect haste on her part to bring the volume to a close and a lack of knowledge of recent and contemporary Spanish writing. At the same time she echoes the opinion of Bouterwek who in the third book of his study traces the decline of Spanish literature but optimistically suggests ‘in general the Spaniards of the educated and refined classes blush for their ancient prejudices, and observe, with regret, that Spanish literature is now only labouring to acquire what it long ago neglected’ (I, p. 600). A variation of this opinion can be found in ch. xxxv of volume IV of Sismondi.

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only account we have of him proceeds from a friend*,a who commences with blowing a / trumpet, as if he were going to tell us much. “How can his limited powers,” he says, “describe him who occupies all the tongues of fame? and ill will a short epilogue befit the man whose merits endless ages cannot limit.” And then he goes on to tell us that “his swift pen shall comprise a brief sigh in a long regret, and raise an honourable tomb to his sacred ashes; adopting for the purpose one of the many pens which his fame furnishes, until others better cut than his shall publish eulogies worthy of his name.”b Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca was born in 1601†; thus coming into the world of poetry at the moment when the plays of Lope de Vega were in vogue, and when Cervantes was calling the attention of mankind to his immortal work. His biographer takes the pains to preserve the intelligence that he wept before he was born; “thus to enter the world enshadowed by gloom, which he, like a new sun, was to fill with joy.” And he tells us that he collected “this important information from Donna Dorotea Calderon de la Barca, his sister, a nun in the royal convent of St. Clara at Toledo.”c The family of Calderon was illustrious, and enjoyed an ancient hidalgoship (or solar) in the valley of Carriedo among the mountains of Burgos; the very place, we may observe, where Lope de Vega’s ancestors resided, and whence his father emigrated, when, driven by straitened means, he removed to Madrid. The family of Calderon had migrated many years before, and were settled at Toledo. His mother’s name was Donna Ana Maria de Henao y Riaña, and her origin was derived from an ancient family in the Low Countries, descended from the Seigneur de Mons, and which had been settled in Spain for many years. His childhood was spent under the paternal roof, and even as a boy he was conspicuous for his intelligence and acquirements. At the age of fourteen he entered the university of Salamanca.d He remained there for / five years, and rendered * Fama Vida y Escritos de Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca por Don Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel. † Bouterwek and Sismondi give 1600 as the date of Calderon’s birth. – His Spanish biographer mentions 1601.e a Juan de Vera Tassis y Villarroel (1636 - after 1701), playwright, prose-writer and editor, published 9 volumes, or parts, consisting of 12 plays each for a total of 108, between 1682 and 1689. His death prevented a tenth part from appearing (Hesse, p. 173, Ward, pp. 603–4). Bouterwek gives 1685 as the starting date, but that was when Vera Tassis went back and began reprinting previously published parts of plays (I, p. 502). The Fama Vida (see note b below)belongs to Vera Tassis’s editing project. b Mary Shelley is translating from Vera Tassis. See ‘Fama Vida y Escritos de D. Pedro Calderon De La Barca’, in Don Vicente Garcia, Theatro Hespañol, Parte Segunda, Vol. II (Madrid, 1785), pp. i–iii. c Translated from Vera Tassis, pp. iv–v. d Donna Ana Maria de Henao y Riaña, who died in 1610 (Vera Tassis, pp. vi–vii;. Wilson and Moir, p. 99). e Sismondi, IV, p. 105, Bouterwek, I, p. 500, Vera Tassis, p. iv. 17 Jan. 1600 is accepted as his birthdate (Hesse, p. 11).

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himself conspicuous by his ardour for study, and by the progress he made in the most abstruse and difficult sciences. Already also had he begun to write plays, which were acted with applause in several Spanish theatres.a At the age of nineteen he left Salamanca. These dates are given us, but the intermediate spaces are unfilled up. We are not told whether he resided at Madrid or with his family at Toledo. His fame became established as a poet, and began to rival that of Lope, whom indeed he far transcended in the higher gifts of poetry, creative imagination, sublimity, and force.b At the age of five and twenty he entered the military service, and served his king first in the Milanese and afterwards in Flanders, the old fields of war for Spain, whereon had fought and fallen so many heroes of both countries, and so many human beings had fallen victims to religious and political persecution. He spent ten years in this manner. Sismondi says, that his life is sprinkled with few events.c How do we know this? Throughout these campaigns, during these years of youthful ardour and enterprise, how much may have occurred, what dangers he may have run – what generosity, what valour he may have displayed – how warmly he may have loved, how deeply have suffered! As a poet and a master of the passions he must have felt them all. But a blank meets us when we seek to know more of these things. A poet’s life is ever a romance. That Calderon’s was such we cannot doubt; but we must find its traces in the loves, the woes, the courage, and the joys of his dramatic personages: he infused his soul into these; what the events might be that called forth his own personal interest and sympathy we are totally ignorant.d An order from his sovereign recalled him to court. Philip IV. was passionately fond of the theatre, and himself wrote plays. Innumerable dramas appeared under his patronage, the names of the authors being utterly unknown; and even of those of acknowledged writers few have been collected and published under the name of their author. Single plays, in pamphlets, we find in plenty, / all very similar the one to the other; a better arrangement in the plot, more or less poetry or spirit in the dialogue, being almost all the difference we find among them. Several of the most entertaining are given forth as by a Wit of the Court (un Ingenio de esta Corte), and attributed to Philip IV. himself; though this honour has been disputed him.e Moreto also, the gayest and most comic of the Spanish dramatists, flourished at this time. Lope was dead; but his place was filled

a Calderón was at Salamanca, in west central Spain, from 1614–20 where he studied canonical law, theology, philosophy, and logic. As Hesse points out, his studies are reflected in the reasoning and argumentation that occur in his plays (p. 11). b He led a rather violent life with two of his brothers. His first known play is Amor, Honor y Poder (Love, Honour and Power), written in 1623 (Vera Tassis, pp. vii–ix; Bouterwek I, p. 500; Ward, p. 85). c Sismondi, IV, p. 105. See Vera Tassis, pp. ix–xi. d Bouterwek, I, p. 500 and Sismondi, IV, p. 106. e Sismondi, IV, p. 106.

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1650. Ætat. 49.

1654. Ætat. 53.

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up, not by one, but by many, who, under royal patronage, were eager to pay the tribute of a play to the theatre of Spain.a Philip IV. saw Calderon’s dramas represented. He perceived their merit, and thought he might serve his king much better by residing in Spain and writing for the theatre, than by bearing arms in Flanders, where there were so many men who could not write plays, much more fit to be knocked on the head. He summoned Calderon to court, by a royal order, for the sake of writing a drama for a palace festival; bestowed on him also the habit of Santiago, and excusing him his military duties commanded him, instead, to furnish a play.b Calderon wrote the “Certamen de Amor” (the Combat of Love), and “Zelos” (Jealousy), which were acted at the palace of Buen-Retiro.c Calderon wrote as he was commanded; but, unwilling to leave the army, he obtained a commission in the company of the countduke of Olivarez,d which he followed to Catalonia, and remained till the peace, when he returned to court; when the king conferred on him the pay of thirty crowns a month in the artillery. On another occasion, while staying in the country with the duke of Alva, the king sent for him to celebrate the festivals that occurred on his marriage with Maria Ana of Austria. At the age of fifty-one he quitted the military career, to which for many years he had been passionately attached, and, being ordained, he became a priest. The king, who always favoured him, made him chaplain of / a royal chapel at Toledo, of which he took possession on the 19th of June of the same year. But the king, dissatisfied with his distance from court, and his consequent inability to assist properly at the royal feasts, gave him a royal chaplaincy, and recalled him to Madrid; bestowing on him besides a pension, derived from the revenues of Sicily, besides other presents and rewards, the ever-renewing recompence of his labours. Calderon now wrote a play at each celebration of the king’s birth-day, not only for Madrid, but for Toledo, Seville, and Granada. As he advanced in age, he obtained other church preferments. He died on the 29th of May, 1687, at the age of eighty-six.e He left the congregation of St. Peter heir to all he possessed.

a Most of Calderón’s plays were performed at the theatre in the Royal Palace. Augustin Moreto eventually became an ecclesiatic and renounced theatre (Bouterwek I, p. 526; IV, pp. 211–12). When Lope died in 1635, Calderón became court dramatist. b That is, he made him a member of the Military Order of Saint James of the Sword, whose original purpose was to provide protection for the pilgrims travelling to and from the shrine of Saint James at Compostella. c Certamen de Amor and Zelos were written in 1640 (Vera Tassis, pp. x–xi). The court theatre at the Buen Retiro, meant to replace the gloomier old palace, opened in 1634, for which Calderón wrote a play, El Nuevo Palacio del Retiro (The New Palace of the Retiro) (Hesse, p. 35). d Conde-Duque de Olivares, Gaspar de Guzmán (1587–1645), Prime Minister, imprisoned Quevedo but encouraged Calderón. He served Olivares during a revolt in Catalan and he received his pension in 1642. A few years after his mistress bore him a son who likely died young (Ward, pp. 86, 423–4). e Mary Shelley is incorrect as are Bouterwek and Sismondi; Calderón died 25 May 1681; (Vera Tassis, pp. iii–xvi; Bouterwek, I, p. 502, Sismondi, IV, p. 107).

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In describing his character, his biographer indulges in Spanish hyperbole instead of original traits. He calls him the oracle of the court, the envy of strangers, the father of the Muses, the lynx of learning, the light of the drama. He adds, that his house was ever the shelter of the needy; that his modesty and humility were excessive; attentive in his courtesy; a sure friend, and a good man.a Calderon never collected nor published his plays. The duke of Veragua at one time addressed him a flattering letter, requesting to be furnished with a complete list of his dramas, as the booksellers were in the habit of selling the works of other writers under his name. Calderon, who was then in his eightieth year, supplied the duke with a list only of “Autos Sacramentales.” He added, in a letter, that with regard to his temporal dramas, of which he had written an hundred and eleven, he felt offended, that in addition to his own faulty works, those of other authors should be ascribed to him; and besides that his writings were so altered, that he himself could not recognise even their titles. He also expressed his determination of following the example of the book-sellers, and to pay as little regard to his plays as they did. He observed, that on religious grounds, he attached more importance to his “Autos.”b / Several collections of Calderon’s plays appeared during his life; one of them being edited by his brother, and another by his friend and biographer, Don Juan de Vera Tassis y Villaroel, who published a hundred and twenty-seven plays, and ninety-five autos; but it is doubted whether all these are really his. This doubt, of course, appertains to the more mediocre ones. In the best, the stamp of Calderon’s original genius cannot be doubted.c Bouterwek and Sismondi have both entered into considerable detail with regard to Calderon’s plays, but we have no space to indulge in a similar analysis, although, with our admiration for this great poet, we should be glad to enter with minute detail on his merits; but we must confine ourselves to some description of his characteristics.d Schlegel is an enthusiastic admirer of Calderon; and his observations on his works are replete with truth. Other writers – among them the author of an article on the Spanish theatre, in the twenty-fifth volume of the “Quarterly Review” – are less willing to attribute high merit to him. We confess that our opinion more nearly coincides with Schlegel. He carries too far, we allow, his theory of the ideal of Calderon’s morality, piety, and honour. It is true, that these are too deeply founded on the bigotry and falsehood of inquisitorial faith, and a false point of honour; but with all this, within the circle which his sentiments and belief a

Vera Tassis, p. xxv. See Bouterwek, I, p. 501. Autos sacramentales are one-act plays performed at the feast of Corpus Christi; they were originally performed in cities and villages on moveable carts. After 1649 Calderón had sole authority to write autos for Madrid; his letter of 1680 to the Duke of Veragua indicated 70 autos (Ward, pp. 39–40). c Mary Shelley’s source is Bouterwek, I, p. 502. Hesse (p. 173) points out that 5 volumes were published in his lifetime; Calderón disowned some of the plays as spurious. d Bouterwek, I, pp. 159–205 and Sismondi, IV, pp. 119–58. b

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prescribe, he is a master of the passions and the imagination.a There is a wild and lofty aim in all his more romantic plays, which put barely down, despoiled of the working of the passions and the magic of poetry, seems monstrous, but which, however different from our notions of the present day, strike a chord that vibrates to the depth of the heart.b We may give as an instance, that supernatural machinery is introduced into very many of Calderon’s plays; and Shakespear himself cannot manage the agency of the spiritual world as Calderon has done. He enlists a sort of belief on his side, which it is difficult to describe, / but impossible to withstand. It is not a mere ghost that walks the earth, but an embodying, at the same time, of the conscience and fears of the person thus visited. Thus in the “Purgatory of St. Patrick:”c Ludovico Ennio, the villain of the piece, has for many years resolved to assassinate an enemy. He has travelled through many countries, nourishing the idea of vengeance, and returns to Ireland resolved to accomplish it.d He wraps himself in his mantle, and thus disguised, he goes for three successive nights to the street where his enemy lives, resolved to stab him: but, at the moment that he fancies that he shall attain his aim, he is met by a man similarly disguised (embozado – muffled up in a cloak) who calls to him; but when he follows, the embozado disappears so quickly, it seems as if the wind were in his feet. Ludovico enraged, on the fourth night lays in wait again, and takes his servant with him, that the disguised intruder may not escape. He arrives again at the street, resolved on the death of his enemy. At this moment the cloak-wrapped figure appears before him. Exasperated by his appearance, he declares that he will take two vengeances; one on his ancient enemy, the other on the intruder: the figure calls him by his name; and bids him follow. Ludovico draws on him, but pierces only the empty air; at once astonished and indignant, he still pursues till they come to a desert place, when Ludovico exclaims, “Here we are, body to body, alone, but my sword cannot injure thee: tell me, then, who thou art; art thou a man, a vision, or a dæmon! You answer not – then thus I dare throw off your mantle!” But, hidden by the cloak is a skeleton only; and aghast with terror, he exclaims, “Great God! what dreadful spectacle is this! Horrible vision! – Mortal terror! what art thou – stark corse – that crumbled into earth and dust, yet live? The figure replies, “Knowest thou not thyself? – I am thy portraiture – I am Ludovico Ennio!” These words, this fearful sight, awaken horror and remorse in the criminal’s mind; his heart perceives / the truth, and how his crimes, indeed, had made him but an a

A. W. Schlegel, Über dramatische Kunst und Literatur, quoted in Sismondi IV, pp. 107–19 in French. Both Sismondi and the Quarterly Review, XXV (1821), 14–15 and 24 agree that Schlegel over-rates Calderón, who, in their opinion, lacks profundity and intensity. b The Quarterly makes similar comments about bigotry. But the Shelleys believed that writers such as Dante, Milton and Calderón inevitably partook of the errors of their societies, but transcended them. The paragraph echoes P. B. Shelley’s comments on the Autos in his Defence of Poetry. c El Purgatorio de San Patricio (1627) is based on a novel by Lope’s disciple Montalvan. d An analysis of the play is provided by Sismondi (IV, pp. 170–9), who discusses this scene. The two scenes to which Mary Shelley refers take place in the third act of the play.

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image of death itself. He is thus prepared for the purgatory where his sins are to be expiated. Many of the plays thus turn upon visions, portions of the mind itself personified; while, at the same time, the affections and the passions find a voice all truth and poetry, that charms, agitates, and interests.a His autos are conceived in the same spirit. It is true, there is too much theological disquisition and doctrine in them, and that “God the Father plays the school-divine;”b but, on the other hand, the poet often appears to open a new world before us, which we view tremblingly at first, till he leads us on by that mastery of the human imagination which he possesses – knowing so well what it can believe, and what it cannot disbelieve – and thus bringing heaven and hell palpably and feelingly before us. The auto of “Life is a dream.” (La Vida es Sueño) more than any other, is an instance of that peculiarity, which we imperfectly endeavour to describe, of clothing in sensible and potent imagery, the thoughts of the brain, the feelings of the heart. Yet this is not done in the German style. The Germans subtilise, mystify, and cloud the real and distinct: they dissolve flesh and blood into a dream. Calderon, on the contrary, turns a dream into flesh and blood: he gives a pulse to a skeleton; he breathes passion from the lips of ghosts and spectres. Which is the greater power, others must decide. The influence of Calderon is greatest to us; he is master of a spell to which our souls own obedience.c Calderon, as a poet, is diffuse and exaggerated at times, but he is highly imaginative; and as he gives human sympathies to the impalpable and visionary, so does he inform the visible universe with a soul of beauty and feeling. A poet alone could translate Calderon. The only translation we have, is a few scenes from the “Magico Prodigioso” by Shelley. These breathe at once the Spaniard’s peculiarities – his fantastic machinery – his incomparable sweetness. Justina is one / of the most beautiful of his creations; a maiden, vowed to chastity, who being in vain tempted by the love of many admirers, is assailed by the seductions of hell itself. Nature – the birds, the leaves, and wandering clouds, breathe of love, and endeavour to soften and corrupt her heart.*d The “Principe Costante” (the * Shelley’s Posthumous Poems. – Translations. There is a beautiful passage, drawn from the a It has been suggested that P. B. Shelley was thinking of this recognition scene in the last weeks of his life. He reported meeting a vision of himself who asked ‘How long do you mean to be content?’ (MWSL, I, p. 245). Mary Shelley herself explores the figure of the doppelganger in Frankenstein (1818). b Alexander Pope, ‘The First Epistle of the Second Book of Horace Imitated’ (1737), l. 102, slightly misquoted. Sismondi makes a similar comment (IV, p. 179). c Not here referring to the more famous drama of La vida es sueño (1635) but to a later version from 1673. P. B. Shelley drew a connection between Calderón's El Mágico Prodigioso and Goethe's Faust and calls Goethe the ‘greatest philosopher’ and Calderón the ‘greatest poet’; see also Mary Shelley’s ‘Note on Prometheus Unbound’ (PBSL, II, p. 407; MWSN, vol. 2, p. 278). d The Wonder-Working Magician (1637). Set in 304, during the reign of Diocletian, it is a version of the Faust legend. Cipriano, a pagan student of philosophy and in love with the Christian virgin Justina, is tempted by the Devil. Through a series of events Cipriano is converted, the Devil defeated, and after Cipriano and Justina are executed, they are united in death, through the powers of God, ‘the wonder-working magician’. Three scenes were translated by P. B. Shelley in the spring of 1822, edited by Mary Shelley and published 1824. She refers here to the third of these scenes.

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Constant Prince) seems to be the most popular of Calderon’s plays with his critics.a “La Vida es Sueño” (Life is a Dream) – not the auto, but the play – is another, full of wild strange interest, original and sublime.b “The Schism of England” is among the most striking of his plays. One passage, where a cavalier describes how he fell in love with Anna Bullen, is fraught with touching sweetness and tender deep-felt passion.c Calderon is, besides, a great master of comedy. His “Gracioso” (or Clown), is different from Lope’s – more poetic and fanciful, more vivacious and humorous.d In the “Señora y la Criada” (the Lady and her Maid,) where a country girl is carried off in mistake for her mistress, there is a comic mistake, most amusingly wrought. It will be seen that we consider that, while Schlegel refines too much upon the perfection of the art and the sublimity of the moral of the poet, we think that the critic of the Quarterly Reviewe rates his merits at too low a standard. We do not agree that he “cannot admit us within the gates of horror and thrilling fear.” On the contrary, we think that much of his power results from his mastery over these emotions. We can scarcely allow that “the sacred source of sympathetic flows not at his command.” The simply pathetic is certainly not his characteristic; but the tears may start forth in sympathy for the grandeur of soul exhibited by the Constant Prince; the heart be charmed and interested by the / sweetness of

“Purgatorio de San Patricio,” introduced into this author’s tragedy of the Cenci.g a El príncipe constante (1629), Calderón’s first masterpiece, based on the story of Prince Ferdinand of Portugal, who died a Christian martyr under the captivity of the Moors in Algiers. b La vida es sueño (Life is a Dream) (1635), a play about free will versus predestination. Segismundo, son of king Basilio, has been raised in isolation in a tower by his father. The king drugs him and brings him to court, where he causes havoc. Sent back to the tower, he meets Rosaura, whom he had met at court. He realises that his time at court was not a dream. He defeats his father’s forces and order comes from chaos when he restores his father to the throne; see vol. 4 for Mary Shelley’s poem of the same name. c La Cisma de Inglaterra (The Schism in England) (1627) tells the story of Henry VIII’s passion for Anne Boleyn, his divorce of Catherine of Aragon, the execution of Anne Boleyn and Henry’s remorse. The play closes with the threat of irreparable division, as Mary Tudor, Henry’s heir, publicly assents, but privately refuses, to recognise the schismatic Anglican church. The passage mentioned by Mary Shelley (Carlo’s description of his falling in love with Anne Boleyn) was transcribed by P. B. Shelley in an enthusiastic 1819 letter to Maria Gisborne and a recent discovery shows that he attempted to translate it (PBSL, II, pp. 154–5; Bodleian MS Shelley adds. e. 8, p. 1). d This paragraph is paraphrased from the Quarterly Review, XXV (1821), 23; it may possibly have been read by P. B. Shelley and/or Medwin. Medwin claimed that the Fool in La Cisma de Inglaterra influenced the figure of Archy in ‘Charles the First’ (Webb, pp. 225–6). e Quotations in this paragraph from the Quarterly Review, XXV (1821), 24. f Referring to Beatrice’s description of the chasm where she hopes her father will be murdered (III. i. 242–65).

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Justina, and be touched by the fatherly sorrows of David, in “Los Cabellos de Absolom.”a Calderon is much more readable, much more interesting than Lope. He rises higher. It is not only complexity of plot, endless variety of situations, and well sustained dialogue, there is interest of a higher kind; and, though it is true that perfect harmony is wanting in his compositions, and that he riots too much “without constraint or control,”b yet the colours of his poetry are so bright, and the music of his verse so grand and enthralling, that we feel as we read that he is one of the master geniuses of the world. /

a Los Cabellos de Absalón (Absalom’s Hair) a Biblical play about the sons of David, illustrating the destructive nature of the passions. Absalón who desires power, slays his brother Amón, after he rapes his half-sister Tamar. Absalón rebels against his father and it is only with his death that peace is restored to the kingdom of David (Hess, pp. 64–5). Mary Shelley is particularly true to the opinions of P. B. Shelley here. He singles out these particular plays in an 1821 letter to Maria Gisborne, mentioning the incest scene as ‘perfectly tremendous’; he considers how incest might be seen as ‘a very poetical circumstance’, adding: ‘The Cabellos de Absalon, is full of the deepest & the tenderest touches of nature. Nothing can be more pathetically conceived than the character of the old David …’ (PBSL, II, p. 154). b Quarterly Review, XXV (1821), 24.

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THE EARLY POETS OF PORTUGAL.

RIBEYRO , GIL VICENTE , SAA DE MIRANDA , FERREIRA . a

T HE same spirit that inspired the Spanish Cancionero, and animated the people of Castile with the love of song, spread itself to the western portion of the peninsula; and, from the earliest times, Portuguese poets composed, and the population of Portugal sang, in their native dialect: and thus using it as the medium for conveying their dearest feelings, caused it to be perpetuated as a national language. Originally the Portuguese tongue was the same as the Gallician; and, had Portugal remained a province of Spain, its peculiar dialect had, like that of Arragon and of Gallicia, been driven from the fields of literature by the Castilian, and while (to use an appropriate metaphor) it might creep in tiny rivulets here and there over the country, the Castilian had flowed a mighty river, receiving all minor streams as tributaries. But at quite the close of the eleventh century Alphonso VI., a Spanish sovereign, celebrated for his victories over the Moors, gave the county of Portugal as a dowry to his daughter on her marriage with Henry of Burgundy, a prince of the royal family of France. The son of this prince, Alphonso Henriquez, was the founder of the Portuguese monarchy. He conquered all that portion of the peninsula that forms Portugal, with the exception of the Algarve.b He took Lisbon, and thus became possessed of a powerful and rich capital, and he signalised his successes, by changing the appellation of what had hitherto been a province, and by naming his dominions a kingdom. From this / time the Portuguese became a separate nation from the Castilian; their institutions became national, and their language asserted for itself a distinct existence.c The Portuguese were a poetic people, and the Portuguese language adapted to poetry. It is softer than the Castilian, it discards more entirely Latin consonants; a

The names of GIL VICENTE and SAA DE MIRANDA are out of order. Alphonso VI (1040–1109) king of Leon (1065–70) and king of reunited Castile and Leon (1072–1109), who by 1077 proclaimed himself ‘emperor of all Spain’. Alphonso Henriquez (1110–85) was two when his father, Henry of Burgundy died. He took power from his mother, Theresa of Castile in 1128 and defeated the Moors at Ourique on 25 July 1139, at which time he crowned himself king. He took Lisbon in 1147. See Sismondi, IV, p. 268 and Bouterwek II, pp. 2–4. c The content of this paragraph is derived from Bouterwek, I, pp. 12–18 and II, pp. 1–5. b

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but with all, there is something truncated and incomplete in its sounds, very different from the sonorous beauty of the Spanish. It did not adopt the Arabic guttural, but it acquired, no one knows whence, a nasal twang, more decided and obtrusive even than that of the French, which considerably mars its melody. Still it is expressive, it is soft, and it is harmonious; and these qualities rendered it applicable to verse: so that a poet found no difficulty in clothing his ideas and emotions in the language of his native country. Many poets flourished therefore at an early age, though we know little of their productions. Endeavours have been made to find their ancient cancioneiro geral*, but they were unsuccessful, and a guess only can be made as to the nature of their contents.a The Portuguese nation was as peculiar in its pursuits and character as in its language. They were not an agricultural but a pastoral people; and at the same time, their long extent of sea shore led them to the pursuits of commerce and navigation. While the Italian republics were enriching themselves by the trade of the Mediterranean, and while Spain, under Ferdinand and Isabella was, by conquering the whole of its territory from the Moors, laying the foundation of the brief grandeur of Charles V., and the despotism and national degradation that followed, the sovereigns of Portugal were encouraging their subjects in the maritime discoveries, which in a short time changed the aspect of the civilised globe: for the very expedition of Columbus was the offspring of the Portuguese voyages.b It was for the sake of discovering another route to India, than the hitherto unsuccessful / one along the coast of Africa, that he sailed over the illimitable Western Sea. In 1487, Bartolomeo Diaz doubled the Cape of Good Hope: many years had been previously occupied in creeping along the shores of Africa; but the moment this Cape was doubled, the navigators made a spring, and the celebrated Vasco de Gama reached the renowned and unvisited shores of India.c In less than fifteen years from this time, Francisco de Almeida, and Alfonso de Albuquerque founded a Portuguese kingdom in Hindostan, of which Goa was the capital.d We may imagine the spirit and enthusiasm that animated this people; they found a new world overflowing with all the precious treasures most valued in Europe; they did not content themselves with trading with the people, a people highly civilised, possessed of literature and all the appendages of an advanced state of human political association; but by their valour they conquered them and made a portion * In Castilian cancioneros general or general song books. Vide Bouterwek; Sismondi. a

Bouterwek II. pp. 17–18; Sismondi, IV, pp. 279–80. Sismondi, IV, p. 281 and Bouterwek, II, p. 23. c Vasco de Gama (c. 1469–1525) who was sent by King Emanuel to discover the route to India around the Cape of Good Hope in 1498–9. See Bouterwek, II, pp. 23–4. The comment about genius at the end of the paragraph is specific to Mary Shelley’s concerns in the volume. d Francisco de Almeida (c. 1450–1510), Viceroy of the Indies from 1505–9; Alfonso de Albuquerque (1453–1515) known as ‘the Great’ Viceroy of the Indies for his wisdom and humanity; he ruled until 1515. See Bouterwek, II, p. 24. b

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of the country their own. High notions of national importance and future national glory filled their souls; it was a period when each man could regard his native country with pride, and such a time is peculiarly favourable to the birth of genius, and, above all, to the development of the spirit of poetry. Bernardim Ribeyro is named the Ennius of Portugal.a He was a man of an enthusiastic and tender disposition; his poems, full of passion and despair, emanated from an attachment to some unknown lady; some say the infanta Donna Beatrice, the king’s daughter.b His eclogues are more known than the rest of his works, and are considered the most excellent*; yet, though they are feeling, there is a poverty of ideas, and a want of classical correctness and compression, that speaks of the infancy of composition.c But his most celebrated work is an unfinished prose romance, in which, under feigned names and obscure allusions, he narrates his own history and loves.d We have not seen this work, and borrow the account of it from Bouterwek, who observes, that “such is the obscurity / of the whole, that nothing can be comprehended of the circumstances without the utmost effort of attention. The monotony of incessant love complaints, renders the prolixity of the narrative still more tedious; but even amidst that monotony and prolixity, it is easy to recognise a spirit truly poetic, more remarkable however for susceptibility than energy.”e Other poets succeeded to Ribeyro, who also sang of love and pastoral themes, and the poetry of Portugal as well as that of Spain, confined itself to the language of sentiment and description – instead of assuming an heroic and epic measure. The reformation of Castilian poetry introduced into Spain by Boscan and Garcilaso, penetrated into Portugal; and, singularly enough, the poets who followed, quitted their native idiom to adopt that of the rival country. The cause of so unpatriotic an adoption can only be guessed at. Bouterwek attributes it to the more sonorous and complete sound of the Castilian.f Spain, it may be observed, was the larger country and in more immediate connection with Italy; when, therefore, Italian forms of poetic composition were introduced into the peninsula, * Bouterwek. [II, p. 24] a Ennius (c. 239–169 BC), an early Roman poet known for his tragedies and his epic poem the Annales and regarded as the father of Roman literature (Howatson, p. 211). See Bouterwek, II, p. 19. Accounts of the life of Ribeyro are included in Bouterwek , II, pp. 24–39 and Sismondi, IV, pp. 282–9.Ribeyro is misspelled ‘Ribeyra’ in the original chapter heading. b Princess Beatrice, the daughter of King Manuel, married the Duke of Savoy in 1521. That she was the object of Ribeyro’s passion has since been discredited (Bell, p. 133). c The last part of this sentence is paraphrased from Bouterwek, II, pp. 25–6. d The unfinished prose romance is Menina e Moça (1557–8), described by Bouterwek, II, pp. 32–8. e Bouterwek, II, pp. 36–7. f Bouterwek, II, pp. 52–3. Mary Shelley misses the opportunity provided by Bouterwek to reflect on the political motive of Portugal’s political dependence upon Spain, which also affected language (II, p. 54). For information on the ‘tranquil’ adoption of the Italian style, see Bouterwek, II, pp. 59–60.

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they flowed, as it were, through Spain, and arrived at the West clothed in a Spanish garb. Perceiving the superior power and charm of the Petrarchist compositions, their imitators at once adopted the very language in which they were clothed. Saa de Miranda wrote his best works, his eclogues, in Spanish, though the same spirit that led him to desert Latin, so long the favourite of educated men, also induced him to write in his native language, and Francisco Diaz names him the real founder of Portuguese poetry.a Saa de Miranda was a man of strong feelings, with something too of an eccentric turn of mind. He insisted on marrying a lady neither young nor handsome, whom he had never seen; but whose reputation for discretion and goodness charmed him.b He became so attached to her, that when she died some years after, he remained that most rare of all men, an inconsolable widower; giving up all the pursuits and / purposes of life – neither shaving his beard nor paring his nails – and three years after following her to the grave. And Jorge de Montemayor altogether cast aside his native language, and enriched the Castilian by a new form of composition, the pastoral romance, which became a general favourite throughout Spain, imitated by every writer, but not excelled by any.c In this brief summary of the predecessors of Camoens, introduced chiefly to shew the state of national poetry when he appeared, we are unable to do full justice to any of these writers, and are obliged to omit the names of many. But we must not pass over Gil Vicente, who is styled the Portuguese Plautus.d Very little is known of him – the very period of his birth only guessed at; it is supposed that he was born at the close of the fifteenth century. He was an indefatigable writer, and furnished the royal family and public with dramatic entertainments suited to the taste of the age. He wrote entirely in the old national manner. He appears to have been the inventor of Autos, or spiritual dramas, which raised into a regular and poetic style of play the monkish or buffoonish festive representations. Doctor Bowring has introduced translations of several of this poet’s songs; these were written in Spanish, they are characterised by a charming simplicity, and are peculiarly short; one chord of a lyre struck, as it were, one emotion of the heart breathed forth in words; without elaborate display or any attempt at imagery or metaphor beyond the one single feeling that dictates the poem.e Antonio Ferreira must be mentioned as a classic poet of Portugal. He is styled the Portuguese Horace. He was of noble family, and destined by his parents to fill a This portion and subsequent derive from Bouterwek, II, pp. 61–85. Francisco Dias Gomes (1745–95) is known for the critical judgments contained in his Obras Poeticas (1799) (Bell, p. 285). See note in Bouterwek, II, p. 61. b For Miranda’s marriage, see Bouterwek, II, p. 63. The account of his grief comes from Adamson, I, p. 43. See also p. 95 above. c The life of Montemayor appears above, where it follows a brief life of Miranda. d An account of Gil Vicente appears in Bouterwek, II, pp. 85–111. Titus Maccius Plautus (c. 250–184 BC), Roman writer of comedies. e Bowring, pp. 315–21.

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some high public office in the state.a He took the degree of doctor in the university of Coimbra, where he studied civil law. He was an enthusiastic lover of his native language, and resolved never to write in any other, at the same time that he founded his taste and style on the study of Horace. He admired also the / excellencies of Italian poetry, and introduced the measure and structure of its verse into the Portuguese. It was the object of his ambition at once to be himself a classic poet; and to give to his native Portugal a classic style of poetry. Ferreira was nine and twenty when he published the first collection of his poetic works. He had friends who admired his genius and joined him in his pursuits. He quitted the university for the court, and filled a high place as judge, and was also appointed gentleman of the royal household; he became an oracle of criticism, and looked forward to brilliant prospects through life, when he died of the plague which raged in Lisbon in 1569, at the age of forty-one. Ferreira, without possessing the originality of Gil Vicente, his sweetness or his genius, was eminently useful to the art of poetry in Portugal. He taught the writers of that country to aim at correctness, and to enrich their compositions by the knowledge acquired from the writings of other countries; but not, for that purpose, to adopt a foreign tongue, but to raise the Portuguese to the level of other languages, and gift it with the purest and noblest poetic measures. He is, himself, novel, however, rather in his style than in his ideas. His epistles are his best work; the sentiments he expresses are elevated, and his fancy and poetic verve graced them with a diction and imagery which raises them in the class of such compositions. The distinctive feeling however to be found in Ferreira, animating all he wrote, was patriotism. The glory, the advancement and the civilisation of Portugal, were the themes of his praise, and the objects which he furthered with his utmost endeavours. He exhorts his friends not to permit the Muses in Portugal to speak any thing but Portuguese. Of himself, he says, in very beautiful verses, that “he shall be content with the glory of loving his native land, and his countrymen.” It was this enthusiasm that elevated Ferreira into a great man. He is a little misplaced here, as he was a few years younger than Camoens; but it shows the spirit that was abroad / in Camoens’ time – a patriotic spirit that loved to express its genuine sentiments in language warm from the heart and familiar to the tongue. In this Camoens and Ferreira were alike; they loved their native country, and were eager to adorn its literature with native flowers. In other respects they were different. Ferreira’s classic pages bear no resemblance to the fire, passion, and rich fancy of Camoens, to whom we now turn as to one of the favourites of fame, though he was the neglected child of his country, and the victim of an adverse fate. /

a The life of Antonio Ferreira is included in Bouterwek, II, pp. 111–38. Horace, Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65–8 BC), one of the greatest Roman poets, known for his Odes, Epistles, (including his Ars Poetica, or Art of Poetry) and for his Satires.

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CAMOENS. 1524–1579. C AMOENS and Cervantes encountered, in several respects, a similar destiny. They were both men of genius, both men of military valour; both were disregarded by their contemporaries, and suffered extreme misfortune. Camoens, indeed, has in this a sad advantage over Cervantes. The latter lived in poverty, but the former died in want. Posterity endeavoured to repair the injuries inflicted by ungrateful contemporaries.a The circumstances of the life of Camoens were carefully collected. Several able native commentators wrote elaborate notes on the “Lusiad,” and lastly a magnificent edition of that poem was published in 1817.b Nor have the English been unmindful of the great Portuguese poet. Sir Richard Fanshaw translated the “Lusiad” as far back as Cromwell’s time; but the present popular translation is by Mickle. He bestowed great pains on the work, and accompanied it by various essays relative to its subject, and a life of Camoens. His version has great merit, as will be hereafter mentioned, notwithstanding its want of fidelity and the signal defect of being written in heroic couplets, instead of eight-line stanzas, like the original. Lord Strangford appended a sketch of Camoens’ life to his translation of a portion of his “Rimas;” and, lastly, Mr. Adamson has presented the English reader with an elaborate biography, attended by all sorts of valuable collateral information and embellishments.c The family of Camoens was originally of Gallicia, and possessed extensive demesnes in that province. The old Spanish name of the family was Caamaños – the etymology of which has occupied the commentators.d / We are told, among a

Mary Shelley draws upon Adamson, who ends his ‘Memoirs of Luis de Camoens’ with a list of comparisons between Cervantes and Camoëns he found in an unnamed Spanish biography of Cervantes (I, pp. 234–6). But while Adamson calls the matter ‘a literary curiosity’ (I, p. 234), Mary Shelley locates a deeper sense of connection, which is in keeping with her thesis for the volume about poets triumphing over adversity. For another brief comparison of the two writers, see Viardot, I, p. 22. b Mary Shelley is thinking of lives by Manoel Severim de Faria (1624) and two lives by Manoel de Faria e Sousa (1639 and 1685), though Adamson notes that both accounts are marked by bias (I, pp. vii–ix), something confirmed by later critics (Bell, Luis de Camões, pp. xi– xiii). The edition is by D. José Maria de Sousa Boutelho and published in Paris (Adamson, I, p. ix and 2, p. 63). c Fanshawe (1655) Mickle (1776). Strangford (1805) and Adamson (2 vols. 1820). The source for this information is a review essay by Robert Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 1–39. d Adapted from Adamson, I, p. 2.

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others, that it was derived from Cadmus. There is nothing extraordinary in this. All readers conversant with old national annals, are aware that they usually derive their immediate origin either from a son of Noah, or some well known Grecian hero: Ulysses, it was said, founded Lisbon. It was probably adopted from the castle of Cadmon, where they resided. The poet himself, however, refers it to a more imaginative source. In ancient times, in Gallicia, there existed a bird named the Camao¯, which never survived the infidelity of the wife of its lord. The moment the lady went astray, the bird sought its master, and expired at his feet. A matron of the house of Cadmon was unjustly accused of ill faith – she entrusted her defence to the cadmao¯, and the success of her appeal caused her husband, grateful for this restoration to honour and domestic felicity, to adopt the name of the saviour bird. This is a tale of romance and barbarism, of the days of ordeal and degrading suspicion; but Camoens himself alludes to it, and it derives interest from his mention.*a The family of Caamaños possessed a solar or ancestral inheritance in Gallicia, and reigned over seventeen villages near the promontory of Finisterre. One of the lords of this family having killed a cavalier de Castros, they were obliged to migrate, and settled at a fortress called Rubianes; where Faria y Sousa tells us the family still remain, great in birth, but of diminished means.†b Vasco Perez de Camoens, either brother or son of this Ruy, made a second migration to Portugal in 1370. Faria y Sousa conjectures that it might be from some such same cause as occasioned the first exile, while Southey / attributes it to his having sided with Pedro the Cruel against his more infamous brother Henriquez II. However that may be, Fernando, king of Portugal, received him with distinction, and gifted him with the “villas” of Sardoal, Punhete, Marao¯, and Amendao, besides making him one of the principal fidalgos of his court. Nor did the favours of Fernando stop here. Vasco Perez received various other estates in gift, and filled places of political and military importance.c * Experimentou-se algua¯ hora Da Ave que chamao¯ Camao¯, Que, se da Casa, onde mora, Ve adultera a Senhora, Morre de pura paixao¯. † Lord Strangford dates the migration of this family from the time of this Ancestor Ruy de Camoens – and speaks of him as a follower of king Fernando. Ferreira is his authority, but other commentators give a different account. See Vida del Poeta por Faria y Sousa, iii. iv. a

See Southey’s review of Adamson, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 1. The story of the bird is paraphrased from Adamson, I, p. 3, which is also the source for the lines from the poem Mary Shelley quotes in her note. b Strangford, p. 4; Manuel Faria y Sousa (1590–1649), Portuguese historian who wrote in Spanish, produced his Vida del Poeta (1639), based on a biographical account by Manoel Severim de Faria (1624) for his commentary on the Lusiad. A revised version appeared with his commentary on the poet’s Rimas in 1685 (Adamson, I, p. viii). c From Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 1 and Adamson, I, pp. 4–5.

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After the death of Fernando, Vasco Perez became involved in a dispute for succession, and he upheld the cause of the queen of Fernando, Leonor, and his daughter, the queen of Castile. His power was great, and his aid was held of importance, whichever side he espoused. Camoens considered that his ancestor assisted the wrong cause, that of Castile against Portugal. The latter was destined to triumph, and Vasco was the sufferer. He lost all command, but retained a considerable portion of his estates. A letter has been discovered by Sarmiento, written by the marquis of Santillana, which intimates that Vasco Perez was a poet as well as a warrior.a The descendants of Vasco Perez were of account, and married into the richest and most powerful families of Portugal. His second son, Joao¯ Vaz, was the greatgrandfather of the poet. He acquired glory by his military services under Alfonso V., and was named his vassal – a title of distinction in those days. He built a house at Coimbra, and there is a marble monument erected to his memory in the chapel of the cloister of the cathedral at Coimbra. Simao¯ Vaz, the grandson of Joao¯ Vaz, married Dona Ana de Sa e Macedo, of noble descent, and sprung from the Macedos of Santarem. Thus, in every way, Camoens was highly descended from nobles and warriors; but, springing from the younger branch, he inherited the blood and name without the estates of his family. As he never married this branch of the family became extinct. Coimbra and Santarem have both contended for the / glory of having been his birth-place, but without foundation; for he was born at Lisbon, most probably in the district “da Mouraria,” in the parish of San Sebastiao¯, where his parents resided. The date of his birth has been disputed. A friend and contemporary, Manoel Correa, gave that of 1517; but a register, in the Portuguese India House, proves that he was really born in 1524.*b This entry also is conclusive on another point. It was long believed that Camoens lost his father while a mere child.c Simon Vaz de Camoens was a mariner; nearly all the biographers of the poet agree in stating that he lost a ship, of which he was commander, on the coast of Goa, and, escaping from the wreck, died soon afterwards in that city; though some aver

* Faria y Sousa, in his second life of Camoens appended to his “Rimas,” mentions having found, in the registers of the Portuguese India House, a list of all the chief persons who sailed to India. In the list for 1550, there is this entry: “Luis de Camoens, son of Simon Vaz and Ana de Sa,” inhabitants of Lisbon, in the quarter of la Monraria, escudeiro (a name equivalent to our esquire), with a red beard; he gave his father as surety – and sails in the ship San Pedro los Burgalezes. a Information in the above paragraph and the next is paraphrased from Adamson, I, pp. 6, 10–14, but the conclusion represents Mary Shelley’s own summation. b Quoted in Portuguese by Adamson, I, pp. 20–1 and translated by Mary Shelley. c See Adamson, I, pp. 14–15 and Strangford, p. 5. Modern commentators accept that Camoëns was born c. 1524 and that his father was shipwrecked in Goa and died there shortly after the poet’s birth. See Bell, Luis de Camões, p. 4.

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that he fell in the combat in which his son lost an eye.a Camoens himself does not mention his father as being with him on that occasion, nor during any of his adventures. This point, therefore, is left in obscurity.b Camoens was born at Lisbon; he celebrates with fondness the parental Tagus: “My Tagus,” as he sometimes names the river. But most of his early years were spent at Coimbra, where, as has been mentioned, his father had a house. He often mentions the river Mondego in his verses. To a poet, there is something in a river that engages his affections and enlivens his imagination. Water is indeed the soul, the smile, the beaming eye of a landscape; and as Camoens’ only happy days were those when he nourished hopes – hopes, as he says in a letter, which he afterwards cast aside as coiners of false money – in his youth, he might well record with fondness the hours he spent in the beautiful environs of Coimbra on the banks of its lovely river.c Thus, in his poems, the nymphs of Tagus and of Mondego are both / addressed; and in one remarkable and most beautiful passage of the “Lusiad” he exclaims, “What, insane and rash, am I about to do without ye, O nymphs of Tagus and Mondego, through so arduous, long, and various a way? I invoke your favour, as I navigate the deep sea with so contrary a wind, that, unless ye aid me, I fear that my fragile bark must sink!” and then he goes on to describe his misfortunes in India, turning to those streams that watered his native land, and whose very names were full of blessed recollections of life’s prime, to give him fortitude and help.* Camoens studied in the university at Coimbra. This university was founded by king Diniz, in 1308.d Camoens introduces mention of this monarch in the “Lusiad,” and alludes to the establishment of the university under his fosterage:– From Helicon the Muses wing their way: Mondego’s flowery banks invite their stay, Now Coimbra shines, Minerva’s proud abode; And fired with joy, Parnassus’ blooming God Beholds another dear-loved Athens rise, And spread her laurels in indulgent skies.†e / * Lusiad, Canto vii. 78. Further mention will be made hereafter of this passage. † It is curious to compare the smooth, even, and (so to speak) unindividualized verses of Mickle with the rugged and even uncouth stanza of Fanshaw. Both are unlike Camoens. He a

Quoted verbatim from Adamson, I, p. 15. The claim that his father was in battle with the poet comes from Faria y Sousa (Adamson, I, p. 16). c Adapted from Adamson, I, p. 24. Mary Shelley might be recalling Coleridge’s ‘Sonnet to the River Otter’, Wordworth’s River Duddon sonnet sequence, Byron’s ‘To the Po’ and her husband's own love of water, while perhaps thinking more specifically of a trip up the River Thames she took with P. B. Shelley, Charles Clairmont, and Thomas Love Peacock in 1815 (Holmes, pp. 290–4). d Adamson, I, pp. 30–2. e Mickle’s translation, quoted by Adamson, I, p. 33. b

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The university, however, fell off, and it was don Manuel who exerted himself for its re-establishment; and dom John, his successor, took equal pains to raise it to its former prosperity, and in the first place caused it again to be restored to Coimbra – for it had been transferred to Lisbon – and founded several new colleges. The date when Camoens entered it is uncertain. It has been supposed that he was twelve years old. In that case he must have attended it while at Lisbon; for it was only transferred in 1537, when Camoens was thirteen or fourteen.a Saa de Miranda had studied there, and Ferreira was also a student. He was younger than Camoens by four years, and that, at a boyish age, makes the difference of, as it were, a generation. There is no token that they were known to each other, nor, indeed, are there any traces of Camoens’ life or pursuits at Coimbra, except such as we find in his poems; and these are in some sort contradictory – agreeing, however, in the love they express for the picturesque scenery in which this seat of learning was placed, and affection for its beautiful river.b Mr. Adamson quotes a canzone, in which he dwells with delight on the charms of the Mondego, and dates thence his earliest passion. Lord Strangford asserts that he had never experienced the passion of love while at Coimbra, and rests his assertion on expressions of the poet.c Both of course are right, and the poet is wrong. Nor is this assertion paradoxical.* When the heart of Camoens became wrote with fire, and each word bore stamp of the man; but his style is elevated and truly poetic – different from the Pope-like flow of Mickle, and the almost vulgar idiom that Fanshaw too often adopts. This is the stanza in the original Portuguese: Fez primeiro em Coimbra exercitarse O valeroso officio de Minerva; E de Helicona as Musas fez passar se, A pizar de Mondego a fertil herva. Quanto pode de Athenas desejarse Tudo o soberbo Apollo aqui reserva: Aqui as capellas dà tecidas de ouro, Do baccharo, e do sempre verde louro.

Canto iii. 97.

“He was the first that made Coimbra shine With liberal sciences, which Pallas taught; By him from Helicon the Muses nine: To bruise Mondego’s grassy brink were brought: Hither transferr’d Apollo that rich mine, Which the old Greeks in learned Athens wrought: There ivy wreaths with gold he interweaves, And the coy Daphne’s never fading leaves.” Fanshaw’s Translation. * Cancam, vii. See also Cancam, ii. a Information in the above paragraph and the next one is taken from Adamson, I, pp. 35–6, 30, 38–9, 58. b Quoted in Adamson, I, pp. 59–63. c Strangford, p. 6 where the references Mary Shelley presents below are given.

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susceptible to a master feeling, that filled it and awoke its every pulse to a sense of love, he would naturally wish to throw into the back-ground any boyish fancy; and comparing its slight and evanescent emotions with the mighty passion of which he was afterwards the prey, he might well say,– All ignorant of love I pass’d my days, Its bow and all its mad deceits despising,

and revert to that period as the time,– / When from the bonds of love I wander’d free – For always was I not chain’d to the oar:– Once liberty was mine – but that is o’er, And I now dwell in hard captivity.*a

This certainly contrasts strangely with the poem quoted by Adamson, but it is a fair poetic licence, or rather a licence of the heart, which not only would bring to its selected shrine every former emotion and immolate them there, but is jealous that any such existed, and would gladly expunge all trace of them from the page of life. The verses above mentioned form his fourth canzone, and were written on taking leave of Coimbra.† The following is a portion of it:– Soft from its crystal bed of rest, Mondego’s tranquil waters glide, Nor stop, till, lost on ocean’s breast, They, swelling, mingle with the tide. Increasing still, as still they flow – Ah! there commenced my endless woe. *

* *

* *

*

* *

*

Yet whisper’d to the murmuring stream, That winds these flowery meads among, I give affection’s cheating dream, And pour in weeping truth my song; That each recounted woe may prove A lasting monument of love.b

There is another sonnet, in which he takes leave of the Mondego, but its context renders it apparent that it was not written so early in life, as when he first quitted the university. As his parents had a house at Coimbra, it may be assumed * Soneto, vi. † The translation is from Mr. Adamson’s pages; it has the fault of being in longer measure than the original, and therefore losing some of its simplicity. a

Lines from Sonnet VI are likely to have been translated by Mary Shelley. See Adamson, I, pp. 59–63. The first and last stanzas of the poem are quoted by Mary Shelley. b

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that he frequently visited this place, and wrote the following sonnet in a later and sadder day:– Mondego! thou whose waters, cold and clear, Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay, Fondly to muse on that departed day, When hope was kind, and friendship seemd sincere – Ere I had purchased knowledge with a tear.– Mondego! I though I bend my pilgrim way To other shores, where other fountains stray, And other rivers roll their proud career, Still, nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe, Nor widening distance e’er prevail in aught, To make thee less to this sad bosom dear; And Memory oft, by old affection taught, Shall lightly speed upon the shrines of thought, To bathe among thy waters cold and clear.*a

There is nothing so attractive to a biographer as to complete the fragments of his hero’s life; and, / almost as children trace the forms of animals and landscapes in the fire, by fixing the eye on salient particles, so a few words suffice to give “local habitation and a name,”b to such emotions as the poet has made the subject of his verse. To do this, and by an accurate investigation of dates, and a careful sifting of concomitant circumstances to discover the veiled event, is often the art of biography – but we must not be seduced too far. Truth, absolute and unshakeable, ought to be the foundation of our assertions, or we paint a fancy head instead of an individual portrait. Truth is all in all in matters of history, for history is the chart of the world’s sea; and if imaginary lands are marked, those who would wisely learn from the experience of others, are led sadly astray. Petrarch has been the mark of similar conjectures to a great extent; but his letters give a true direction to our researches. We have no such guide in the history of Camoens’s attachment. He loved and was beloved; was banished, and his lady died. Such is nearly all that we absolutely know. To return however from remark to history, Camoens left Coimbra for Lisbon and the court.c He had not lost his time at the University – he was a finished scholar. He was a poet also then when poetry was held a high and divine gift. With such acquirements and accomplishments, joined to his gentlemanly qualities, his courtesy and wit, he was favoured by the highest people at court; his * Lord Strangford’s translation, p. 94. † Faria y Sousa, says 1542 – other commentators give 1545. The latter seems the more likely date. a b c

Sonnet VIII. A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, V. i. 17. A favourite quotation of Mary Shelley’s. See Adamson, I, p. 70.

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handsome person also gained him the favour and estimation of the ladies. His defect was his poverty, but that defect might be remedied by the friendship of some great man, or the favour of his sovereign. As a young noble of illustrious descent, he had a right to expect advancement. As a poet full of imagination and ardour, at the very first glowing entrance to life, while (to speak metaphorically) the Aurora of hope announced the rising sun of prosperity, he might expect an ample portion of that happiness, / which, while we are young, appears to us to be our just and assured inheritance. Soon after his arrival at court he fell in love. One of his sonnets, (commented upon by an almanack,) fixes the date when he first saw the lady, as the eleventh or twelfth of April, 1545.a He mentions that it was holy week, and at the time when the ceremonies that commemorate the death of our Saviour were celebrated. This sonnet is not one of his best; but we quote Lord Strangford’s translation, as it is a monument of an interesting epoch – the commencement of that attachment which shed a disastrous influence over the rest of his life – for by it his early hopes were blighted, and they never flowered again: “Sweetly was heard the anthem’s choral strain, And myriads bow’d before the sainted shrine, In solemn reverence to the Sire divine, Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain; When in the midst of God’s eternal fane, (Ah, little weening of his fell design!) Love bore the heart, which since has ne’er been mine, To one who seem’d of heaven’s elected train! For sanctity of place or time were vain ’Gainst that blind Archer’s soul-consuming power, Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above. O! Lady, since I’ve worn thy gentle chain, How oft have I deplored each wasted hour, When I was free and had not learn’d to love!”b

It is said that this occurrence took place in the church of Christ’s Wounds, at Lisbon.* There is so much resemblance of time and place between this event and the * Mr. Adamson says, that “The sonnet does not allude to any particular situation;” but certainly the line Eu crendo que o lugar me defendia,

alludes to its being a church, which, as is well known, is in Catholic countries, where young ladies are so much shut up, a usual place for falling in love. – Lope de Vega alludes to this circumstance and the similarity between the loves of Petrarch and Camoens – El culto celestial se celebrava Del mayor Viernes en la Iglesia pia, a b

Sonnet I. See Strangford, pp. 140–1. Strangford, p. 87.

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first time when Petrarch records that he saw Laura, that we might almost suppose that the later poet imitated the earlier one; but there is no other resemblance between their attachment. The name of the lady / Camoens fell in love with, was dona Caterina de Atayde, and she was a lady of the palace. Many researches have been made to discover more of her parentage and station; dom Jose Maria de Sousa made diligent search in the “Historia da Casa Real;” but he can do no more than conjecture that she was a relation of dom Antonio de Atayde, the first conde de Castanheira, a powerful favourite of John III. It is guessed that she was not more than sixteen when Camoens first saw her.a She was unmarried; his attachment therefore was totally unlike the Platonic, far-off worship of the lover of Laura de Sade. Camoens loved as a youth who dedicates himself to one whom he may hope to make his own in the open face of day – with whom he might spend his life, as her protector and husband; but she was of high birth, and her relations had lofty pretensions – a pennyless, though noble and accomplished gentleman by no means suited their views. The love of Camoens was full of difficulties: his ardour was excited by them; and, while unassured of any return he was disposed to vanquish every obstacle for the sake of seeing, and endeavouring to win the heart of the beloved object. Youth and love aided the development of a vivid imagination. There never breathed a more genuine poet than Camoens, and now he poured forth his soul in rhymes: canzoni and sonnets are dedicated to his lady, describing her beauty, his sufferings, and the deep affection he nourished. Notwithstanding the good old proverb, commentators are fond of instituting comparisons, and the amatory poetry of Petrarch and Camoens has been compared.b Camoens had doubtless read and studied Petrarch, but in no respect does he imitate him. There is more finish in the compositions of the Italian, and for this there is an obvious cause. While speaking slightingly of them, Petrarch was employed even in his last days in the correction and polishing of his Italian poetry; while the verses of Camoens, written in the first gush of inspiration, were / never collected by him, or if collected, the volume was lost: and scattered over Portugal and India, it was with

Quando por Laura Franco se encendia, y Liso por Natercia se inflamava.c

Liso and Natercia were the anagrams which Camoens framed of his own and his lady’s Christian name – his own, Luis, being frequently spelt Lois. a Bell suggests that there are three possible Caterinas de Ataide, and as with Dante’s Beatrice, ‘the more deeply one goes into the question the less solid foundation one discovers’ (Luis de Camões, p. 19). Mary Shelley’s information, including the researches of de Sousa, is derived from Adamson, I, pp. 66, 97. b Extensively by Adamson in his ‘Essay on Rimas’ (I, pp. 241–4). The ‘good old proverb’ is ‘Comparisons are odious’. c The quotation is from Adamson, I, pp. 71–2.

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difficulty they were brought together, nor were they published till after his death, and some of those included in the collection are said not to be his.a There is a glow, a freshness, and a truth; a touching softness and a heart-felt eagerness, in his verses on dona Caterina, which is very winning. The language he uses does not charm the ear like Italian, but it is capable of great melody and expression. We possess translations of a small portion, but lyrics can never be translated; they have a voice of their own which cannot be transfused into another language. Lord Strangford’s translations have this merit, that they read like original poetry – but something of truth has been sacrificed in consequence. It is from these poems that we gather almost all we know of Camoens’ attachment. As Petrarch did, he dedicates a sonnet to an emotion – which to a lover’s heart seemed an event, or in a canzone, dwells at length on the course of his passion. One sonnet which describes the lady, is a great favourite with the Portuguese: the translation is difficult; we quote the one given by Mr. Adamson – “Her Eye’s soft movement, radiant and benign, Yet with no casual glance; her honest smile, Cautious though free; – her gestures that combine, Light mirth with modesty, as if the while She stood all trembling o’er some doubtful bliss, Her blithe demeanour; her confiding ease, Secure in grave and virgin bashfulness, Midst every gentler virtue formed to please Her purity of soul – her innate fear Of error’s stain; her temper mild, resigned; Her looks, obedience, her unclouded air, The faithful index of a spotless mind; These form a Circe, who with magic art Can fix or change each purpose of my heart.”b

He describes her charms in many of his poems. Dona Caterina had mild blue eyes, and hair of a golden brown, and he dwells on the softness of the former and the splendour of the latter with fond admiration; but the poem which expresses most fervently the influence of / her beauty is one of which Dr. Southey has given a very exquisite translation, and which we are irresistibly tempted to quote – “When I behold you, Lady, when my eyes Dwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight, I give my spirit to that one delight, And earth appears to me a Paradise. And when I hear you speak and see you smile, Full, satisfied, absorbed, my centred mind. a

In his ‘Essay on Rimas’ Adamson notes that 301 sonnets are attributed to Camoëns, but notes that de Souza doubts the authenticity of some of them (I, pp. 244, 249). A discussion about spurious work is included in Bell’s Portuguese Literature (pp. 184–5). b Quoted in Adamson, I, p. 68.

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Deems all the world’s vain hopes and joys the while, As empty as the unsubstantial wind. Lady, I feel your charms, but dare not raise To that high theme th’ unequal song of praise; A power for that to language was not given: Nor marvel I when I those beauties view, Lady, that he whose power created you, Could form the stars and yonder glorious heaven.”a

The concluding lines of the above sonnet are conceived in the very truth of love and ardour of imagination that stamps the lyrics and sonnets of Camoens with a charm almost unequalled by any other poet. The obstacles that were in the way of all intercourse with the lady maddened his young and impatient spirit. Dona Caterina lived in the palace, and Camoens violated some rule of decorum in endeavouring to see her, and was exiled. We are not told what his fault was. Dona Caterina was not insensible to his passion. He always speaks of her as mild and retiring – modest and gentle; he never complains of her haughtiness nor her pride: indeed, several of his sonnets speak of how oft he was happy and content, and of “past sweet delights.”* We do not venture too far, therefore, in supposing that her relations discovered that she returned her lover’s attachment; and, as they were opposed to their being married, they used their influence to get the youthful and, as they deemed, presumptuous aspirant, banished.b Lord Strangford speaks decidedly of a parting interview, when the horrors of approaching exile were softened by finding his grief and his sorrow shared by her he loved. There indeed appears foundation for this, though the noble biographer uses a few fancy tints, when, quoting the twenty-fourth sonnet, he comments / on it, by saying, “On the morning of his departure his mistress relented from her wonted severity, and confessed the secret of her long concealed affection. The sighs of grief were soon lost in those of mutual delight, and the hour of parting was perhaps the sweetest of our poet’s existence.” This may be true. The poet speaks of “a mournful and a happy morning, overflowing with grief and pity”, which he desires should for ever be remembered, and he speaks of “tears shed by other eyes than his.”†c * Soneto 25. † Lord Strangford’s translation is not literal, but it retains all the feeling of the original, and is very beautiful:– “Till lovers’ tears at parting cease to flow, Nor sundered hearts by strong despair be torn, So long recorded be that April morn a b c

Quoted by Adamson, I, p. 251. Speculation about the cause of his exile is discussed in Adamson, I, pp. 72–5. Quotations from Sonnet XXIV and Sonnet V (Strangford, pp. 9, 91).

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Camoens appears to have passed his exile at Santarem (the native place of his mother), or in its neighbourhood.a He was supremely unhappy; banished from her he loved, banished from the court, where all his hopes of advancement were centred, the gates of life were closed on him. His genius and his poetical imagination were his only resource and comfort. He wrote many of his lyrics and sonnets here, and among the rest a very beautiful elegy, in which he compares himself to Ovid banished to Pontus, and separated from the country and the friends he loved. He dwells on the Roman’s misery, and proceeds – “Thus Fancy paints me – thus like him forlorn, Condemn’d the hapless exile’s fate to prove; In life-consuming pain, thus doomed to mourn The loss of all I prized – of her I love. “Reflection paints me guiltless though opprest, Increasing thus the sources of my woe; The pang unmerited that rends the breast, But bids a tear of keener sorrow flow. / “On golden Tagus’ undulating stream* Skim the light barks by gentlest, wishes sped Trace their still way midst many a rosy gleam That steals in blushes o’er its trembling bed. “I see them gay, in passing beauty glide Some with fix’d sails to woo the tardy gale, While others with their oars that stream divide To which I weeping tell the Exile’s tale.”b

When gleams of joy were dashed with showers of woe. Scarce had the purpling east began to glow, Of mournful men, it saw me most forlorn; Saw those hard pangs by gentle bosom borne, (The hardest, sure, that gentle bosoms know!) But oh, it saw love’s charming secret told By tears fast dropping from celestial eyes, By sobs of grief, and by such piteous sighs As e’en might turn th’ infernal caverns cold And make the guilty deem their sufferings ease, Their torments luxury – compared to these!” * These verses are peculiarly beautiful in the original. The translation, though flowing, does not embody the ideas of the Portuguese with exactitude, or with equal energy of expression. a Santarem, a city on the Tagus River, north-east of Lisbon. Paraphrased from Adamson, I, p. 76. b Adamson, I, pp. 79, 82, with the intervening stanza omitted. Ovid is supposed to have been exiled for an illicit amour. He wrote the Tristia from his exile.

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At this period also he is supposed to have conceived and begun the Lusiad. Passionately fond of his country, and proud of her heroes, he believed it to be a glorious task to celebrate their deeds; and while his heart warmed and his imagination was fired with such a subject, he might hope that it would please his sovereign, and that his patriotic labours would bear the fruit of some prosperity for himself. That he hoped much, we know, and felt all the confidence in eventual happiness which the young and ardent naturally feel is certain. How bitter and how blighting was the TRUTH , that as it brought to light, piece by piece, year by year, the course of his life, shewed only barren tracks, storms, and hardship – to end at last in abject wretchedness!a The gleams that a little irradiate the obscurity in which this portion of the life of Camoens is enveloped, shed a very doubtful light upon his motives. Faria y Sousa says, that he returned to Lisbon, and was a second time exiled for the same cause, and then resolved on his expedition to India. But there is no proof of his being banished a second time by any royal order.b The simple facts appear to be these. In 1545 he left the university and began life. He was twenty-one, ardent in his temper, high of hope, of an aspiring but poetic temperament, that could bear all that called him forth to action and glory, but was impatient of obscurity, and the dull sleepy course of hopeless unvaried mediocrity of station and life. He loved, and he was banished. / His heart then spent itself in rhymes, and he conceived the idea of a poem which he deemed to be epic, which spoke of heroes, who were his countrymen, who were but lately dead, and whose path to glory in the east he even saw open before himself. Five years were passed since he had left Coimbra; he was still poor and unprotected: he resolved to be and to do something, and on this, formed the project of going to India. He had formed an intimacy with dom Antonio de Noronha. Dom Alfonso de Noronha (who must have been some relation to this young noble) was at this time named viceroy for India; and the entry in the Portuguese East Indian register shows that Camoens had taken his passage on board the same vessel in which the viceroy sailed. From some reason, however, he changed his intention. Dom Antonio was about to join the Portuguese army in Africa. His father had discovered an attachment between him and dona Margarita de Silva, a lady of high birth and great beauty, but from some unknown cause, not approving of it, he sent his son to Ceuta. Nothing was more natural than that dom Antonio should solicit his friend to accompany him, instead of leaving his native country for the distant clime of India.c Other commentators say that the a Adapted from Adamson, I, p. 84.The final two sentences of the paragraph reflect Mary Shelley’s own sentiments. b The evidence against this claim is discussed in Adamson, I, pp. 84–5. c Dom Antonio de Noronha, the son of the second Conde de Linhares, ambassador to France. Some biographers suggest that Camoëns was tutor to de Noronha, but it is clear that the connection brought him into contact with members of the Court and men of letters. D. Antonio was 17 when he died on 18 April 1553 (Bell, Luis de Camões, pp. 17–18). Mary Shelley’s information comes from Adamson, I, p. 86.

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father of Camoens was at that time in Africa, and sent for his son; but facts tend to negative this. We have seen that Simon Vaz was his son’s surety on his projected voyage, on board the Don Pedro; nor have we any facility afforded us of reconciling these contradictions.*a There are several expressions in his poems / which indicate that the poet, though innocent, was obliged to go to Africa.† These might allude to a paternal command, or simply to the evil fate that pursued him, driven by which, he might term that force, which was only a strongly impelling motive. While with the troops at Ceuta, Camoens was actively employed, and displayed great bravery on various occasions; on one, he was destined to be a great sufferer, as he lost an eye in a naval engagement which took place in the straits of Gibraltar.b Like Cervantes, Camoens fought for his country and was mutilated in her wars, and received neither reward nor preferment. After passing some time in the burning clime of Africa, he returned to Lisbon; but no better fortune awaited him. He returned, deprived of an eye, and the unfortunate mutilation rendered him an object of ridicule to those very ladies who, eight years before, when he was in the prime of youth and beauty, had welcomed him with distinction. At this period, the biographers state that the object of his faithful and passionate attachment died: this seems a mistake, as we shall afterwards mention; but he was divided from her by obstacles as insurmountable as death. His father was no more. He had sailed to India as commander of a vessel, was wrecked on the Malabar coast, and, escaping from the wreck, arrived at Goa; but did not long survive the loss of his fortunes.c Camoens cast hope to the winds, and embarked for India. Stricken by disappointment, rendered despairing by hopeless love – his wearied fancy could build no more airy fabrics of future good fortune to which to escape during the tedious or fearful hours of a long and dangerous voyage. His resource was his poem. He * While Camoens was in Africa his father sailed to India, and died at Goa on his arrival. Is it not possible that Simon Vaz, instead of being in Africa, was in Lisbon, as indeed seems certain, as he was surety for his son; and that his projected voyage caused Luis to entertain the design of going to India also, though hopes of preferment induced him rather to wish to sail with the viceroy than on board his father’s vessel. But the invitation of his youthful friend, the reluctance he felt to give up every hope of seeing dona Caterina again, made him prefer an expedition to Africa. Simon Vaz died on his arrival at Goa, but voyages in those days were long and uncertain; and when Luis actually sailed for India, he probably had not heard of his father’s fate, and went out with the intention or joining him. † Don Jose Maria de Sousa. a See Adamson, I, pp. 89–91. As Mary Shelley suggests, it is more likely that the father of Camoëns died shortly after the poet’s birth. b See Adamson, I, pp. 88–90. c See Adamson, I, pp. 90–2; 102. The final two sentences are from Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 3.

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occupied himself with the Lusiad; and, doubtless, found in the glow of inspiration, and in the exercise of his imagination, some relief from sorrow and care, while traversing those stormy and distant seas, which the / heroes of his epic had before sailed over, even though he went towards “That long desired and distant land, which is The grave of every poor and honest man.”*a

He sailed in the San Bento, in which the commodore Fernando Alvares Cabral, who commanded the fleet then going to the east, also embarked. It was the only one of the squadron that reached its destination; the rest being destroyed by tempests. It reached Goa in the September of the same year.b When Camoens visited India the glorious days of Portugal were at an end. Albuquerque, Almeida, and the heroic Pacheco, who like a fabulous Paladin, withstood whole armies with his single arm, and who died unrewarded and unnoticed by his ungrateful sovereign in a hospital in Lisbon, were no more; the disinterestedness, the honour and humanity, that distinguished the administration of Albuquerque, was not imitated by his successors. He had taken Goa, and founded an empire, which the corrupt government of Portugal has caused us to inherit. The local governors too often sought only to enrich themselves; the viceroys were involved in wars occasioned by their tyranny and extortion; and that which Albuquerque intended should be a political and vast dominion tributary to his native land, sunk into mere commercial or piratical speculations. In the same way, the trade with China was stained by oppressions and rapine.c / Dom Alfonso de Noronha was still viceroy on Camoens’ arrival. He was avaricious and tyrannical. At this time the king of Cochin had applied to the Portuguese for protection against the king of Pimenta. An armament was sent in November; and Camoens, without giving himself time to repose from his long voyage, accompanied it. The artillery of the Portuguese gained for them a signal * There is a singular story told by Faria y Sousa, that he found among the old books on the stall of Pedro Coeiho, at Madrid, a MS. copy of the first six cantos of the Lusiad, written before Camoens went to India. The copy at the conclusion contained this note: “These six cantos were purloined from Luis de Camoens, from the work which has commenced on the discovery and conquest of India by the Portuguese: they are all finished except the sixth; – the conclusion of that is here given, yet it wants the story of the history of his loves that Leonardo relates during his watch, which ought to follow at stanza 46., where the loss of it is felt, for the conversation of those on watch becomes in consequence shorter and duller, and the canto is shorter than the others.” Faria y Sousa adds that he found several stanzas in this MS. wanting in the printed copies, but as the Lusiad was published under the inspection of Camoens, it is to be doubted, whether a late commentator (Sousa) is right in reproaching his predecessor for not preserving the new ones, since it would appear that they were expunged by Camoens himself. a Poetry quoted in Portuguese in Adamson, I, p. 101. The story is included in Adamson, I, pp. 109–11. The translation is by Mary Shelley. b Adamson, I, pp. 111–12. c For a similar comment about India as a ‘scene of political depravity’, see Strangford, pp. 15–16.

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victory, and the king of Cochin soon sued for peace. “We were to retake an island,” Camoens writes in his first elegy, “belonging to the king of Porca, and which the king of Pimenta had seized; and we were successful. We departed from Goa with a large armament, which comprised all the forces there, collected together by the viceroy. With little trouble we destroyed the quiver-armed people, and punished them with death and fire. We were detained in the island only two days, which was the last for some, who passed the cold waters of Styx.”a Thus he enrolled his name at once among those adventurers who sought by their gallantry to conquer fortune, and to acquire prosperity and reputation by the sword. Camoens was full of military ardour, but he was a poet, and his disposition was gentle as it was fearless; and Southey well observes, that his better nature induced him, while recording this victory, to envy those happier men whose lives were spent in the exercise of the arts of peace.b On his return to Goa, he was saddened by the news of the death of his young and dear friend, dom Antonio de Noronha. He perished in an engagement with the Moors, near Tetuan, on the 18th of April, 1553. Antonio had been driven from his native country to fall in the destructive African wars, through the obduracy of his father. He was miserable in his exile; as Camoens pathetically describes:– “But while his tell-tale cheek the cause betrays, To him who marks it with affection’s eye, And speaks in silence to a father’s gaze The fatal strength of love’s resistless sigh; Parental art, resolved, alas! to prove The stronger power of absence over love.”c /

Unimaginative people fancy that when a poet laments in song, his heart is cold. How false this is, persons even of the chilliest fancy can judge if they call to mind, how, in times of vehement affliction, they are more alive, and the world is more alive to them, in images that bear upon their grief, than during periods of monotony. The act of writing may compose the mind; but the boiling of the soul, and quake of heart, that precede, transcend all the sufferings which tame spirits feel.d Camoens wrote a sonnet* and an elegy on this loss, which he sent in a letter to a friend.e * The sonnet has been translated by lord Strangford. a

Material in the above paragraph from Adamson, I, pp. 112–14. Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 4. c Adamson, I, p. 118. Lines of poem are from stanza 24 of his Eclogue and are quoted by Adamson, I, p. 87. d The sentiments expressed here seem to draw on Mary Shelley’s experiences of the effect of writing during periods of suffering (as with Matilda). They are of a piece, too, with her defence of the conceit in Italian Lives as a literary device which at the same time accurately symbolises intense states of mind and feeling. e Sonnet XII in Strangford, pp. 96, 131–2n. b

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“I wish so much for a letter from you,” he says in this letter, “that I fear that my wishes balked themselves – for it is a trick of fortune to inspire a strong desire for the very purpose of disappointing it. But as I would not have such wrong done me, as that you should suspect that I do not remember you, I determined to remind you by this, in which you will see little more or less than that I wish you to write to me from your native land; and in anticipated payment I send you news from this, which will do no harm at the bottom of a box, and may serve as a word of advice to other adventurers, that they may learn that every country grows grass. When I left Portugal, as one bound for another world, I sent all the hopes I had nourished, with a crier before them, to be hanged, as coiners of false money, and I freed myself from all the thoughts of home, so that there might not remain in me one stone upon another. Thus situated, in the midst of uncertainty and confusion, the last words I uttered were those of Scipio Africanus – ‘Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa mea.’a For without having committed any sin that would doom me to three days of purgatory, I have endured three thousand from evil tongues, worse intentions, and wicked designs, born of mere envy, “to view Their darling ivy, torn from them, take root Against another wall.”* /

Even friendships softer than wax have been warmed into hatred and set alight, whence my fame has received more blisters than the crackling of a roasted pig. Thus they found in my skin the valour of Achilles, who could only be wounded at the sole of the foot; for they were never able to see mine, though I forced many to show theirs. In short, Senhor, I know not how to thank myself for having escaped all the snares with which circumstances surrounded me in that country, except by coming to this, where I am more respected than the bulls of Merciana†, and live more peacefully than in the cell of friar. This country, I say, which is the mother of rascals, and the mother-in-law of honest men. For those who seek to enrich themselves float like bladders on the water; but those whose inclinations lead them to deeds or arms, are thrown, as the tide throws dead bodies on shore, to be dried up first, and then to decay.” He then proceeds to speak of the women. The Portuguese whom he finds there, he says, are old; and of the natives he dislikes their language – “for if you address them,” he continues, “in the style of Petrarch and Boscan, they reply in a language so sown with tares, that it sticks in the throat of the understanding, and * These lines are quoted from the first eclogue of Garcilaso de la Vega. It is supposed that Camoens meant, that his enemies were angry to see the reputation they coveted, possessed by him. The language and style of this letter is so very obscure as to be almost untranslatable. † A place a few miles from Lisbon, where bulls are bred for the bull-fights. He seems to use these expressions ironically. a

Translated as ‘ungrateful Country, you shall not possess my ashes’ (Adamson, I, p. 121).

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would throw cold water on the most burning flame in the world. And now no more, Senhor, than this sonnet, which I wrote on the death of dom Antonio de Noronha, which I send as a mark of how much it grieved me. I wrote an eclogue on the same subject, which appears to me the best I have written. I wished also to send it to Miguel Diaz, who would be glad to see it, on account of his great friendship for dom Antonio, but being occupied by the many letters I have to write to Portugal, I have no time.”a Camoens could not remain inactive; he had left / a country which, notwithstanding all he had suffered, he fondly loved, because no career was open to him. He sought one in India, and when none presented itself, he cast himself in the first expedition set on foot, however dangerous or tedious it promised to be, and with all the bravery and ardour of his soul, using both pen and sword, endeavoured to fight or write himself into reputation and preferment. The year following his arrival at Goa, Noronha was succeeded in his viceroyalty by dom Pedro Mascarenhas, who soon after died, and Francisco Barreto acted as governor. The cruising of the Mahometans in the straits of Mecca was very detrimental to the Portuguese trade, and expeditions were sent out to protect the merchantmen, under the command of Manoel de Vasconcellos. On the second occasion, Camoens offered to serve as volunteer, and accompanying Vasconcellos, shared the great hardships of the expedition.b On his return to Goa, he wrote a most beautiful canzone, the ninth, descriptive of the wretchedness he endured, in which he pourtrays that corner of the world, “neighbouring a barren, rocky, sterile mountain; useless, bare, bald and shapeless, abhorred of nature, where no bird flies, nor wild beast crouches – where no stream flows, nor any fountain springs, and whose name is Felix. Here my hapless fortune placed me; here, in this remote, rugged, and rocky part of the world, did fortune will that a short space of my short life should be spent, that it might be scattered in pieces about the world; here I wasted my sad, solitary, and sterile days, full of hardship, grief, and resentment; nor had I, as my only adversaries, life, a burning sun, and chilling waters, a thick and sultry atmosphere, – but also my own thoughts. They assailed me, bringing the memory of some passed and brief delight, which once was mine when I inhabited the world, to double the asperity of my adversity, by showing me that many happy hours may be enjoyed; and thus, in these thoughts, I wore out time and life.”c / a Excerpts of the letter, sent from India to an unknown friend, are quoted by Adamson I, pp. 120–2 and by Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 3, but Mary Shelley’s source includes more of the letter than they do. She would have had access from a copy of Camoëns’s works. Adamson explains that the letters are usually printed at the end of these (I, p. 120). b Adamson, I, pp. 123–4. c See Adamson, I, pp. 125–6 for a slightly different translation. Palacio suggests this translation is by Mary Shelley herself (p. 686). This would be consistent with her practice elsewhere (e.g. her practice with Poliziano’s and Metastasio’s letters with regard to William Roscoe’s and Burney’s translations; see Italian Lives).

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Camoens returned to Goa, only to again encounter the enmity of fate and malice of men. It was natural for him, to behold with indignation and contempt the extortion and tyranny of the Portuguese government; and he is said to have been excited by these feelings to express his dislike of various individuals that composed it in a satire, which he named “Follies in India,” (Disparates na India), in which, in general terms, he lashes many potent individuals for their misdeeds. This made him enemies; and being suspected of composing another satire, still more distasteful to several who were named in it, as instituting a feast of canes in honour of the new governor, and getting drunk on the occasion; the persons aggrieved, fearing Camoens’ sword as well as his pen, applied for redress to Barreto, and he was glad of the pretence to arrest and banish him to China*; or rather, Southey says, we should express it, ordered him to another station; but this is often the worst exile; when a man has sought a new country, where he has friends and prospects, it is an arbitrary and cruel act that drives him out to seek his fortune on unknown shores, where he arrives a stranger, and may be looked on as an intruder; his name already stigmatised by the very circumstances of his removal. / Camoens departed from Goa in the fleet which Barreto despatched to the South. He felt this arbitrary act bitterly. He denounced it as unjust, and went, he says, “loaded with his recollections, his sorrows, and his fortunes, which were for ever adverse.” He disembarked, at first, at one of the Molucca Isles; Ternate, as it is supposed: the term of his stay there is uncertain, but there is every reason to suppose that he soon proceeded to Macao.†a He here held the office of “Provedor * A discussion has arisen concerning the cause of Camoens’ banishment. Faria y Sousa, who lived near the time of Camoens, (he was born in 1590,) says that Barreto took offence at this second satire, and adds with great candour and good feeling: “There is not anything reprehensible in all my master’s actions, except his having written these satires, for in doing so he lost sight of prudence, independence, and the bearing of a cavalier; as not any of these qualities belong to a satirist. Barreto, likewise, who was a man possessing a great mind, did not appear to advantage in revenging himself so sternly upon a man of such abilities, and in treating him with such rigour.” The late biographer Sousa resents this account. He says, the satire was falsely attributed to Camoens, since no spark of his genius appears, – nor is he found either before, or after that time, indulging in that species of composition.” Southey warmly takes Faria’s part, (whom he names one of the most upright and high-minded men that ever ended his days in honourable poverty) and blames Camoens. Adamson is inclined to side with Sousa. We must remember that Barreto was a cruel, arbitrary, and extortionate man: and the sense Camoens evinces of his banishment, makes us willing to believe that he was supported by a lofty sense of innocence. He calls his banishment an unjust decree, in the Lusiad, – and in more energetic language in another poem, he wishes that the remembrance of his exile might, in punishment of those by whom it was obtained, be sculptured in rock or adamant.b † The description which he gives of the place where he spent the greater part of his exile, a Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 7 and Adamson, I, pp. 144–7. The translation varies slightly from Adamson’s version, again suggesting that Mary Shelley is translating the passage herself. The Portuguese verse is quoted in Adamson, I, p. 144. b Adamson, I, pp. 137–40. Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 5–7.

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dos Defunctos,” or commissary for the effects of the deceased; and here again we find a similarity with Cervantes, who was driven to maintain himself by accepting a clerkship; but in this Camoens was more fortunate than the Spaniard; the situation he held was of greater emolument, and he amassed a little fortune while holding it*; nor was it a place that demanded much time for the fulfilment of its duties. Camoens found leisure to retire from the details of business, and to pursue his poetical occupations. He was wont to spend much time in a grotto which commanded a view / of the sea, and where, apart from the rest of the world, he wrote a great portion of the “Lusiad.” This spot is still shown to strangers who visit Macao, as the grotto of Camoens; and an English visitor thus describes it: “It is pleasantly situated on the western shore of the promontory of Macao, and faces the harbour, which divides it on that side from the main land. This promontory is a narrow neck of land, whose stony and barren surface is only rendered habitable by the sea breezes, that blow from three quarters of the compass, and somewhat temper the natural heat of the climate.” At this day, the English possessor has beautified it by a plantation of trees, and crowned it with a small Chinese temple, built on the rock, which is a sort of cromlech; the excavation beneath is the cave, or natural grotto, to which the poet resorted, bare in itself, but commanding a beautiful and extensive view: – “the wide sea flecked with as doctor Southey justly remarks, applies decidedly to Macao and not to Ternate, as Mr. Adamson supposes. Cercada esta de hum rio, De maritimas aguas saudosas, Das herbas que aqui nascem, Os gados juntamente, y es olhos passem. Aqui minha ventura Quiz que huma grande parte, Da vida——se passasse. “It is surrounded by an ocean-stream of salt water. On the herbage that it produces the flock and the eye jointly pasture. Here fortune willed that a considerable part of my life should be passed.” * That Camoens, banished by Barreto, held a profitable situation under him seems a contradiction; yet since he amassed a sum of money that seemed wealth to him, he must have been appointed during the governorship of Barreto. The Quarterly Review, bent on admiring the virtues of power, deduces arguments in favour of Barreto: but Camoens could not have denounced him as he did had he been under obligations to him, obligations too, which the whole world in India would have considered full compensation for his exile from Goa. Sousa considers that his stay was of longer duration at Ternate than we assign, and that he did not fill the place at Macao till a later period, when it was given him by Barreto’s successor. But then he would not have had time to amass a fortune. Here therefore is an enigma, whose solution we cannot discover, unless it be (and it seems the probable conjecture) that the local governor of Macao preferred Camoens to this place, and Barreto had nothing at all to do with it.a a Mary Shelley’s own commentary on the controversy, which reflects her politics and perhaps a lingering resentment of Southey’s earlier behaviour. In 1816 he was thought to have spread rumours that the Shelleys and Byron formed a ‘League of Incest’ during travels in Switzerland. See Sunstein, pp. 119, 160.

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verdant isles, the harbour busy with vessels, the line of woody and cultivated coast, bounded by the majestic Montagna, whose pyramidical form and dark aspect add no small charm to the scenery.”a Here Camoens continued the “Lusiad;” here Southey supposes that the happiest years of his life were spent.b It may be so, but airy and cameleon-like must that happiness have been. His imagination, his desire of fame, the grasp he held of it, as he added to his immortal work, doubtless often fired his soul with that rapture which poets only know; and, as he gathered together some of the world’s pelf, he might dream of dona Caterina, of his native Lisbon, and hope to make her his own when he should return; he could look upon the sky and sea, and the beautiful earth, and feel the loveliness of the creation breathe peace and love around him. But still he was exiled and he was alone; his food was hope; far off expectation, and that too of blessings, which he was never doomed to possess; and as doubtless the human soul does unconsciously receive shadows or sunbeams from the future, so his melancholy mood may often have made him wonder, why on an earth / so lovely; beneath so sublime a heaven, he should be doomed to solitude and misfortune. Thus several years were passed. Whatever the emoluments of his place were, or whatever fortune it was that he amassed, or whatever were the charms of his abode, they did not seduce him to stay a day longer than he was obliged. He obtained leave to return to Goa from, or was invited to do so by, dom Costantino de Braganza, the new viceroy, who had known and entertained friendship for him in Portugal. He embarked carrying with him his little fortune. But here fate at once displayed her unmitigated persecution; he was wrecked at the mouth of the river Mecon, and with difficulty reached the shore; carrying in one hand the manuscript of his poem, while he swam with the other. Every thing else that he possessed in the world was lost.* Camoens was kindly received by the natives who lived on the banks of the Mecon; though he says of them with some scorn – * To this wreck, and to his escape he refers in the prophetic song in the tenth Lusiad when he speaks of the river Mecon – “Upon his soft and charitable brim The wet and shipwrecked song receive shall he, Which in a lamentable plight shall swim From shoals and quicksands of tempestuous sea, The dire effect of exile, – when on him Is executed the unjust decree, Whose repercussive lyre shall have the fate To be renowned more than fortunate.” Lusiad, canto x. stanza 128. – Fanshaw’s Translation a From an account by Eyles Irwin written in 1793 and quoted by Adamson from Staunton’s Account of the Embassy to China, II, 590 (I, pp. 150–4). b Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 7.

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“The near inhabitants brutishly think That pain and glory, after this life’s end Even brute creatures of each kind attend.”a

yet this very belief may have made them more sympathetic and charitable. He remained on this coast for a few days after his wreck. And here all commentators agree that he wrote what are called his marvellous and inimitable rendondilhas, which commence by an allusion to the Hebrew psalm of exile, “By the waters of Babylon.”b Southey rejects absolutely the possibility that this beautiful poem could have been written at such an hour of / tumult and uncertainty, and brings as proof, that not only, he does not mention his wreck, nor the kindness he received, for which he evidently felt grateful, but speaks of himself as living in exile. He soon pursued his voyage to Goa, where the viceroy received him with kindness and distinction; and hope might dawn again upon his heart, and he might expect preferment under dom Constantine de Braganza’s patronage, who loved him as a friend. But we are almost forced to believe in the influence of a star, and that which ruled the fate of Camoens was full of storm and wreck, and miserable reverses. Dom Constantine, with whose viceroyalty, Faria tells us, ended all good government in India, the succeeding governors being unable to stem the tide and avarice of extortion, was soon replaced by don Francisco de Coutinho, Conde de Redondo. The poet’s enemies took advantage of this change to urge against him an accusation of malversation in the exercise of his office at Macao. Don Francisco was said to be the friend and admirer of the poet, but Mickle, in reprobating his general character, accuses him also of deceit towards Camoens – at least he afforded him no protection on this occasion, and this thrice unhappy man was thrown into prison.c In the seventh canto of the Lusiad, the poet breaks off suddenly in the narrative, as if oppressed by the sense of his own woes; and, forced to give a voice to the anguish that wrung his soul, he recalls images of home and bids them assuage the bitterness of his grief, while he recapitulates the various disasters he had sustained – exclaiming,– “But, O, blind man I! that, unwise and rude, without your clue, Nymphs of Mondego and the Tagan stream, A course so long, so intricate, pursue. I launch into a boundless ocean, With wind so contrary, that unless you a See Adamson, I, p. 155; Mary Shelley is paraphrasing Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 8. b Psalms 137. See Adamson, I, pp. 156–8. c See Adamson, I, 163–7, Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 8 and Mickle, I, p. ccxcvi.

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Extend your favours. I have cause to think My brittle bark will in a moment sink. Behold, how long, whilst I strain all my powers Your Tagus singing, and your Portugal, Fortune, new toils presenting and new sours, Through the world drags me at her chariot’s tail: / Sometimes committed to sea’s rolling towers, Sometimes to bloody dangers martial! Thus I, like desperate Canace of old, My pen in this, my sword in that hand hold. Now by declined and scorned poverty Degraded, at another’s board to eat; Now in possession of a fortune high, Thrown back again, farther than ever yet; Now ’scaped, with my life only, which hung by A single thread, even that a load too great; That ’tis no less a wonder I am here, Than Judah’s king’s new lease of fifteen year. Nay more, my Nymphs, I thus being made an isle And rock of want, surrounded by my woes, The same, whom I swam, singing all the while, Gave me for all my verses, but coarse prose: Instead of hoped rest for long exile, Or bays, to crown my head which bald now grows, Unworthy scandals they thereon did hail, Which laid me in a miserable jail.”*a

Camoens was easily enabled to prove the falsehood of the charges of which he was accused. And he would have been set free, but Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho, a man of wealth and consequence, but nicknamed Fios-seccos, detained him in prison for a trifling debt; not more, at the very largest computation, than twenty pounds. He petitioned for his release from the viceroy in some sportive verses, in which he ridicules the character of his creditor. The request was such as a man in adversity might prefer to a friend in power, without humiliation; and though the biographers are chary of attributing the merit of his release to the viceroy, and Mickle even asserts that he owed it “to the shame felt by the gentlemen of Goa,” it seems likely that dom Francisco did shew his friendship by enlarging him.b * We cannot help preferring the faithful and nervous, though uncouth and even obsolete, translation of Fanshaw to the more diluted stream of Mickle’s heroics. Southey speaks of “the elaborate and curious infidelity of Mickle’s version;” at the same time that he praises it highly. Desirous of understanding the soul of Camoens, it is not from his smooth expressions, that the reader unacquainted with Portuguese can be informed. a

Fanshawe,VII, stanzas 78–81. Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 29–33. Adamson, I, pp. 164–6. The exact phrase is ‘till the gentlemen of Goa began to be ashamed’ (Mickle, I, p. ccxcix). b

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He continued in India, and pursued his military career as a volunteer. On all occasions he displayed undaunted bravery; and his companions in arms loved him for the heroic as well as cheerful spirit which he displayed in all reverses, and during every hardship.a / At this period he is supposed to have heard of the death of dona Catarina de Atayde*, who, in her grave, was not more lost to him than on earth, while such far seas lay between them; yet the thought of her was dear and consolatory. When recording that two blows befell him at the same time, the one the loss of fortune, he continues:– “And greater ill – the other blow destroyed The gentle one, whom I so deeply loved, Perpetual Recollection of my soul!”†b

Of Catarina’s story we may say, as Shakspeare’s Viola does of her own history, it was “a blank.”c She loved, she wept, she died. Her lover won her heart, and then was driven by fate to other lands at an immeasurable distance, and the course of long years promised no return. He fondly laments and commemorates her loss in poems which breathe tenderness and love in all its purity and truth.‡ He addressed her in / that heaven which she had reached, and adjured her:– * Don Joze Faria y Souza, the latest Portuguese commentator, first suggested this as the probable epoch of dona Catarina’s death, in contra-distinction to all other biographers, who place it on his return from Ceuta. He founds his notion on the internal evidence of Camoens’ lyrics and sonnets, and has made converts of Adamson and Southey, and will of all future biographers. There is this of agreeable also; that Camoens is rescued from the charge, that otherwise lies at his door (and is mentioned by Lord Strangford), of forgetting dona Catarina as soon as she was no more, and addressing another lady in the language of constant love. But these poems show by their context that they were addressed to his first love, who still lived. † Perpetuo saudade da alma mia.d The word saudade is peculiar to the Portuguese language – it includes much – a recollection accompanied by affection, and regret, and pleasure: friends when they write, send saudades instead of our remembrances to others, and it speaks of more tender and kind feeling. ‡ One of the most perfect and beautiful of Camoens’ poems, is a sonnet which many have preferred to the one of Petrarch on the same subject, or even to his Trionfa, which also narrates the visionary visit of his lost love. The following is Mr. Hayley’s translation:– “While prest with woes from which it cannot flee, My fancy sinks, and slumber seals my eyes, Her spirit hastens in my dreams to rise, Who was in life but as a dream to me. O’er the drear waste, so wide no eye can see How far its sense-evading limit lies, I follow her quick step; but ah, she flies! a

Adamson, I, pp. 166–7. Poem quoted in Portuguese in Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 9. The translation is likely to be Mary Shelley’s. See also Adamson, I, p. 167. c Twelfth Night II. iv. 113. The next sentence is a reminiscence of the final chorus of P. B. Shelley’s Hellas: ‘Another Orpheus sings again / And loves, and weeps, and dies’ ll. 1074–5). d The final line of the sonnet. See Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 9. b

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“Prefer thy prayer To God, who took thee early to his rest, That it may please him soon amid the blest To summon me, dear maid, to meet thee there.”a

He had lost all; poverty clung to him, and the last hope of seeing her he loved again, was taken away. Fame and glory only remained. His poem was finished; and weary of hard services in wars – whose objects he condemned, and in reward for which he received but the slender pay of a volunteer – he desired to return to his native country, to publish his poem, and to receive the welcome of his friends, and perhaps the reward of his sovereign. He had left Portugal with an embittered spirit; but his misfortunes in India made him turn with a longing eye to his native land, where he might hope that his enemies would cease to persecute him, and he obtain favour from his sovereign.b Pedro Barreto (a name unlucky for the poet) was appointed governor of Sofala, in the Mozambique, and invited Camoens to accompany him. Whether he offered him an office, or only allured him with the hope of facilitating his return to Portugal, Sofala being on the way, we are not told. It seems likely that Camoens went, induced by the latter motive, and trusting to the friendship of a low-minded and hard-hearted man. Arrived at Sofala, he obtained no situation; it was his place to dine at the governor’s table, to follow in his train, and to tell the world that he, a gallant soldier and a poet, who inherited immortality, was the dependant of Pedro Barreto. His proud spirit revolted, and he was content to endure the extreme of poverty, rather than play the servile part of parasite and hanger-on. It Our distance wid’ning by fate’s stern decree. ‘Fly not from me, kind shadow,’ I exclaim; She with fixed eyes, that her soft thoughts reveal, And seemed to say, ‘Forbear thy fond design,’– Still flies. – I call her, but her half-formed name Dies on my falt’ring tongue. – I wake and feel Not e’en one short delusion can be mine.”c a The final lines of Camoëns’s sonnet ‘Alma minha gentil’ translated by Southey and included in Adamson, I, p. 323. b Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 9. See Adamson, I, pp. 169–70. c Quoted in Adamson, I, p. 257. Adamson is himself quoting from a note to the third epistle of William Hayley's Horatian epistles on epic, written in heroic couplets. See An Essay on Epic Poetry (1782) (Gainesville, Florida: Scholar's Facsimiles & Reprints, 1968, pp. 276–7). In her introduction to the facsimile Sister M. E. Celeste Williamson calls attention to the role that the translations, notes and biographical notices that Hayley (1745–1820) included in his notes to the Epistle had in shaping literary tastes: 'A greater effect was produced upon the rising generation of scholars, by the Notes to his Essay on Epic Poetry, than by any other contemporary work, the Relics of Ancient Poetry [by Bishop Percy] alone excepted' (Southey, reviewing Hayley’s Memoirs in the Quarterly Review, XXXI (1825), 283). The note to the poem also mentions that Milton wrote a sonnet on the same subject [referring to ‘Methought I saw my late espoused saint’].

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is probable that some absolute quarrel ensued, or at least that Barreto was so ill pleased with the independent deportment of the man whom he believed that he held in his power, that he expressed his dissatisfaction with an insolence which Camoens resented. At this juncture some of his Indian friends arrived in the / Santa Fé; they found him in a most deplorable condition, dependent on others for his subsistence; in want of clothes and every necessary. They supplied his wants, and invited him to accompany them, a proposal Camoens gladly accepted; when the dastardly and malevolent Barreto refused to permit his departure, until he had been paid 200 ducats, which he alleged he had spent in his behalf. The newlyarrived gentlemen, indignant at this meanness, were only the more eager to rescue their friend out of such a person’s hands: they subscribed the money, and as Faria expresses it, “ransomed him; so that at the same time the person of Luis Camoens, and the reputation of Pedro Barreto, were bought and sold at the same price;” and if, as men of genius and virtue fondly think, renown for good or ill in this world is an acquisition to be sought, or to be avoided, even with the loss of life, Pedro Barreto, as he counted his paltry ducats, had better have cast them and himself into the sea, than have put them into his pocket; but even the sea could not have washed out the stain of moral infamy. These friends of Camoens were cavaliers, who loved literature and honoured the writer. Their names have been preserved: Hector da Sylveira, Duarte de Abreu, Diogo de Couto, Antonio Cabral, Antonio Serram, and Luis de Veyga. He was the intimate friend of Hector da Sylveira, who showed himself the most active and friendly, and who contributed the largest share to the payment of the debt, even if he did not, as has been asserted, pay the whole. Sylveira is mentioned in a Barmecide feast, Camoens describes as having given at Goa; and they composed redondillhas and other light verses together. The reputation of Couto is known. He was an historian of great merit.a Camoens felt keenly the depth of adversity in which he had sunk. “Oh, how long drawn out,” he exclaims in a sonnet, “year by year, is my weary pilgrimage! I go hastening towards age, while my ills increase; every / bright hope becomes a dark deceit, and I follow a good which I never reach. I fail midway in the path, yet falling a thousand times, I have still hoped.” And in another, driven by despair into feelings unlike his natural ones, he asks, “where he may find a desert place, unvisited even by the brute creation; some gloomy wood or darksome forest – a place as dismal as his own thoughts, wherein to dwell for ever!”b During the voyage home, however, his spirit revived, refreshed by the kindness and admiration of his friends. They read, they praised, and anticipated success for the “Lusiad.” Couto wrote a commentary on it, which was unfortunately lost; and a Information in this paragraph is from Adamson, I, pp. 169–71 and Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 9–10. A Barmecide feast is one where no food is provided. b Sonnet quoted in Portuguese by Adamson, I, p. 172. Translation by Mary Shelley into prose.

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the same writer tells us that Camoens employed himself, on the passage, in composing a work of great erudition and philosophy, which he entitled “Parnasso de Luis Camoens,” and which Couto says was stolen from him, and irretrievably lost. Late commentators suppose that this must have been a collection of his minor poems: but as Couto speaks of its erudition, and had read it, he would have been aware of this, and expressed himself differently.a The sanguine spirit of the poet, to whom kindness was medicine, and the hope of fame the dearest joy, again dared look forward – again he trusted. A young and gallant monarch had just ascended the throne, and he hoped to propitiate his favour by his patriotic work. The moment of his landing, however, was unfavourable; for the plague was raging at Lisbon, and the minds of even the great and prosperous were absorbed by the fear of death. The political state of the kingdom was also disadvantageous. Sebastian had succeeded to the crown when only three years old. The queen, Catherine of Austria, had been appointed regent by the will of the late king; but the cardinal Henrique, uncle to the infant sovereign, so disgusted her with his intrigues, that she resigned her power in his favour. Henrique did not show himself unworthy of the trust; but as Sebastian grew up, the courtiers around him were eager that / he should take the government of the kingdom into his own hands. Sebastian’s own heart was set on military glory and conquests in Africa: a project favoured by all the young and ambitious, and deprecated by the experienced, who saw only a useless expenditure of life and money in the design. The cardinal, meanwhile, endeavoured to prolong his sway. Camoens must have found it difficult to trim his sail between the actual power of the cardinal and the anticipated influence of the favourites of the king. He wrote the verses in which he dedicates his poem to the young monarch; he corrected and polished it; but the publication lingered, and it was two years after his return to his native country before it appeared. It was hailed with enthusiasm, and reprinted within the year. The king heard of it, it is said, and granted the poet a pension of 15,000 reis – about five pounds sterling – and required him to live within the precincts of the court, and obtain its payment half-yearly. A soldier who had fought as Camoens had done for his country, would have had his sufferings and mutilation better rewarded. It has been impossible to discover what occasioned the paltriness of the grant; if, indeed, it was not his half-pay as a military man, rather than a pension given to the poet. Some commentators fancy that the cardinal scowled on the poem, as likely to excite the martial ardour of the king, which he wished to repress. This fear almost seems to have gone the length of withholding the book altogether; for had Sebastian read the poem, he would surely have found in it a voice that echoed the emotions of his own heart, and would have regarded its writer with more favour; and when he sailed on his ill-fated expedition to Africa, and selected Diego Bernardes to accompany him as

a

See Adamson, I, p. 175.

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his poet, he would rather have chosen a man who could so well achieve and so well describe deeds of arms, as Camoens had proved that he could do.*a / But in mentioning this we anticipate. Sebastian did not undertake his fatal expedition until the lapse of several years. Meanwhile the darkest shadows clouded the poet’s fate. No court favour, no preferment was extended to him. Her he loved was dead; his poem was finished, published, read, admired; yet it proved barren of any advantage, except what he must have felt to be empty reputation, to its unfortunate writer. The poetry of his life faded before realities the most heartbreaking and oppressive. He continued to reside at Lisbon. He did not write, for he had fallen into a state of ill-health, the consequence of the many hardships he had endured, and the climate of India. He lived, he says, “in the knowledge of many, and the society of few.”b He enjoyed the acquaintance and conversation of some learned men, who belonged to the convent of S. Domingos de Lisboa, near which he lived. The most melancholy circumstances attended his last days. He was sick and poor; his very life was supported by charity. His servant Antonio, a native of Java, by whom some say his life was saved when wrecked on the coast of Cochin, whom he had brought with him from India, was accustomed to steal out at night, and beg for bread, to support his miserable master during the following day.c While in this afflicting state, a fidalgo, Ruy Diaz de Camara, paid him a visit in his wretched dwelling, to complain that he had not fulfilled a promise which the poet had made of translating the penitential psalms.d / Camoens regarded with resentment the man who could urge him to write while starving. “When I wrote those verses,” he replied, “I was young, well off, and in love; I possessed the affection of many friends, and was favoured of ladies, which imparted a poetic fire. Now I have neither spirit nor peace of mind for any thing. There stands my Javanese, who asks me for two pieces, to buy fuel, and I have none to give him.” We are told, though it seems incredible, that “the cavalier closed his heart and purse * Southey has given the following account of his rival: – “Diego Bernardes, one of the best of the Portuguese poets, was born on the banks of the Lima, and passionately fond of its scenery. Some of his poems will bear comparison with the best poems of their kind. There is a charge of plagiarism against him, for having printed several of Camoens’ sonnets as his own: to obtain any proof on this subject would be very difficult: this, however, is certain, that his own undisputed productions resemble them so much in affecting tenderness and sweetness of diction, that the whole appear like the works of one author.” – Notes to Southey’s Don Roderick. Bernardes, however, had no reason to congratulate himself on the choice having fallen on him. He was taken prisoner in the battle in which Sebastian fell; and then he blamed the unfortunate king, and deplored his own fate – a captive doomed to labour and chains. He obtained his liberty, and died at Lisbon in 1596, and was buried in the same church as Camoens. Vide Adamson. a This paragraph derives from from Adamson, I, pp. 180–1, 193–4. The note from Roderick,the Last of the Goths, III (see footnote below) is found in Adamson, I, pp. 199–200; see also p. 202. b Adamson, I, pp. 203–4. c Adamson, I, p. 204, and Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 12.

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and quitted the room.” Thus shewing himself as base-minded as he was silly. Yet even in this state, so keen and patriotic were the poet’s feelings, that his illness is said to have been increased by the tidings of Sebastian’s overthrow and death in Africa.a Prophesying that the ruin of his country would result from this defeat, he says, in a letter written at that time, – “At least I shall die with it!” – and this sad reflection was a consolation. Southey conjectures that those friends who were kindest to him perished in this defeat, and that thus he lost that aid which had hitherto stood between him and absolute want.b At length illness and suffering reduced him to so low a state that he was incapable of all exertion. He felt that his death was near, and, as a last effort, he expressed in a letter some of the bitter feelings excited by the miserable circumstances with which it came attended. “Who ever heard,” he says, “that fortune should wish to represent such vast misfortunes on the little theatre of a poor bed! and I, as if they were not sufficient, make myself her ally; for it would appear effrontery to attempt to resist such ill.”c But the last scene was saddest of all. He breathed his last in an hospital. The month and day of his decease are alike unknown. The sheet in which he was shrouded was the gift of a noble, Don Francisco de Portugal, whose name deserves no praise for so meagre an offering to the dead, whose life a small portion of wealth might have rendered easy.d A moralising monk watched / his last hours. “How miserable a thing,” he writes, “to see so great a genius so ill rewarded! I saw him die in a hospital at Lisbon, without possessing a shroud to cover his remains, after having borne arms victoriously in India, and having sailed 5500 leagues: – a warning for those who weary themselves by studying night and day without profit, as the spider who spins his web to catch flies.”*e After his death his body was removed to the church of Santa Anna, where he was interred; but no tomb or monumental inscription marked the spot, till sixteen years after his death, don Gonçalo Coutinho placed a stone to his memory, with this inscription – d

Paraphrased from Adamson, I, p. 205. * Lord Holland possesses a copy of the first edition of the Lusiad, in which these words were written by the friar Josepe Judio, who left it in the convent of the barefooted Carmelites of Guadalaxara.f a Quoted differently by Adamson, I, p. 206 and by Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 12. Mary Shelley is translating the passage included by Adamson, I, pp. 205–6. b Adamson, I, p. 207 and Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822),12. c Quoted in Adamson, I, pp. 206–7; for Mary Shelley’s returning to this passage, see MWSN, vol. 8, p. 184. d Adamson, I, pp. 207–8 and Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 13. e Quoted with slight difference by Adamson, I, pp. 209–10 and Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 13. Reference to the book by Holland is made by Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 13 and Adamson, I, p. 208. f A description apparently not verified by first-hand inspection, since Mary Shelley was

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HERE LIES LOUIS DE CAMOENS, PRINCE OF THE POETS OF HIS TIME. HE LIVED POOR AND MISERABLE, AND THUS DIED, IN THE YEAR MDLXXIX. D . GONÇALO COUTINHO ORDERED THIS STONE TO BE PLACED HERE , UNDER WHICH a

NO OTHER PERSON SHOULD BE BURIED .*

We are told that Camoens was handsome in person; and Faria y Sousa speaks of him as elegant and prepossessing in person before he went to India. Hardships and disappointments on his return bowed him down, destroyed his cheerfulness, and made him old before his time.b / Camoens was a great man, not only as poet, but in the qualities of his mind and heart. He entered life full of aspiration after the good and beautiful. He loved tenderly and fondly one who was as pure and good as she was lovely; and in absence, and through hardship and sorrow, still he worshipped her idea and mourned her fate. He was gallant and brave in doing, as well as in the harder task of bearing. No mean, no servile, no even dubious act is recorded of him, during the course of many misfortunes, when spirits less high might have bowed before the rich and powerful. He was naturally cheerful, friendly, and fond of society, which he enlivened and adorned by his wit and genius. Fortune warred with him long in vain, but she conquered at last, when poor, and sick, and friendless, he grew melancholy and despairing. At the commencement we compared his fortunes with those of Cervantes; but the career of Camoens was the most disastrous. Every act of his life had an adverse termination. In the early season of youth he loved tenderly and ardently; and this feeling had not injured his fortunes, if his attachment had not been returned. A modern poet asks, “What makes it fatal in this world of refused permission to use Lord Holland’s collection (MWSL, II, p. 2 55n). * This admirable inscription runs thus in its own native Portuguese on the stone itself – ¯ ES, AQUI JAZ LUIS DE CAMO PRINCIPE DOS POETAS DE SEU TEMPO, VIVEO POBRE E MISERAVELMENTE, E ASSI MORREO, ANNO DE MDLXXIX. ESTA CAMPA LHE MANDA AQUI , POR D . GONÇALO COUTINHO , NA QUAL SE NAÕ ENTERRARA PESSOA ALGUMA . a See Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 13 and Adamson, I, pp. 217–18, translated with slight differences by Mary Shelley. b Drawing on quotations from Manoel Severim de Faria and Dom Joze Maria de Souza in

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ours, to be loved?”a It was the love that Dona Catarina bore the poet, that awakened the enmity of her powerful relations, and cast his whole life into shadow. From the hour he was banished for her sake, he succeeded in nothing. He fought for his country in Africa, only to be maimed and deformed for life. He visited India only to encounter the same hardships in a worse climate; he amassed a fortune, and lost it in shipwreck; he trusted to the kind feelings of the powerful, and found himself reduced to absolute want. The most adverse period of Cervantes’ life was his captivity at Algiers*, when he had the spirit of early manhood, the love and admiration of his companions, his own conscience, and stirring hopes and / fears to animate him. The happiest portion of Camoens’ existence, we are told, were the years he spent at Macao, away from every friend, with hope only to cheer him, and his imagination, while he looked over the wide distant sea that separated him from the dearest objects of life. In his last moments, Cervantes had wife and relation near; and, when dying, he said farewell, to joy; farewell to his friends. In Camoens’ last hour his spirit was broken: want and penury, in their most loathsome guise, were his death-bed companions, in a wretched hospital. Southey justly remarks, however, that he is not to be considered a martyr to literature; for he in no way depended on that for bread.b He was a martyr to that political system which created a body of men, (the younger sons of the nobility), who, if they inherited no property, could acquire a livelihood only by court favour; and that is never bestowed upon the worthiest. He sought advancement, as well as the “bubble, honour, at the cannon’s mouth.”c He gained the latter only; and unless his spirit now enjoys the fame which he desired during life, it was a bubble indeed, without substance to support him in his necessity. Had he lived a little longer, we are told Philip II. desired to see him when at Lisbon; and he would have found assistance in him.d Many is the reprieve fate sends to the suffering after they are dead, as if to show her power, and to impress us with the idea that all depends on her fiat. Wherefore Heaven has established a law, that the best men are to suffer most in this life, is a mystery. All we know is, that so it is, and so learn at least to revere those cast in adversity, and to glory rather than feel shame in the frowns of fortune.†e Adamson, I, pp. 210–11. * We may remark that Camoens died while Cervantes was still a captive at Algiers. He was dead when the Spaniard joined the army at Lisbon two or three years after. † “The poet’s life is one of want and suffering, and often of mortification – mortification, too, that comes terribly home; but far be it from me to say that it has not its own exceeding great a

Byron, Don Juan, III. ii. 2, slightly adapted. Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 13. As You Like It, II. vii. 152–3, slightly adapted. d See Adamson, I, p. 214. e This long summary paragraph is as much a reflection on Mary Shelley's own life and opinions as it is a commentary on the life of Camoëns. b c

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It seems strange that men should let a fellow-creature die as Camoens died; a man, too, who possessed / the much-coveted advantage of birth, who had fought for his country, and celebrated her glories in his verse. Long did these very verses – the “Lusiad,” and the reputation it promised – bear him up; yet some hope he lost as he concluded it, and at last he breaks off impatiently,– “No more, my Muse, no more; my harp ’s ill strung, Heavy and out of tune, and my voice hoarse – And not with singing, but to see I’ve sung To a deaf people, and without remorse. Favour that wont t’inspire the poet’s tongue, Our country yields not: she minds the purse Too much; exhaling from her gilded mud Nothing but dross and melancholy blood. Nor know I by what fate or duller chance, Men have not now the life or general gust, Which made them with a cheerful countenance, Themselves into perpetual action thrust. *

*

*

*

*

While I, who speak in rude and humble rhyme, Nor known, or dreamt of by my king at all, Know yet from mouths of little ones sometime The praise of great ones does completely fall. I want not honest studies for my prime, Nor long experience, since to mix withal; I want not wit, such as in this you see, Three things which rarely in conjunction be.” An arm to serve you, trained in war have I, A soul, to sing you, to the Muses bent; Only I want acceptance in your eye, Who owe to virtue fair encouragement.”a

We have dwelt so long on the various and melancholy circumstances of Camoens’ lot, that small space is left to speak of his works. Of his lesser poems, his lyrics, and sonnets, such mention has been made in the foregoing pages as have informed the reader of their high merit. Impassioned yet tender, earnest, yet soft – full of heart, and all the better feelings of the soul, they are the type of Camoens, and deserve the same praise as he himself merits. reward. It may be late in coming, but the claim on universal sympathy is at last allowed. The future, glorious and calm, brightens over the grave; and then, for the present, the golden world of the imagination is around it. Not one emotion of your own beating heart but is recorded in music.” – L. E. L.b a

Fanshawe, Lusiad, X, stanzas 144, 145, 154, 155.

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Patriotism, warmed by the heroic deeds of the discoverers of the passage to India, inspired him with the idea of the Lusiad. He named it “Os Lusitanos,” that is to say, the Lusitanians or Portuguese. It opens with the arrival of Vasco de Gama in the Mosambique; it carries him thence, after many dangers, to Calicut, / and brings him thence home. Episodical narrations vary the poem. It has faults.*a Its mythology is clumsy. While bringing forward Christians as Moslems in contention, the introduction of the heathen deities, of Bacchus and Venus, is ridiculous; yet the description of Venus presenting herself to Jupiter, in the second canto, may make any lover of the beautiful pardon the incongruity. The Lusiad is full of beauties: stanzas that rise to sublimity, touch the heart by their pathos, or charm it by descriptive beauties, abound. Above all, there is fire, a heart, a soul – flesh and blood, enthusiasm, and the poet’s best spirit, to adorn it with magnanimous sentiments, patriotism, and piety. As such, the Lusiad is an immortal poem, and Camoens a poet that the world may be proud to have brought forth. He has been considered such, and his poem translated into many languages. In English Mickle’s is the modern and popular one; but it has no pretension to fidelity; and, though Mickle was a man of taste and a poet, we turn impatiently from his paraphrase to the truer, though uncouth version of Fanshaw.†b b

Letitia Elizabeth Landon, Ethel Churchill (1837), ch. xvi. * Doctor Southey has, in his article on the life of Camoens, in the twenty-seventh volume of the “Quarterly Review,” given an account of the attack made by Jose Agostinho de Macedon on the Lusiad, and the poem he wrote in rivalship on the same subject. Macedo was an acute critic: as such, he could more readily detect defects than beauties. He saw with discerning eye the faults of plan in the Lusiad; – but he was not warmed by its fire, nor elevated by its genius. The most entire vengeance a friend of Camoens could take, he himself achieved when he wrote his poem, whose machinery and plan are no better, and which possesses none of the transcendant merits of its predecessor. To subvert a national idol, is an invidious task – to set himself upon the same pedestal, a ridiculous pretension. A poet of the present day, whom the Portuguese, of whatever political creed, agree in admiring, Almeida-Garrett, has written a poem, entitled “Camoens,” worthy of his great countryman. † Fanshaw’s poem was published without his own corrections. Southey observes on this, that “though he might have sometimes improved the harmony of his verses, and sometimes have changed a word or expression for the better, the main fault is not one he was like to have corrected,” that fault being the imitating the Italian poets in mingling familiar and burlesque expressions with the grave and ideal. This observation is singularly true; the copy of sir Richard Fanshaw’s Lusiad which we have consulted, contains manuscript corrections in his own hand.c In this he has frequently changed a word or transposed it; but not one of the faulty passages is amended. END OF THE THIRD VOLUME .

a

/

Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 33–4. Southey, Quarterly Review, XXVII (1822), 27. c The means by which Mary Shelley had access to Fanshawe’s hand-corrected copy has not been traced; ending on this note would seem to be a small scholarly coup for her. b

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LITERARY LIVES FRENCH LIVES VOLUME ONE

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Title Page Vignette: Designed and engraved, as with the Italian Lives and the Spanish Lives, by H. Corbould and E. Finden. The date has not been altered. Clockwise starting from the top portraits are of Madame de Sévigné, Molière, Racine and La Fontaine.

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CONTENTS.

Page MONTAIGNE

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RABELAIS [Not by Mary Shelley]

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CORNEILLE

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ROCHEFOUCAULD

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[MOLIÈRE, LA FONTAINE, PASCAL, SÉVIGNÉ, BOILEAU, RACINE and FÉNÉLON, together with French Lives II, are in volume 3 of this edition]

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LIVES OF

EMINENT LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN.

MONTAIGNE. 1533–1592. T HERE is scarcely any man into whose character we have more insight than that of Montaigne. He has written four volumes of “Essays,”a which are principally taken up by narrations of what happened to himself, or dissertations on his own nature, and this in an enlightened and philosophical, though quaint and naïve style, which renders him one of the most delightful authors in the world. It were easy to fabricate a long biography, by drawing from this source, and placing in a consecutive view, the various information he affords. We must abridge, however, into a few pages several volumes; while, by seizing on the main topics, a faithful and interesting picture will be presented.

a Montaigne published only three books of essays; Mary Shelley appears to be confusing books (livres) with the number of volumes (tomes) in the edition she was using, possibly the same 4-volume set owned in 1819–20. Editions after 1724 were usually issued in sets of more than 3 volumes because of ancillary material. A landmark edition, the 1739 Essais de Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne, ed. Pierre Coste, 4th edn, 6 vols (London: Jean Nourse, 1739), hereafter Coste, contained 9 letters of Montaigne, de la Boétie’s De la servitude volontaire, Marie de Gournay’s Epître dedicatoire au Cardinal Richelieu, her Préface of 1635, two brief Vies, critical notices and other apparatus. The only pre-1838 4-volume edition, however, appears to have been Naigeon’s admired stereotyped edition (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1802; copy not seen, but it is said to present Montaigne as a deist rather than as a devout Catholic). Citations here in French are taken from Montaigne, Essais (1969) ed. Alexandre Micha, hereafter Essais, and English translations and essay titles from The Essays of Michel Yquem de Montaigne, trans. Charles Cotton, ed. W. Carew Hazlitt (1952 edn), hereafter Essays. Mary Shelley appears to have bypassed Cotton’s famous translation, as she earlier bypassed L’Estrange’s translation of Quevedo. Her text would have differed a little from post-1920 texts, which are based on the so-called Bordeaux MS.

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Michel de Montaigne was born at his paternal castle of that name*, in Perigord, on the 8th of February, 1533.a He was the son of Pierre Eyquem, esquire – seigneur of Montaigne, and at one time elected mayor of Bordeaux. This portion of France, Gascony and Guienne, gives birth to a race peculiar to itself; vivacious, warm-hearted, and / vain – they are sometimes boastful, but never false; often rash, but never disloyal; and Montaigne evidently inherited much of the disposition peculiar to his province. He speaks of his family as honourable and virtuous:– “We are a race noted as good parents, good brothers, good relations,”b he says, – and his father himself seems eminently to deserve the gratitude and praise which his son bestows. His description of him is an interesting specimen of a French noble of those days: – “He spoke little and well, and mixed his discourse with allusions to modern books, mostly Spanish; his demeanour was grave, tempered by gentleness, modesty, and humility; he took peculiar care of the neatness and cleanliness of his dress, whether on horseback or on foot; singularly true in his conversation, and conscientious and pious, almost even to superstition. For a short slight man he was very strong; his figure was upright and well proportioned; he was dexterous and graceful in all noble exercises; his agility was almost miraculous; and I have seen him, at more than sixty years of age, throw himself on a horse, leap over the table, with only his thumb on it, and never going to his room without springing up three or four stairs at a time.”c Michel was the eldest of five sons. His father was eager to give him a good education, and even before his birth consulted learned and clever men on the subject. On these consultations and on his own admirable judgment he formed a system, such as may in some sort be considered the basis of Rousseau’s; and which shows that, however we may consider one age more enlightened than another, the natural reason of men of talent leads them to the same conclusions, whether living in an age when warfare, struggle, and the concomitant ignorance were rife, or when philosophers set the fashion of the day. “The good father whom God gave me,” says Montaigne, “sent me, while * This château was situate in the parish of Saint Michael de Montaigne, not far from the town of Saint Foi, in the diocese of Perigueux, at the distance of about ten leagues from the episcopal city. It was solidly and well built, on high ground, and enjoyed a good air.d a

In the south-west of France. The date, however, is 28 Feb. Possibly a loose translation of ‘Elle m’a faict naistre d’une race fameuse en preud’homie et d’un tres bon père’ ([Fortune] has caused me to be descended of a race famous for integrity and of a very good father), ‘De la cruauté’ (‘Of Cruelty’), II. 11 (Essais, livre 2, pp. 96–7; Essays, p. 203). c From ‘De l’yvrongnerie’ (‘Of Drunkenness’), II. 2, with a few omissions (Essais, livre 2, p. 16). d Description taken from Meusnier de Querlon, ‘Discours préliminaire’ (hereafter Querlon) to Journal de Voyage de Michel de Montaigne en Italie par la Suisse et l’Allemagne en 1580 et 1581 (1774), 2nd edn, 3 vols (Rome and Paris: Le Jay, 1775), I, p. ii, note (a); hereafter Journal. References are taken from this edition. Collation shows that Mary Shelley is using it, or a similar reprint, not that of 1774. b

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in my cradle, to one of his poor villages, and kept me there while I was at nurse and longer, bringing me up to the hardest and commonest habits of life. He had another notion, also, which was to ally me with the / people, and that class of men who need our assistance; desiring that I should rather give my attention to those who should stretch out their arms to me, than those who would turn their backs; and for this reason he selected people of the lowest condition for my baptismal sponsors, that I might attach myself to them.”a He was taught, also, in his infancy directness of conduct, and never to mingle any artifice or trickery with his games. With regard to learning, his good father meditated long on the received modes of initiating his son in the rudiments of knowledge. He was struck by the time given to, and the annoyance a child suffers in, the acquirement of the dead languages; this was exaggerated to him as a cause why the moderns were so inferior to the ancients in greatness of soul and wisdom. He hit, therefore, on the expedient of causing Latin to be the first language that his son should hear and speak. He engaged the services of a German, well versed in Latin, and wholly ignorant of French. “This man,” continues Montaigne, “whom he sent for expressly, and who was liberally paid, had me perpetually in his arms. Two others of less learning, accompanied to relieve him; they never spoke to me except in Latin; and it was the invariable rule of the house, that neither my father nor my mother, nor domestic, nor maid, should utter in my presence any thing except the few Latin phrases they had learnt for the purpose of talking with me. It is strange the progress that every one made. My father and mother learnt enough Latin to understand it, and to speak it on occasions, as did also the other servants attached to me; – in short, we talked so much Latin, that it overflowed even into our neighbouring villages, where there still remain, and have taken root, several Latin names for workmen and their tools. As for me, at the age of six, I knew no more French than Arabic; and, without study, book, grammar, or instruction, – without rod and tears – I learnt as pure a Latin as my schoolmaster could teach, for I could not mix it with any other language. If, after the manner of colleges, I had a theme set me, / it was given, not in French, but in bad Latin, to be turned into good; and my early master, George Buchananb and others, have often told me that I was so ready with my Latin in my infancy, that they feared to address me. Buchanan, whom I afterwards saw in the suite of the marshal de Brissac, told me that he was about to write on education, and should give mine as an example. As to Greek, of which I scarcely know any thing, my father intended that I should not learn it as a study, but as a game – for he had been told to cause me to acquire knowledge of my own accord and will, and not by force, and to nourish my soul in all gentleness and liberty, without severity or restraint, and this to almost a superstitious degree; for having heard that it hurts a child’s brain to be awoke suddenly, and a

From ‘De l’experience’ (‘Of Experience’), III. 13, with an omission (Essais, livre 3, p. 311). George Buchanan (1506–82), poet, classical scholar and historian; there were four distinguished Marshals de Brissac; the second, Artus de Cossé Brissac (1512–82) is probably the relevant one here. b

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torn from sleep with violence, he caused me to be roused in the morning by the sound of music, and there was always a man in my service for that purpose. “The rest may be judged of by this specimen, which proves the prudence and affection of my excellent father, who must not be blamed if he gathered no fruits worthy of such exquisite culture. This is to be attributed to two causes: the first is the sterile and troublesome soil; for although my health was good, and my disposition was docile and gentle, I was, notwithstanding, so heavy, dull, and sleepy, that I could not be roused from my indolence even to play. I saw well what I saw; and beneath this dull outside I nourished a bold imagination, and opinions beyond my age. My mind was slow, and it never moved unless it was led – my understanding tardy – my invention idle – and, amidst all, an incredible want of memory. With all this it is not strange that he succeeded so ill. Secondly, as all those who are furiously eager for a cure are swayed by all manner of advice, so the good man, fearing to fail in a thing he had so much at heart, allowed himself at last to be carried away by the common opinion; and, not having those around him who gave him the ideas of education which he brought from Italy, sent me, at / six years of age, to the public school of Guienne, which was then very flourishing, and the best in France. It was impossible to exceed the care he then took to choose accomplished private tutors; but still it was a school: my Latin deteriorated, and I have since lost all habit of speaking it; and my singular initiation only served to place me at once in the first classes; for when I left college, at the age of thirteen, I had finished my course, but, truly, without any fruit at present useful to me. “The first love I had for books came to me through the pleasure afforded by the fables in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. For, at the age of seven or eight, I quitted every other pleasure to read them; the more that its language was my maternal one, and that it was the easiest book I knew, and, considering the matter, the best adapted to my age. I was more careless of my other studies, and in this was lucky in having a clever man for my preceptor, who connived at this and similar irregularities of mine; for I thus read through the Æneid, and then Terence and Plautus, led on by delight in the subject. If he had been so foolish as to prevent me, I believe I should have brought from college a hatred of all books, as most of our young nobles do. He managed cleverly, pretending not to see; and sharpened my appetite by only allowing me to devour these volumes by stealth, and being easy with me with regard to my other lessons; for the principal qualities which my father sought in those who had charge of me were kindness and good humour; consequently idleness and laziness were my only vices. There was no fear that I should do harm, but that I should do nothing – no one expected that I should become wicked, but only useless. It has continued the same: the complaints I hear are of this sort: that I am indolent, slow to perform acts of friendship, too scrupulous, and disdainful of public employments. Meanwhile my soul had its private operations, and formed sure and independent opinions concerning the subjects it

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understood, digesting them alone, without communication; and among / other things, I believe it had been incapable of submitting to force or violence.”a It would require a volume almost to examine the effect that this singular education had on Montaigne’s character. If absence of constraint strengthened the defects of his character, at least it implanted no extraneous ones. His defective memory was not cultivated, and therefore remained defective to the end. His indolence continued through life: he became somewhat of a humourist; but his faculties were not deadened, nor his heart hardened, by opposition and severity. Montaigne’s heart was warm; his temper cheerful*,b though unequal; his imagination lively†;c his affections exalted to enthusiasm; and this ardour of disposition, joined to the sort of personal indolence which he describes, renders him a singular character. On leaving college he studied law, being destined for that profession; but he disliked it; and, though he was made counsellor to the parliament of Bordeaux, he, in the sequel, gave up the employment as by no means suited to him. He lived in troubled times. Religious parties ran high, and were so well balanced, the kingly power being diminished through the minority of Charles IX., and that of the nobles increasing in consequence, that the struggle between the two was violent and deadly.d Montaigne was a catholic and a lover of peace. * “Je suis des plus exempt de la passion de tristesse, et ne l’aime ni l’estime; quoique le monde a entreprins, comme à prix faist de l’honnorer de faveur particulière: ils en habillent la sagesse, la vertu, la conscience; sot et monstreux ornement!” † “Je suis de ceulx qui sentent tres grand effort de l’imagination, chascun en est heurte mais aulcuns en sont renversez. Son impression me perce; et mon art est de lui eschapper par faulte de force à luy resister. Je vivroys de la seule assistance de personnes saines et gayes, la veue des angoisses d’autruy m’angoisse materiellement, et a mon sentiment souvent usurpé le sentiment d’un tiers. Je visite plus mal voluntiers les malades auxquels, le devoir m’interesse que ceux auxquels je m’attends moins et que je considere moins, je saisis le mal que j’estudie et le couche en moi.”c a Montaigne’s account of his education is taken, with some abridgement and a few omissions, from ‘De l’institution des enfans’ (‘Of the Education of Children’, essay 25 in Cotton–Hazlitt translation), I. 26 (Essais, livre 1, pp. 220–4). b ‘No man living is more free from this passion [of sorrow] than I, who neither like it, nor admire it, and yet generally the world, as a settled thing, is pleased to grace it with a particular esteem, clothing therewith wisdom, virtue and conscience. Foolish and sordid guise!’ (‘De la tristesse’ (‘Of Sorrow’), I. 2 (Essais, livre 1, p. 43; Essays, p. 5, translation slightly adapted). c ‘I am one of those who are most susceptible to the power of imagination; everyone is jostled by it, but some are overthrown. It has a very piercing impression upon me, and I make it my business to avoid it, wanting force to resist it. I could live by the sole help of healthful and jolly company; the very sight of another’s pain materially pains me, and I often usurp the sensations of another person. I often possess the feelings of another as if they were my own. I am more unwilling to visit the sick to whom duty connects me than those to whom I pay less attention and for whom I have less consideration. I catch the disease that I am concerned with and lay it up within myself’ (‘De la force de l’imagination’, I. 21 (Essais, livre 1, p. 143; ‘Of the Force of Imagination’, no. 20 in Cotton–Hazlitt translation) with an omitted passage). d Referring to the French religious and dynastic wars fought intermittently from 1559–98. During the minority of Charles IX (1550–74) the regent was his mother, Catherine (daughter of Lorenzo II de’ Medici), who instigated the massacre of Protestants on St Bartholomew’s day

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He did not mingle with the dissensions of the times, avoided all public employments, and it is not in the history of his times that we must seek for the events of his life. The chief event, so to call it, that he himself records / with fondness and care, is his friendship for Etienne de la Boëtie.a To judge by the only writing we possess of this friend, composed when he was scarcely more than seventeen, his Essay on “Voluntary Servitude,” he evidently deserved the high esteem in which Montaigne held him, though apparently very dissimilar from him in character. Boldness and vigour mark the thoughts and style; love of freedom, founded on a generous independence of soul, breathes in every line; the bond between him and Montaigne rested on the integrity and lofty nature of their dispositions – on their talents – on the warmth of heart that distinguished both – and a fervid imagination, without which the affections seldom rise into enthusiasm. Montaigne often refers to this beloved friend in his essays. “The greatest man I ever knew,” he writes, “was Etienne de la Boëtie. His was indeed a soul full of perfections, a soul of the old stamp, and which would have produced great effects had fate permitted, having by learning and study added greatly to his rich natural gifts.”*b In another essay, which is entitled “Friendship,” he recounts the history of their intimacy. “We sought each other,” he writes, “before we met, on account of what we heard of each other, which influenced our inclinations more than there seems to have been reason for, I think through a command of Heaven. We, as it were, embraced each other’s names; and at our first meeting, which was by chance, and at a large assembly, we found ourselves so drawn together, so known to each other, that nothing hereafter was nearer than we were one to the other. He wrote a beautiful Latin poem to excuse the precipitation of our intimacy, which so promptly arrived at its perfection. As it was destined to last so short a time, and began so late, for we were both arrived at manhood, and he was several years the * Tom iii, liv. ii. chap. 17. (24 Aug. 1572). Catholic-Protestant divisions were intensified by competing claims to succeed the Valois dynasty of French kings, which had no direct heir. The Bourbon claimant, the Protestant King Henri of Navarre (1553–1610), became a Catholic in order to become King of France (as Henri IV) and thus united the country. He issued the Edict of Nantes (1598), which guaranteed religious freedom to Protestants. (Henri IV was later assassinated.) a Etienne de la Boétie (1530–63) author of ‘De la servitude volontaire, ou le contr’un’. In her editions of P. B. Shelley’s Poetical Works, Mary Shelley similarly represented Queen Mab as the work of youth (see particularly ‘Note on Queen Mab’, MWSN, vol. 2, p. 426). De la Boétie’s work was interpreted as an attack on the monarchy by French Protestants, and, later, as a protorepublican text. b ‘De la Praesumption’ (‘Of Presumption’), II. 17 (Essais, livre 2, pp. 321–2). Mary Shelley’s reference shows that Montaigne’s second book of essays was in volume III of the edition she was using. The succeeding passage is taken from ‘De l’amitié’ (‘Of Friendship’), I. 28 (Essais, livre 1, pp. 236–42; Essays I, no. 27). Mary Shelley abridges this section considerably, omitting the detail that perfect friends hold in common ‘wills, thoughts, judgements, goods, wives, children, honour and life’; phrasing (such as ‘dragged it out painfully’) is reminiscent at points of her own grieving after P. B. Shelley’s death but also is close to Montaigne’s French.

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elder, it had no time to lose; it could not regulate itself by slow and regular friendships, which require the precaution of a / long preluding acquaintance. Ours had no idea foreign to itself, and could refer to itself alone; it did not depend on one special cause, nor on two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand, but was the quintessence of all which seized on my will, and forced it to merge and lose itself in his, and which, having seized his will, led him to merge and lose his in mine, with equal desire and eagerness. I use the word lose as the proper one, for we neither reserved any thing that was not common to both. Our souls mingled so entirely, and penetrated with such ardent affection into the very essence of each other,a that not only was I as well acquainted with his as with my own, but certainly I should have more readily trusted him than myself. This attachment must not be put in the same rank with common friendships. I have known the most perfect of a slighter kind; and, if the rules are confounded, people will deceive themselves. In other friendships you must proceed bridle in hand; in the more exalted one, the offices and benefits which support other intimacies do not deserve even to be named. The perfect union of the friends causes them to hate and banish all those words that imply division and difference, such as benefit, obligation, gratitude, entreaty, thanks, and the like. All is in common with them; and, if in such a friendship one could give to the other, it would be him who received that would benefit his companion. Menander pronounced him happy who should meet only with the shadow of such a friend: he was right; for if I compare the rest of my life, though, with the blessing of God, I have passed it agreeably and peacefully, and, save from the loss of such a friend, exempt from any poignant affliction, with a tranquil mind, having taken the good that came to me originally and naturally, without seeking others; yet, if I compare the whole of it, I say, with the four years during which it was given me to enjoy the dear society of this person, it is mere smoke, – it is a dark and wearisome night. I have dragged it out painfully since I lost him; and the very / pleasures that have offered themselves to me, instead of consoling, doubled the sense of my loss. We used to share every thing, and methinks I rob him of his portion. I was so accustomed to be two in every thing that I seem now but half of myself. There is no action nor idea that does not present the thought of the good he would have done me, for as he surpassed me infinitely in every talent and virtue, so did he in the duties of friendship.” A severe illness of a few days carried off this admirable friend. Montaigne recounts, in a letter to his father, the progress of the malady, and his death bed;b and nothing can be more affecting, nor better prove the noble and virtuous qualities of both, than these sad hours when the one prepared to die, and the other a Mary Shelley adopts Shelleyan language here. The corresponding phrase in Montaigne is ‘Nos ames ont charrié si uniement ensemble, elles se sont considerées d’une si ardante affection, et de pareille affection descouvertes jusques au fin fond des entrailles l’une à l’autre’. b Variously numbered in different editions among the letters appended to editions of the essays. Mary Shelley had had such an experience in attending the death-bed of her father in 1836.

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ministered to the dying. This loss was never forgotten; and we find, in the journal of his travels in Italy, written eighteen years after, an observation, that he fell one morning into so painful a reverie concerning M. de la Boëtie that his health was affected by it.a Montaigne married at the age of thirty-three: he married neither from wish nor choice. “Of my own will,” he says, “I would have shunned marrying Wisdom herself, had she asked me. But we strive in vain; custom, and the uses of common life, carry us away: example, not choice, leads me in almost all my actions. In this, truly, I did not go of my own accord, but was led, or carried, by extraneous circumstances; and certainly I was then less prepared, and more averse than now that I have tried it. But I have conducted myself better than I expected. One may keep one’s liberty prudently; but, when once one has entered on the obligation, one must observe the laws of a common duty.”b Montaigne made, therefore, a good husband, though not enthusiastically attached, and a good father – indeed, in all the duties of life, he acted better than was expected of him. At his death, his father* left him his estate, fancying that it / would be wasted through his indolence and carelessness; but Montaigne’s faults were negative; and he easily brought himself to regard his income as the limit of his expenses, and even kept within it. His hatred of business and trouble, joined to sound common sense, led him to understand that ease could be best attained by limiting his desires to his means, and by the degree of order necessary to know what these means were; and his practice accorded with this conclusion. Montaigne’s father lived to old age. He married late in life, and we are ignorant of the date of his death;c from that period Montaigne himself seems to have lived * He displayed his affectionate gratitude towards his excellent father by a tender veneration for his memory. He preserved with care the furniture of which he made personal use; and wore, when on horseback, the cloak his father wore, – “Not for comfort,” he says, “but pleasure – methinks I wrap myself in him.”d a

His reverie occurred at Bagni di Lucca on 11 May 1581 and is recounted in the Journals, II, p. 136. b From ‘Sur des vers de Virgile’ (‘Upon some Verses of Virgil’), III. 5, slightly abridged (Essais, livre 3, pp. 67–8). That he acted better than expected is partly derived from Montaigne’s own self-appraisal. c He died in June 1568. d Not found in the Essais or the letters appended. A famous saying, known also to Leigh Hunt, who alludes to it in his 1835 review of Italian Lives I). Michaud, Biographie universelle (1835–65), entry ‘Montaigne’ cites it as follows: ‘Il observe que depuis la perte de ce bon père il portait, lorsqu’il montait a cheval, un manteau qui lui avait appartenu; “ce n’est point, disait il, par commodité, mais par delices; il me semble m’enveloper de lui”’. The earlier edition of Michaud, the greater part of which is incorporated in the later edition, is possibly Mary Shelley’s immediate source; for other examples of her possible use of the earlier Biographie Universelle, see ‘Rochefoucauld’. (Her help was solicited for the Biographie’s entry on Godwin for the revised edition.) The detail of the furniture probably derives from ‘Du Dementir’ (‘Of Giving the Lie’), II. 18 (Essais, livre 2, p. 326) in which he speaks of his treasuring of ancestral objects: ‘I preserve their writing, seal, and a particular sword they used, and I have not thrown out of my closet the long staves that my father used to carry in his hand’ (Essays, p. 322, slightly adapted).

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chiefly at his paternal castle. It would appear that he was at that time under forty*; and henceforth his time was, to a great degree, spent in domestic society, among the few books he loved, writing his essays, and attending to the cares that wait upon property. It is not to be supposed, however, that he lived a wholly sedentary and inactive life. Though he adhered to no party, and showed no enthusiasm in the maintenance of his opinions, his disposition was inquisitive to eagerness, ardent and fiery. The troubles that desolated his country throughout his life fostered the activity of mind of which his writings are so full. He often travelled about France, and, above all, was well acquainted with Paris and the court. He loved the capital, and calls himself a Frenchman only through his love of Paris, which he names the glory of / France, and one of the noblest ornaments of the world.a He attended the courts at the same time of the famous duke de Guise and the king of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV. He had predicted that the death of one or the other of these princes could alone put an end to the civil war, and even foresaw the likelihood there was that Henry of Navarre should change his religion. He was at Blois when the duke de Guise was assassinated; but that event took place long subsequent to the period of which we at present write.b During his whole life civil war raged between catholic and huguenot. Montaigne, attached to the kingly and catholic party, abstained, however, from mingling in the mortal struggles going on.† Yet sometimes they intruded on his quiet, and he was made to feel the disturbances that desolated his country. It is a strange thing to picture France divided into two parties, belonging to which were men who risked all for the dearest privilege of life, freedom of thought and faith; and were either forced, or fancied that they were forced, to expose life and property to attain it; and to compare these religionists in arms with the tranquil * In one of his early essays, he says, “Exactly fifteen days ago I completed my thirty-ninth year” (liv. i. chap. 19.); and in a former one he says, “Having lately retired to my own residence, resolved, as well as I can, to trouble myself with nothing but how to pass in repose what of life is left to me, it appeared to me that I could not do better than to allow my mind, in full idleness, to discourse with itself, and repose in itself, which I hoped it would easily do, having become slower and riper with time; but I find, on the contrary, that, like a runaway horse, it takes a far swifter course for itself than it would for another, and brings forth so many fantastic and chimerical ideas, one after the other, without order or end, that, for the sake of contemplating their folly and strangeness at my ease, I have resolved to put them down, hoping in time to make it ashamed of itself.”c † One of his reasons for abstaining from attacking the huguenots may be found in the circumstance that one of his brothers, M. de Beaurègard, had been converted to the reformed religion. a

From ‘De la vanité’ (‘Of vanity’), III. 9 (Essais, livre 3, p. 185). This portion is from Querlon, in Journal, I, p. xviii, who cites De Thou as the source. Henry of Lorraine, 3rd Duc de Guise (1550–88) and Catholic die-hard was assassinated because of his powerful rivalry to Henri III. c From ‘Que philosopher, c’est apprendre à mourir’ (‘That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die’) I.19 (in earlier editions, but I. 20 in modern editions) and from ‘De l’oisiveté’ (‘Of Idleness’), I.8 (Essais, livre 1, pp. 130, 69–70). b

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philosopher, who dissected human nature in his study, and sounded the very depths of all our knowledge in freedom and ease, because he abstained from certain watchwords, and had no desire for proselytes or popular favour. “I regard our king,” he says, “with a mere legitimate and political affection, neither attracted nor repelled by private interest; and in this I am satisfied with myself. In the same way I am but moderately and tranquilly attached to the general cause, and am not subject to entertain opinions in a deep-felt and enthusiastic manner. Let Montaigne, if it must, be swallowed up in the public ruin; but, if there is no necessity, I shall be thankful to fortune to save it. I treat both parties equally, and say nothing to one that I could not say to the other, with the accent only a little changed; and there is no motive of utility that could induce me to lie.”a / This moderation, on system, of course led him, in his heart, to be inimical to the reformers. “They seek reformation,” he says, “in the worst of destructions, and aim at salvation by the exact modes in which we are sure to reap damnation; and think to aid divine justice and humanity by overturning law and the rulers, under whose care God has placed them, tearing their mother (the church) to pieces, to give portions to be gnawed by her ancient enemies, filling their country with parricidal hatreds.” This is no lofty view of the great and holy work of reformation, the greatest and (however stained by crime, the effect of the most cruel persecutions) the most beneficent change operated in modern times in human institutions. Montaigne goes on: – “The people suffered greatly then, both for the present and the future, from the devastation of the country. I suffered worse, for I encountered all those injuries which moderation brings during such troubles – I was pillaged by all parties. The situation of my house, and my alliance with my neighbours, gave me one appearance, my life and actions another; no formal accusations were made, for they could get no hold against me; but mute suspicion was secretly spread. A thousand injuries were done me one after another, which I could have borne better had they come altogether.”b His mode of preserving his castle from pillage was very characteristic. “Defence,” he says, “attracts enterprise, and fear instigates injury. I weakened the ardour of the soldiery by taking from their exploit all risk or matter for military glory, which usually served them as an excuse: what is done with danger is always honourable at those periods when the course of justice is suspended. I rendered the conquest of my house cowardly and treacherous; it was shut against no one who knocked; a porter was its only guard, an ancient usage and ceremony, and which did not serve so much to defend my abode as to offer an easier and more gracious entrance. I had no centinel but that which the stars kept for me. A gentleman does wrong to appear in a state of / defence who is not perfectly so. My a ‘De l’utile et de l’honneste’, III. 1 (‘Of Profit and Honesty’) (Essais, livre 3, pp. 7, 9). The last sentence is widely separated from the rest of the quotation. The original speaks of ‘nos rois’ (our kings), not ‘our king’. b Both the above quotations are from ‘De la phisionomie’ (‘Of Physiognomy’), III. 12 (Essais, livre 3, pp. 254, 255–6, with omissions).

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house was well fortified when built, but I have added nothing, fearing that such might be turned against myself. So many garrisoned houses being taken made me suspect that they were lost through that very reason. It gave cause and desire for assault. Every guarded door looks like war. If God pleased I might be attacked, but I would not call on the assailant. It is my retreat wherein to repose myself from war. I endeavour to shelter this corner from the public storm, as also another corner in my soul. Our contest vainly changes its forms, and multiplies and diversifies itself in various parties – I never stir. Among so many armed houses, I alone, in France, I believe, confided mine to the protection of Heaven only, and have never removed either money, or plate, or title-deed, or tapestry. I was resolved neither to fear nor to save myself by halves. If an entire gratitude can acquire divine favour, I shall enjoy it to the end; if not, I have gone on long enough to render my escape remarkable; it has lasted now thirty years.”a And he preserved his philosophy through all. “I write this,” he says, in one of his essays, “at a moment when the worst of our troubles are gathering about me; the enemy is at my gates, and I endure all sorts of military outrage at once.”b He gives an interesting account of how, on one occasion, by presence of mind and self-possession, he saved his castle. A certain leader, bent on taking it and him, resolved to surprise him. He came alone to the gate and begged to be let in. Montaigne knew him, and thought he could rely on him as his neighbour, though not as his friend: he caused his door to be opened to him as to every one. The visitant came in a hurried manner, his horse panting, and said that he had encountered the enemy, who pursued him, and he being unarmed, and with fewer men about him, he had taken shelter at Montaigne’s, and was in great trouble about his people, whom he feared were either taken or killed. Montaigne believed the tale and tried to reassure and comfort him. Presently five or six of his followers, with the same appearance of terror, presented / themselves; and then more and more, to as many as thirty, well equipped and armed, pretending that they were pursued by the enemy. Montaigne’s suspicions were at last awakened; but finding that he must go on as he had begun, or break out altogether, he betook himself to what seemed to him the easiest and most natural course, and ordered all to be admitted; “being,” he says, “a man who gladly commits himself to fortune, and believing that we fail in not confiding sufficiently in Heaven.” The soldiers having entered remained in the court yard – their chief, with his host, being in the hall, he not having permitted his horse to be put up, saying he should go the moment his people arrived. He now saw himself master of his enterprise, – the execution alone remained. He often said afterwards – for he did not fear to tell the tale – that Montaigne’s frankness and composure had disarmed his treachery. He remounted his horse and departed, while his people, who kept their eyes continually upon him to see if he a

‘Que nostre desir s’accroit par la malaisance’ (‘That our Desires are Augmented by Difficulty’), II. 15, with some omissions (Essais, livre 2, pp. 280–1). b ‘De la phisionomie’, III. 12 (Essais, livre 3, p. 252). Montaigne actually wrote ‘I was writing this’.

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gave the signal, were astonished to behold him ride off and abandon his advantage.a On another occasion, confiding in some truce, he undertook a journey, and was seized by about thirty gentlemen, masked, as was the custom then, followed by a little army of arquebussiers. Being taken, he was led into the forest and despoiled of his effects, which were valuable, and high ransom demanded. He refused any, contending for the maintenance of the truce; but this plea was rejected, and they were ordered to be marched away. He did not know his enemies, nor, apparently, did they know him; and he and his people were being led off as prisoners, when suddenly a change took place: the chief addressed him in mild terms, caused all his effects to be collected and restored, and the whole party set at liberty. “The true cause of so sudden a change,” says Montaigne, “operated without any apparent cause, and of repentance in a purpose then through use held just, I do not even now know. The chief among them unmasked, and told his name, and several times afterwards said that I owed my deliverance to my composure, to the courage and firmness / of my words, which made me seem worthy of better treatment.” As Montaigne advanced in life he lost his health. The stone, which he believed he inherited from his father, and painful nephritic colics that seized him at intervals, put his philosophy to the test. He would not allow his illnesses to disturb the usual tenor of his life, and, above all, refused medical aid, having also inherited, he says, from his father a contempt for physicians. There was a natural remedy, however, by which he laid store, one much in favour at all times on the continent – mineral and thermal springs.b The desire to try these, as well as a wish to quit for a time his troubled country, and the sight of all the misery multiplying around him, caused him to make a journey to Italy. His love of novelty and of seeing strange things sharpened his taste for travelling; and, as a slighter motive, he was glad to throw household cares aside; for, though the pleasures of command were something, he received perpetual annoyances from the indigence and sufferings of his tenants, or the quarrels of his neighbours: to travel was to get rid of all this at once. Of course, his mode of proceeding was peculiar: he had a particular dislike to coaches or litters, – even a boat was not quite to his mind; and he only really liked travelling on horseback. Then he let every whim sway him as to the route: it gave him no annoyance to go out of his way: if the road was bad to the right, he took to the left: if he felt too unwell to mount his horse, he remained where he was till he got better: if he found he had passed by any thing that he wished to see, he turned back. On the present occasion his mode of travelling was, as usual, regua The above episode, and that told in the next paragraph, follow each other in ‘De la phisionomie’, III. 12, pp. 271–3, with omissions. b P. B. Shelley’s Pisa doctor Vaccà diagnosed him as suffering from a kidney disease, like Montaigne, and prescribed mineral baths. Mary Shelley was later to visit German spas for her health in 1842.

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lated by convenience: hired vehicles carried the luggage while he proceeded on horseback. He was accompanied by several friends, and, among others, by his brother, M. de Mattecoulon. Montaigne had the direction of the journey.a We have a journal of it, partly written in his own hand, partly / dictated to his valet, who, though he speaks of his master in the third person, evidently wrote only the words dictated. This work, discovered many years after Montaigne’s death, never copied nor corrected, is singularly interesting.b It seems to tell us more of Montaigne than the Essays themselves; or, rather, it confirms much said in those, by relating many things omitted, and throws a new light on various portions of his character. For instance, we find that the eager curiosity of his mind led him to inquire into the tenets of the protestants; and that, at the Swiss towns, he was accustomed, on arriving, to seek out with all speed some theologian, whom he invited to dinner, and from whom he inquired the peculiar tenets of the various sects. There creeps out, also, an almost unphilosophical dislike of his own country, springing from the miserable state into which civil war had brought it.* The party set off from the castle of Montaigne on the 22d of June, 1580: they proceeded through the north-east of France to Plombieres, where Montaigne took the waters, and then went on by Basle, Baden, in the canton of Zurich, to Constance, Augsburgh, Munich, and Trent. It is not to be supposed that he went to these places in a right line: he often changed his mind when half way to a town, and came back; so that at last his zigzag mode of proceeding rendered several of his party restive. They remonstrated; but he replied, that, for his own part, he was * “M. de Montaigne trouvoit à dire trois choses en son voïage: l’une qu’il n’eût mené un cuisinier pour l’instuire de leurs façons, et en pouvoir un jour faire la preuve chez lui; l’autre qu’il n’avait mené un valet Allemand, ou n’avait cherché la compagnie de quelque gentilhomme du païs; car de vivre à la merci d’un belitre de guide il y sentoit une grande incommodité; la tierce qu’ avant faire le voyage il n’avait veu les livres qui le pouvoint avertir, des choses rares et remarquables de chaque lieu. II mêloit a la vérité à son jugement un peu de passion du mepris de son pais, qu’il avait à haine et à contre-cœur pour autres considerations.”c a The paragraph up to this point weaves together material from ‘Des coches’ (‘On Coaches’), III. 6, ‘De la vanité’, III. 9 (Essais, livre 3, pp. 115, 198) and Querlon in Journal, I, p. xv. b Following Querlon who wrote that the Journal ‘fera beaucoup mieux connoître, l’Auteur des Essais, que les Essais même’ (I, p. lii). The manuscript was discovered (1770) in an old chest in Montaigne’s chateau (where his descendents were still living). It quickly disappeared, giving rise to suspicions of forgery. These had been satisfactorily answered by the 1830s. c ‘M de Montaigne said three things about his journey: the first was that he regretted that he had not taken a cook who might be instructed in foreign methods of cookery and demonstrate his skill back at home; the second, that he had not taken a German valet or sought out the company of some gentleman, native of the country, because to live at the mercy of a rascally guide he felt to be a great inconvenience; the third that before his departure he had not read books which might have prepared him for the rare and remarkable things to be seen at each place. He mingled with the truth of his judgement a portion of scorn for his country, which he had a dislike for and revulsion against for other reasons.’ (Journal, I, pp. 71–2; Mary Shelley slightly modernises the 18th-century spelling.)

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bound to no place but that in which he was; and that he could not go out of his way, since his only object was to wander in unknown places; and so that he never followed the same road twice, nor visited the same place twice, his scheme was accomplished.a If, indeed, he had been alone, / he had probably gone towards Cracovia, or overland to Greece, instead of to Italy; but he could not impart the pleasure he took in seeing strange places, which was such as to cause him to forget ill health and suffering, to any other of his party: they only sought to arrive where they could repose; he, when he rose after a painful uneasy night, felt gay and eager when he remembered that he was in a strange town and country; and was never so little weary, nor complained so little of his sufferings, having his mind always on the stretch to find novelties and to converse with strangers; for nothing, he says, hurt his health so much as indolence and ennui. With all his windings, after he had visited Venice, which “he had a hunger to see,”b he found himself in Rome on the last day of November, having the previous morning risen at three hours before daylight in his haste to behold the eternal city. Here he had food in plenty for his inquiring mind; and, getting tired of his guide, rambled about, finding out remarkable objects alone; making his shrewd remarks, and trying to discover those ancient spots with which his mind was familiar. For Latin being his mother-tongue, and Latin books his primers, he was more familiar with Roman history than with that of France, and the names of the Scipios and Metelli were less of strangers to his ear than those of many Frenchmen of his own day.c He was well received by the pope, who was eager to be courteous to any man of talent and rank who would still abide by the old religion. Montaigne, before he set out, had printed two books of his “Essays:” these were taken at the custom-house and underwent a censorship: several faults were found – that he had used the word fortune improperly; that he cited heretical poets; that he found excuses for the emperor Julian; that he had said that a man must of necessity be exempt from vicious inclinations while in the act of prayer; that he regarded all tortuous modes of capital punishment as cruel; that he said that a child ought to be brought up / to do every thing. Montaigne took this fault-finding very quietly, saying that he had put these things down as being his opinions, and without supposing that they were errors; and that sometimes the censor had mistaken his meaning.d Accordingly, these censures were not insisted upon; and a The episode occurred in Rovereto. Mary Shelley transposes two portions of a continuous passage. ‘Wander in unknown paths’ translates Montaigne’s ‘se promener par des lieux inconnus’; cf. Mary Shelley description of her Spanish researches as ‘treading in unknown paths’ (Querlon and Journal, I, pp. xxxix, 142–3). b Translates ‘une faim extrême de voir’, singled out from Montaigne’s text and eye-catchingly italicised in Querlon in Journal, I, p. lxiv. c This sentence is derived from a paragraph in ‘De la vanité’, I. 9 (Essais, livre 3, p. 209). d Montaigne stayed in Rome from 30 Nov. 1580 to 19 Apr. 1581. Material in this paragraph and the next derives principally from Journal, I, p. 217 and n.; II, pp. 27–8, 44, 48–56, 59–60. The objections were that Montaigne had written of ‘Fortune’ as of a real being, instead of as a pagan fiction; one of the heretical poets cited was the Protestant convert George Buchanan; the Emperor Julian was an apostate and neo-pagan; Montaigne accepted capital punishment pro-

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when he left Rome, and took leave of the prelate, who had discoursed with him on the subject, he begged him not to pay any regard to the censure, which was a mistaken one, since they honoured his intentions, his affection for the church, and his talents; and so esteemed his frankness and conscientiousness, that they left it to him to make any needful alterations in another edition: and they ended by begging him to assist the church with his eloquence, and to remain at Rome, away from the troubles of his native country. Montaigne was much flattered by this courtesy, and much more so by a bull being issued which conferred on him the citizenship of Rome, pompous in seals and golden letters, and gracious in its expressions. Nothing, he tells us, ever pleased him more than this honour, empty as it might seem, and had employed to obtain it, he says, all his five senses, for the sake of the ancient glory and present holiness of the city. The descriptions which he gives of Rome, of the pope, and all he saw, are short, but drawn with a master’s hand – graphic, original, and just; and such is the unaltered appearance of the eternal city, that his pages describe it as it now is, with as much fidelity as they did when he saw it in the sixteenth century. Its gardens and pleasure-grounds delighted him; the air seemed to him the most agreeable he had ever felt; and the perpetual excitement of inquiry in which he lived, his visits to antiquities, and to various beautiful and memorable spots, delighted him; and neither at home nor abroad was he once visited by gloom or melancholy, which he calls his death. On the 19th of April he left Rome, and passing by the eastern road, and the shores of the Adriatic, he visited Loretto, where he displayed his piety by presenting a silver tablet, on which were hung four silver figures, – / that of the virgin, with those of himself, his wife, and their only child, Eleanor, on their knees before her; and performed various religious duties, which prove the sincerity of his catholic faith. In the month of May he arrived at the baths of Lucca, where he repaired for the sake of the waters. He took up his abode at the Bagni di Villa, and with the exception of a short interval, during which he visited Florence and Pisa, he remained till September, when, on the 7th of that month, he received letters to inform him that he had been elected mayor of Bordeaux, – a circumstance which forced him to hasten his return; but he did not leave Italy without again visiting Rome. His journey home during winter, although rendered painful by physical suffering, was yet tortuous and wandering among the northern Italian towns. He

vided the penalty was carried out swiftly; his opinion that nothing should be forbidden to the young carried with it the admonition that they should also be taught how to regulate their own desires. Many of the passages objected to are to be found in ‘Of the Education of Children’. Montaigne’s outwardly accommodating response appears to have disarmed criticism. He did not censor the Essais, though they were eventually placed on the papal list of Prohibited Books (1674). According to Medwin, the Shelleys’ books were also examined by the Custom-house in Rome, and their Bible confiscated. (Thomas Medwin, The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, revised edn (1913), p. 350).

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re-entered France by Mont Cenis, and, visiting Lyons, continued his route through Auvergne and Perigord, till he arrived at the château de Montaigne.a Montaigne, though flattered by the unsought for election of the citizens of Bordeaux, the more so that his father had formerly been elected to that office, yet, from ill health and natural dislike to public employments, would have excused himself, had not the king interposed with his commands. He represented himself to his electors such as he conceived himself to be, – without party-spirit, memory, diligence, or experience. Many, indeed, in the sequel considered him too indolent in the execution of the duties of his office, while he deemed his negative merits as deserving praise, at a period when France was distracted by the dissensions of contending factions: the citizens, probably, entertained the same opinion, since he was re-elected at the end of the two years, when his office expired, to serve two years more. Montaigne’s was a long-lived family; but he attained no great age, and his latter years were disturbed by great suffering. Living in frequent expectation of death, he was always prepared for it, – his affairs being arranged, and he ready to fulfil all the last pious catholic / duties as soon as he felt himself attacked by any of the frequent fevers to which he was subject. One of the last events of his life was his friendship with mademoiselle Marie de Gournay le Jars, a young person of great merit, and afterwards esteemed one of the most learned and excellent ladies of the day;b and honoured by the abuse of pedants, who attacked her personal appearance and her age, in revenge for her transcending even their sex in accomplishments and understanding: while, on the other hand, she was regarded with respect and friendship by the first men of her time. She was very young when Montaigne first saw her, which happened during a long visit he made to Paris, after his mayorship at Bordeaux was ended. Having conceived an enthusiastic love and admiration of him from reading his essays, she called on him, and requested his acquaintance. He visited her and her mother at their château de Gournay, and allied himself to her by adopting her as his daughter, and entertaining for her a warm affection and esteem. His picture of her is not only delightful, as a testimony of the merits of this young lady*, but a proof of the unfailing enthu* “J’ai pris plaisir de publier en plusieurs lieux l’espérance que j’ai de Marie de Gournay le Jars, ma fille d’alliance, et certes aimée de moi beaucoup plus que paternellement, et envellopée en ma retraite et solitude comme l’une des meillieures parties de mon propre estre je ne regarde plus qu’elle au monde. Si l’adolescence peut donner présage, cette alme sera quelque jour capable des plus belles choses, et entre autre de la perfection de cette tressainte amitié ou nous ne a

The paragraph is taken from both the Discours Préliminaire and the Journal text; see especially Querlon, I, pp. lv, lxxxix, xc–xci and Journal, II, pp. 76–88. For Querlon the visit to the shrine at Loreto was also crucial evidence of Montaigne’s orthodoxy; ‘Bagni di Villa’ is ‘Bein della Villa’ in Journal. P. B. Shelley also went to the Bagni di Lucca for his health (1818). b Often so named, but now known as Marie le Jars de Gournay (1565–1645). She also wrote Égalité des hommes et des femmes and Grief des dames. Mary Shelley omits all mention of Montaigne’s male friends and disciples, Étienne Pasquier and Pierre Charron.

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siasm and warmth of his own heart, which, even in suffering and decay, eagerly allied itself to kindred merit. The illness of which he died was a quinsey, that brought on a paralysis of the tongue. His presence of mind and philosophy did not desert him at the end: he is said, as one of his last acts, to have risen from his bed, and, opening his cabinet, to have paid his servants / and other legatees the legacies he had left them by will, foreseeing that his heirs might raise difficulties on the subject. When getting worse, and unable to speak, he wrote to his wife to beg her to send for some gentlemen, his neighbours, to be with him at his last moments. When they arrived, he caused mass to be celebrated in his chamber: at the moment of the elevation he tried to rise, when he fell back fainting, and so died, on the 13th of September, 1592, in the sixtieth year of his age. He was buried at Bordeaux, in a church of the commandery of St. Anthony, and his widow raised a tomb to his memory.a Montaigne was rather short of stature, strong, and thick set: his countenance was open and pleasing. He enjoyed good health till the age of forty-six, when he became afflicted by the stone. Vivacious as a Gascon, his spirits were unequal, – but he hated the melancholy that belonged to his constitution, and his chief endeavour was to nourish pleasing sensations, and to engage his mind, when his body was unemployed, in subjects of speculation and inquiry.

lisons point que son sexe ayt peu monter encores: la sincérité et la solidité de ses mœurs y sont déjà bastantes; son affection vers moi, plus que surrabondante, et telle, en somme, qu’il n’y a rien a souhaiter, sinon que l’appréhension qu’elle a de ma fin par les cinquante et cinq ans auquels elle m’a rencontré, la travaillant moins cruellement. Le jugement qu’elle fait de mes premiérs Essays, et femme, et si jeune, et seule en son quartier, et la véhémence fameuse dont elle m’aima et me desira longtemps, sur la seule estime qu’elle eu prinsb de moi longtemps avant m’avoir yue, sont des accidens de très digne considération.”c a The gist of this is found in Coste, vol. I, p. lii, but not the detail of his paying his servants. Accounts of Montaigne’s death ultimately derive from Étienne Pasquier. b ‘eu prins’ should be ‘en print’. c ‘I have taken a delight to publish, in several places, the hopes that I have of Marie de Gournay le Jars, my adopted daughter, and certainly loved by me with more than a paternal love, and enveloped in my solitude and retirement as one of the best parts of my own being; I have no longer regard to anything in this world but her. And if a man may presage from her youth, her soul will one day be capable of very great things; and amongst others, of the perfection of that sacred friendship, to which we do not read that any of her sex could ever yet arive; the sincerity and solidity of her manners are already sufficient for it, and her affection towards me more than superabundant, and such, in short, as that there is nothing more to be wished, if not that the apprehension she has of my end, being now five and fifty years old, might not so much afflict her. The judgement she made of my first Essays, being a woman, so young [‘et en ce siecle’, Mary Shelley om.], and alone in her own country; and the famous vehemence wherewith she loved me, and desired my acquaintance solely from the esteem she had thence of me, before she ever saw my face, is an incident very worthy of consideration’ (‘De la præsumption’, II. 17; Essais, livre 2, p. 324; Essays, p. 322). The passage appeared for the first time in 1595 and has been suspected of being interpolated by de Gournay.

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Of three daughters who had been born to him, one, named Eleonora, alone survived.* But his other daughter by adoption, mademoiselle de Gournay, deserved also that name, by the honour and care she bestowed on his memory. Immediately on his decease, the widow and her daughter invited her to come and mourn their loss with them; and she crossed all France to Bordeaux in compliance with their desire. She afterwards published several editions of his “Essays,” which she dedicated to the cardinal de Richelieu,a and accompanied by a preface, in which she ably defended the work from the attacks made against it. This preface, though somewhat heavy, is full of sound reasoning, and displays learning and acuteness, and completely replies to all the blame ever thrown on his works.b / Montaigne’s “Essays” have also been attacked in modern times.c It requires that the reader should possess some similarity to the author’s own mind to enter fully into their merits, and relish their discursive style. The profoundest and most original thinkers have ever turned to his pages with delight. His skilful anatomy of his own mind and passions, – his enthusiasm, clothed as it is in apparent indifference, which only renders it the more striking, – his lively and happy descriptions of persons, – his amusing narratives of events, – his happy citations of ancient authors, – and the whole instinct with individuality; – perspicuity of style, and the stamp of good faith and sincerity that reigns throughout; – these are the charms and merits of his “Essays,” – a work that raises him to the rank of one of the most original and admirable writers that France has produced. /

* Eleonore de Montaigne married twice. She had no children by her first marriage Her second husband was the viscount de Gamache. From this marriage the counts of Segur are descended in the female line.d a

Armand-Jean du Plessis (1585–1642), Cardinal de Richelieu from 1622, chief minister to Louis XIII from 1624–42; the dominant politician of his era. A patron of the arts, he founded the Académie Française (1635), limited to 40 members, with the remit to create a definitive French Dictionary. See also ‘Corneille’ and ‘Rochfoucauld’. b Between 1595 and 1635, Marie de Gournay issued several editions of Montaigne’s works, also making her own preface more restrained. It was the 1635 version that was best known. She defended Montaigne against the charges of using neologisms and Gascon expressions, obscenity, obscurity, heterodoxy and triviality. c Possibly alluding to contemporary censure of his indecency, as in an otherwise favourable article in the Retrospective Review, II pt ii (1820), 226–7, but possibly also to unfavourable views expressed by Guizot and Lamartine. Admirers, past and contemporary, included Voltaire, Johnson, Gibbon, Hazlitt and Byron. d Derived from Querlon in Journal, I, p. iii, note (a). ‘Gamache’ is ‘Gamaches’ in Querlon.

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[The following is not by Mary Shelley]

RABELAIS. 1483–1553. F RANCIS R ABELAIS , – “the great jester of France,” as he is designated by Lord Bacon; a learned scholar, physician, and philosopher, as he appears from other and eminent testimonies, – was one of the most remarkable persons who figured in the revival of letters. It is his fortune, like the ancient Hercules, to be noted with posterity for many feats to which he was a stranger, – but which are always to his disadvantage. The gross buffooneries amassed by him in his nondescript romance have made his name a common mark for any extravagance or impertinence of unknown or doubtful parentage. The purveyors of anecdotes have even fixed upon him some of the lazzi, as they are called, which may be found in the stage directions of old Italian farce. Those events and circumstances of his life which are really known, or deserving of belief, may be given within a narrow compass. We, of course, reject, in this notice, all that would offend the decencies of modern and better taste. Rabelais was born at Chinon, a small town of Touraine. The date of his birth is not ascertained; but the generally received opinion of his death, at the age of 70, in 1553, would place his birth in 1483. There is the same uncertainty respecting the condition of his father; whether that of an innkeeper or apothecary. His predilection for the study of medicine favours the latter supposition, whilst the imputed habits of his life countenance the former. If, however, he was really abandoned to intemperance, as he is represented by his adversaries, who were many and unscrupulous, it may, with equal propriety, be charged to his monastic education, / at a time when cloisters were the chosen seats of debauchery and ignorance. He received his first rudiments at the convent of Sevillé, near his native town, where his progress was so slow that he was removed to another in Angiers. Here also his career seemed unpromising; and the only advantage he derived was that of becoming known to the brothers Du Bellay, one of whom, afterwards bishop of Paris and cardinal, was his patron and friend through life. From Angiers he passed to a convent of cordeliers at Fontenaye-le-Compte, in Poitou. He now applied himself, for the first time, to the cultivation of his talents, but under circumstances the most unfavourable. The cordeliers of Fontenaye-leCompte had no library, or notion of its use. Rabelais assumed the habit of St. 319

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Francis, distinguished himself by his preaching, and employed what he received for his sermons and masses in providing himself with books. The animosity of his brother monks was excited against him: they envied and hated him, for his success as a preacher, and for his superior attainments; – but his great and crying sin in their eyes was his knowledge of Greek, the study of which they denounced as an unholy and forbidden art. This was perfectly consistent: they were content with Latin enough to give them an imposing air with the multitude; some did not know even so much, and, instead of a breviary, carried a wine flask exactly resembling it in exterior form. His brother monks annoyed and harassed Rabelais by all the modes which malice, ignorance, and numbers can employ against an individual, and in a convent. The learned Budeus*, alluding to the persecutions which he was suffering, says, in one of his letters, “I understand that Rabelais is grievously annoyed and persecuted, by those enemies of all that is elegant and graceful, for his ardour in the study of Greek literature. Oh! evil infatuation of men whose minds are so dull and stupid!” They at last condemned him to live in pace; that is, / to linger out the remainder of his life, on bread and water, in the prison cell of the convent. The cause, or the pretence, of Rabelais’s being thus buried alive, is described as “a scandalous adventure;” but differently related. According to some the scandal consisted in his disfiguring, by way of frolic, in concert with another young cordelier, the image of their patron saint. Others state, that on the festival of St. Francis he removed the image of the saint, and took its place. Having taken precautions to bear out the imposture, he escaped detection, until the grotesque devotions of the multitude, and the rogueries of the monks, overcame his gravity, and he laughed. The simple people, seeing the image of the saint, as they supposed it, move, exclaimed, “A miracle!” but the monks, who knew better, dismissed the laity, made their false brother descend from his niche, and gave him the discipline, with their hempen cords, until his blood appeared. We will not decide which, or whether either, of these versions be true; but it is certain that he was condemned, as we have said, to solitary confinement for life in the prison cell. Fortunately for him, his wit, gaiety, and acquirements had made him friends who were powerful enough to obtain his release. These were the Du Bellays already mentioned, and Andre Tiraqueau, chief judge of the province, to whom one of Rabelais’s Latin letters is addressed; – a man of learning, it would appear, and an upright judge. The letter is addressed, “Andreo Tiraquello, equissimo judici, apud Pictones,” and commences “Tiraquelle doctissime.” Their influence obtained not only his liberty, but the pope’s (Clement VII.) licence to pass from the cordeliers of Fontenaye-le-Compte, to a convent of Benedictines at Maillezieux in the same province. This latter order has been distinguished for learning, and deserves respectful and grateful mention for its share in the preservation of the classic remains of antiquity. It was, no doubt, more agreeable, or less disagreeable, to Rabelais than that which he had left; but / wholly disgusted with * Guillaume Budé.

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the monastic life, he soon threw off the frock and cowl, left the convent of his own will and pleasure, without licence or dispensation from his superiors, and for some time led a wandering life as a secular priest. We next find him divested wholly of the sacerdotal character, and studying medicine at Montpelier. The date of this transition, as too frequently happens in the life of Rabelais, cannot be determined. He, however, pursued his studies, took his successive degrees of bachelor, licentiate, and doctor, and was, after some time, appointed a professor. He lectured, it appears from his letters of a subsequent date, chiefly on the works of Hippocrates and Galen. His superior knowledge of the Greek language enabled him to correct the faults of omission, falsification, and interpolation, committed by former translators of Hippocrates; and he executed this task, he says, by the most careful and minute collation of the text with the best copies of the original. “If this be a fault,” says he, speaking of preceding mistranslations, “in other books, it is a crime in books of medicine; for in these the addition or omission of the least word, the misplacing even of a point, compromises the lives of thousands.” Accordingly, his edition of Hippocrates, subsequently published by him at Lyons, has been highly prized by physicians and scholars. Rabelais had less difficulty in restoring and elucidating the text, than in bringing into practice the better medical system of the father of the art. He complains, in his Latin epistle to Tiraqueau, at some length, but in substance, that though the age boasted many learned and enlightened men, yet the multitude was in worse than Cimmerian darkness – the many so besotted by the errors, however gross, which they had first imbibed, and by the books, however absurd, which they had first read, as to seem irremediably blind to reason and truth – clinging to ignorance and absurdity, like those shipwrecked persons who trust to a beam or a rag of the vessel which had split, instead of making an effort themselves / to swim, and finding out their mistake only when they are hopelessly sinking. – Mountebanks and astrologors (he adds) were preferred to learned physicians, even by the great. But his capacity and zeal were held in just estimation by the medical faculty of Montpelier. – The chancellor Duprat having, for some reason now unknown, deprived that body of its privileges, or, according to Niceron, one college only having suffered deprivation, Rabelais was deputed to solicit their restoration. There is a current anecdote of the strange mode which he took to introduce himself to the chancellor. – Arrived at the chancellor’s door, he spoke Latin to the porter, who, it may be supposed, did not understand him; a person who understood Latin presenting himself, Rabelais spoke to him in Greek; to a person who understood Greek, he spoke Hebrew; and so on, through several other languages and interpreters, until the singularity of the circumstance reached the great man, and Rabelais was invited to his presence. This is in the last degree improbable. Cardinal du Bellay, his patron, was then bishop of Paris, in high favour at the court of Francis I., and, doubtless, ready to present him in a manner much more 321

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conducive to the success of his mission. The ridiculous invention was suggested by a passage of Rabelais, in which Panurge addresses Pantagruel, on their first meeting, in thirteen different languages, dead and living, not including French. Rabelais, however, pleaded the cause of the faculty of Montpelier so well, that its privileges were restored, and he was received by his colleagues on his return with unprecedented honours. So great was the estimation in which he was held henceforth, and the reverence for him after his departure, that every student put on Rabelais’s scarlet gown when taking his degree of doctor. This curious usage continued from the time of Rabelais down to the Revolution. The gown latterly used was not the identical one of Rabelais. The young doctors, in their enthusiasm for its first wearer, carried off each a piece, by way of relic, / until, in process of time, it reached only to the hips, and a new garment was substituted. Rabelais, having left Montpelier, appears next at Lyons, where he practised as a physician, and published his editions of Hippocrates and Galen, with some minor pieces, including almanacks, which prove him conversant with the science of astronomy. One almanack bearing his name is pronounced spurious, on the ground of his being made to describe himself as “physician and astrologer.” He treated the pretended science of astrology with derision. This would add nothing to his reputation in a later age; but, considering the number of his cotemporaries, otherwise enlightened, who were not proof against this weakness, it proves him to have been one of those superior spirits whose views are in advance of their generation. Cardinal du Bellay was sent ambassador by Francis I. to the court of Rome in 1534, and attached Rabelais as physician to his suite. He appears to have made two visits to Italy with the cardinal at this period, but there are no traces by which they can be distinguished, nor is it very material. It is made a question in one of the most recent sketches of the life of Rabelais, whether he attended the ambassador as physician or buffoon. His letters, addressed from Rome, to his friend the bishop of Maillezieux, furnish decisive evidence of his being a a person treated with respect and confidence, independently of the known friendship of the cardinal. They are the letters of a man of business, well informed of all that was passing, and trusted with state secrets. He alludes, in one letter, to the quarrels of Paul III. (now pope) and Henry VIII. It appears that the cardinal du Bellay and the bishop of Mâcon opposed and retarded, in the consistory, the bull of excommunication against Henry, as an invasion of the rights and interests of Francis I. Writing of the pope, and to a bishop, he treats him as a temporal prince, with the freedom of one man of sense and frankness writing to another, but without the least approach to levity. / We pass over the gross and idle buffooneries which Rabelais is said to have permitted himself at his first audience of the pope, and towards his person. They are too coarse to be mentioned, and too inconsistent with the probabilities of place and person to be believed. One anecdote only may be excepted, as not altogether incredible. The pope, it is said, expressed his willingness to grant Rabelais a 322

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favour, and he, in reply, begged his holiness to excommunicate him. Being asked why he preferred so strange a request, he accounted for it by saying, that some very honest gentlemen of his acquaintance in Touraine had been burned, and finding it a common saying in Italy, when a faggot would not take fire, that it was excommunicated by the pope’s own mouth, he wished to be rendered incombustible by the same process. Rabelais appears to have indulged and recommended himself by his wit and gaiety at Rome; and it is not absolutely incredible that he may have gone this length with Paul III., who was a bad politician rather than a persecutor. But it is still unlikely, that whilst he was soliciting absolution from one excommunication, which he had already incurred by his apostacy from his monastic vows, he should request the favour of another, even in jest. It appears untrue that he gave offence by his buffooneries, and was punished or disgraced. This assertion is negatived by his letters, and, more conclusively, by the pope’s granting him the bull of absolution, which he had been soliciting for some time. Rabelais returned to Lyons after his first visit to Rome. After the second, he appears to have gone to Paris. No credit is due to the ridiculous artifice by which, it has been stated so often in print, he got over the payment of his hotel bill at Lyons, and travelled on to Paris at the public charge. He made up, it is pretended, several small packets, and employed a boy, the son of his hostess, to write on them “poison for the king,” “poison for the queen,” &c. through the whole royal family. His injunctions of secrecy of course ensured / the disclosure of the secret by the young amanuensis to his mother, and Rabelais was conveyed a state prisoner to the capital. Arrived at Paris, and at court too, he proved the innocuous quality of his packets, and amused Francis I. by swallowing the contents. It has been justly remarked by Voltaire, that at a moment when the recent death of the dauphin had taken place under the suspicion of poison, this freak would have subjected Rabelais to be questioned upon the rack. Other ridiculous expedients, said to have been used by him, to extricate himself from his tavern bills, when he was without money to pay them, are undeserving of notice. There is no good evidence of his having been at any time under the necessity of resorting to them. His letters from Rome to the bishop of Maillezieux, of whom he was the pensioner, make it appear that his mode of life there was frugal and regular. But the common source of all these impertinent fictions is the mistake, as we have already said, of confounding an author with his book. Rabelais, the eulogist of debts and drunkenness, the high priest of “the oracle of the holy bottle,” must of course have been reduced to such expedients! There cannot be a greater error. Doctor Arbuthnot, who approached the broad humour of Rabelais, even nearer than Swift, was remarkable for the gravity of his character and deportment. Cardinal du Bellay, on his return from Rome to Paris, took Rabelais into his family, as his physician, his librarian, his reader, and his friend. It is stated, that he confided to him even the government of his household; which is itself a proof that Rabelais was not the reckless, dissolute buffoon he is represented. The cardinal’s regard for him did not rest here. He obtained from the pope a bull, which 323

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secularized the abbey of St. Maur-des-Fosses, in his diocese of Paris, and conferred it on Rabelais. The next favour bestowed upon Rabelais by his patron was the cure or rectory of Meudon, which he held to his death, and from which he is familiarly styled “Le curé de Meudon.” / It is not known at what periods or places Rabelais wrote his “Lives of the great Giant Garagantua and his Son Pantagruel;” to which he owes, if not all his reputation, certainly all his popularity; but he appears to have completed and republished it after his return from Italy. The date of the earliest existing edition of the first and second books is 1535; but there were previous editions, which have disappeared. The “Champ Fleury,” of Geoffroy Tory, quoted by Lacroix du Maine, refers to them as existing before 1529. The royal privilege, dated 1545, granted by Francis I. to “our well-beloved Master Francis Rabelais,” for reprinting a correct and complete edition of his work, sets forth that many spurious publications of it had been made; that “the book was useful and delectable;” and that its continuance and completion had been solicited of the author “by the learned and studious of the kingdom.” The book and the author were attacked on all sides, and from opposite quarters. The champions for and against Aristotle, who disputed with a sectarian animosity, equalling in fury the theological controversies of the time, suspended their warfare to turn their arms against Rabelais; he was assailed, as a common enemy, by the champions of the Romish and reformed doctrines; by the antistagyrite Peter Ramus, and his antagonist Peter Gallandus; by the monk of Fontevrault, Puits d’Herbault, and by Calvin. But the most formidable quarter of attack was the Sorbonne, and its accusations against him the most perilous to which he could be exposed – heresy and atheism. The book was condemned by the Sorbonne, and by the criminal section of the court of parliament. When it is considered that Rabelais, in the sixteenth century, and in France, chose for the subjects of his ridicule and buffoonery the wickedness and vices of popes, the lazy luxurious lives and griping avarice of the prelates, the debauchery, libertinism, knavery, and ignorance of the monastic orders, the barbarous and absurd theology of the Sorbonne, and the no less / barbarous and absurd jurisprudence of the high tribunals of the kingdom, the wonder is not that he was persecuted, but that he escaped the stake. His usual good fortune and high protection, however, once more saved him. Francis I. called for the obnoxious and condemned book, had it read to him from the beginning to the end, pronounced it innocent and “delectable,” and protected the author. The sentence of condemnation became a dead letter, the book was read with avidity, and Rabelais admired and sought as the first wit and scholar of his age. Some expositors of Rabelais will have it, that his romance is the history of his own time burlesqued. The fictitious personages and events have even been resolved into the real. Nothing can be more uncertain, or indeed more improbable. The simple fact, that of two the most copious and diligent commentators of Rabelais, – Motteux and Duchat, – one has identified Rabelais’s personages with 324

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the D’Albrets of Navarre, Montluc bishop of Valence, &c., whilst the other has discovered in Grandgousier, Garagantua, Pantagruel, Panurge, friar John, the characters of Louis XII., Francis I., Henry II., cardinal Lorraine, cardinal du Bellay. This fact alone proves the hopeless uncertainty of the question. Passing over the glaring want of congruity, which any reader of history and of Rabelais must observe between the personages here identified, how improbable the supposition that Rabelais should have held up to public ridicule the sovereign who protected him, and the friend upon whom he was mainly dependant! How absurd the supposition that neither of them should have discovered it, or been made sensible of it by others! We more particularly notice this baseless hypothesis, – for such it really is, – because it is the most confidently and frequently reproduced. But, independently of what we have said, there is an outrageous disregard of all design and probability in the work, which defies any such verification. The most reasonable opinion, we think, is, that Rabelais attached / himself to no series of events, and to no particular persons, but burlesqued classes and conditions of society, and even arts and sciences, as they presented themselves to his wayward humour and ungoverned or ungovernable imagination. This view is borne out by what we read in the memoirs of the president De Thou, who describes the author and the book as follows: – “Rabelais had a perfect knowledge of Greek and Latin literature, and of medicine, which he professed. Discarding, latterly, all serious thoughts, he abandoned himself to a life of gaiety and sensuality, and, to use his expression, embracing as his own the art of ridiculing mankind, produced a book full of the mirth of Democritus, sometimes grossly scurrilous, yet most ingeniously written, in which he exhibited, under feigned denominations, as on a public stage, all orders of the community and of the state, to be laughed at by the public.” Perhaps the real secret of his enigmatical book may be found on the surface, in his own declaration, – that he wrote for the amusement of his patients, and of the sick and sad of mankind, “those jovial follies (cez folastreries joyeuses), whilst taking his bodily refreshment, that is, eating and drinking, the proper time for treating matters of such high import and profound science.” The charge of heresy, as understood by the church of Rome, could be easily proved against him; but there appears no good ground for that of atheism, or of infidelity. He applies texts of Scripture improperly and indecently, but rather from wanton levity of humour than deliberate profaneness; and he may have retained this part of his early habits as a cordelier, – for the monks were notorious for the licence with which they applied, in their orgies, the texts of Scripture in their breviaries, – probably the only portions of Scripture which they knew: allowance is also to be made for the tone of manners and language in an age when the most zealous preachers and theologians, Romish and reformed, indulged in profane applications, and parodies of Scripture without reproach. Rabelais was in principle a reformer, but of a humour / too light and careless to embark seriously in the great cause.

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No writer has had more contemptuous depreciators and enthusiastic admirers: his book has been called a farrago of impurity, blasphemy, and trash; a masterpiece of wit, pleasantry, erudition, and philosophy, composed in a charming style. An unqualified judgment for or against him would mislead. The most valuable opinions of him are those of his own countrymen, since the French language and literature have attained their highest cultivation. Labruyere, after discarding the idea of any historic key to Rabelais, says of him, that “where he is bad, nothing can be worse, he can please only the rabble; where good, he is exquisite and excellent, and food for the most delicate.” Lafontaine, who in his letters calls him “gentil Maitre Français,” has versified several of his tales, and even imitated his diction. Boileau called him “reason in masquerade” (la raison en masque). Bayle, however, made so light of him, that he has not deigned him an article in his dictionary, and only names him once or twice in passing. This was surely injustice from one who gives a separate and copious notice to the buffoon and bigot, Father Garasse. Voltaire has treated Rabelais contemptuously; called him “a physician playing the part of Punch,” “a philosopher writing in his cups,” “a mere buffoon.” But these opinions, expressed in his philosophical letters, were recanted by him, after some years, in a private letter to Madame du Deffand; and he avows in it that he knew “Maitre Français” by heart. Voltaire appropriated both the matter and manner of Rabelais in some of his tales and “faceties,” and he has been accused of this petty motive for decrying him. It was discovered, at the French revolution, that Rabelais was another Brutus, counterfeiting folly to escape the despotism of which he meditated the overthrow; and the late M. Ginguené proved, in a pamphlet of two hundred pages, that Rabelais anticipated all the reforms of that period in the church and state. The detractors of Rabelais’s book may be more easily / justified than his admirers. The favour which it obtained in his lifetime, and the popularity which it has maintained through three centuries, may be ascribed to other causes besides its merits. It had the attraction of satire, malice, and mystery, which all were at liberty to expound at their pleasure; and many, doubtless, read it for its ribald buffooneries. There is in it, at the same time, a fund of wit, humour, and invention – a rampant, resistless gaiety, which gives an amusing and humorous turn to the most outrageous nonsense. There are touches of keen and witty satire, which bear out the most favourable part of the judgment of Labruyere. The condemnation of Panurge, who is left to guess his crime, is most happily humorous and satirical, whether applied to the Inquisition or to the barbarous jurisprudence of the age. Panurge protests his innocence of all crime: “Ha! there!” exclaims GrippeMenaud; “I’ll now show you that you had better have fallen into the claws of the devil than into ours. You are innocent, are you? Ha! there! as if that was a reason why we should not put you through our tortures. Ha! there! our laws are spiders’ webs; the simple little flies are caught, but the large and mischievous break through them.” There is in Rabelais a variety of erudition, less curious than Butler’s, but more elegant. His stock of learning, it has been said, would be indigence 326

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in later times: but it should be remembered at how little cost a great parade of erudition may now be made out of indexes and encyclopedias, whilst Rabelais, Erasmus, and the other scholars of their time, had to purvey for themselves. Rabelais most frequently quotes; but he also appropriates sometimes, without acknowledgment, what he had read. Some of his tales are to be found in the “Facetiæ” of Poggius; – that, for instance, which has been versified by Lafontaine and Dryden: and he applied to himself, after Lucian (in his treatise of the manner of writing history), the story of Diogenes rolling his tub during the siege of Corinth. Lucian has been called his prototype. Their essentially distinctive traits may be seen at / a glance in their respective uses of this anecdote of the cynic philosopher: in the redundant picturesque buffoonery of dialogue and description of the one; the felicity, humour, severer judgment, and chaster style of the other. It is impossible to characterise the fantastic cloud of words, so far beyond any thing understood by copiousness or diffuseness, conjured up sometimes by Rabelais; his vagrant digressions, astounding improbabilities, and monstrous exaggerations: but he has that rare endowment which all but redeems these faults, and charms the reader, – the talent of narrating. His great and fatal blemish is his grossness, his disregard of all decency, his sympathy with nastiness, his invasion of all that is weak and vile in the recesses of nature and the imagination. But it should be said for him, at the same time, that his is the coarseness which revolts, rather than the depravity which contaminates; and not only his affectation of a diction more antique than even his own age, but his use of the vulgar provincialisms called in France Patois, limit his popularity in the original to readers of his own country, and the better informed of other countries. Rabelais had a host of imitators in his own age, and that which immediately succeeded: they have all sunk into utter and just oblivion, with the exception, perhaps, of Beroalde de Verville, author of the “Moyen de Parvenir.” Scarron more recently made Rabelais his model, with a congenial taste for buffoonery and burlesque. Moliere has not disdained to borrow from him in his comedies. Lafontaine has versified several of the tales introduced in his romance, and has even inclined to his diction. Swift has condescended to be indebted to him. “Gulliver’s Travels” and the “Tale of a Tub” both bear decisive evidence, not only in particular passages, but in their respective designs, of the author’s being well acquainted with the romance of “Garagantua and Pantagruel.” But the imitations only prove Swift’s incomparable superiority of judgment and genius. No two things can be more different, than the grave and governed humour of Swift, / and the laughing mask of everlasting buffoonery worn by Rabelais: both employ in their fictions the mock-marvellous and gigantic; but Swift observes, throughout, a proportioned scale in his creations, whilst Rabelais outrages all proportion and probability: for instance, in his absurd yet laughable fiction of Panurge’s six months’ travels, and his discovery of mountains, valleys, rocks, cities, in the mouth of the great giant Pantagruel. Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy” is more closely modelled upon the romance of Rabelais. There is the same love of farce, whim, and burlesque, even 327

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to the theology of the schoolmen; the same love of digression and wandering: but in Sterne, a superior finesse of perception and expression, the relief of mirth and pathos intermingled, and, above all, a tone of finer humanity. Rabelais left, besides his romance, “Certain Books of Hippocrates;” and “The Ars Medicinalis of Galen,” revised, edited, and commented by him; “The Second Part of the Medical Epistles of Manardi, a physician of Ferrara,” edited and commented; “The Will of Lucius Cuspidius;” and “A Roman Agreement of Sale – venerable Remains of Antiquity:” (Rabelais was deceived – they were forgeries: the one by Pomponius Lætus; the other by Pontanus, whom Rabelais, on discovering his mistake, gibbeted in his romance). “Marliani’s Topography of Ancient Rome,” merely republished by him; “Several Almanacks, calculated under the Meridian of the noble City of Lyons;” “Military Stratagems and Prowess of the renowned Chevalier de Langey,” a relative of his patron cardinal du Bellay (doubtful whether his); “Letters from Italy, addressed to the Bishop of Maillezieux,” with a historical commentary, far exceeding the bulk of the text, by the brothers St. Marthe; “La Sciomachie” (sham battle) – a description of the fête given at Rome by cardinal du Bellay, in honour of the birth of the duke of Orleans, son of Francis I.; “Epistles,” in Latin prose and French verse; “Smaller Pieces” of French poetry; “The Pantagrueline Prognostication,” connected with the romance; and “The Philosophical / Cream,” a burlesque on the disputations of the schoolmen and the Sorbonne. “The heroic Lives of the great Giants Garagantua and Pantagruel” have gone through countless editions, various expurgations, and endless commentaries; but the most valuable or curious are Duchat’s, with a historical and critical commentary, in French; Motteux’s, with similar commentaries, in English; an edition by the bookseller Bernard, of Amsterdam, in 1741, with the annotations of the two former, revised and criticised, and illustrations of the text engraved from drawings by Picart; an edition, in three volumes, Paris, 1823, with a copious glossary, a curious and highly illustrative table of contents, and “Rabelæsiana,” collected from the author’s book, not from his life; another Paris edition, of the same date, in nine volumes, with a “variorum” commentary, from the earliest annotators down to Ginguené, valuable from its copiousness rather than discernment. This last edition gives the 120 wood-cut Pantagruelian caricatures, first published in 1655, under the title of “Songes drolatiques,” and ascribed, upon questionable grounds, to Rabelais. It has been said, with every appearance of truth, that the conversation and character of Rabelais were greatly superior to his book. He knew fourteen languages, dead and living, including Hebrew and Arabic, and wrote Greek, Latin, and Italian. The Greek which he puts into the mouth of Panurge, though not the purest, even for a modern, is fluent and correct. We may remark, in passing, that the Greek word “αυ’το`,” given as part of the text in the common character, is written “afto.” He was conversant with all the sciences and most of the arts of his time: a physician, a naturalist, a mathematician, an astronomer, a theologian, a 328

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jurist, an antiquary, an architect, a grammarian, a poet, a musician, a painter. His person and deportment are described as noble and graceful, his countenance engaging and expressive, his society agreeable, his disposition generous and kind. He was the physician as well as pastor of / his parishioners at Meudon, where he passed his time between the society of men of letters and his friends, his clerical and medical duties, and teaching the children who chanted in the choir the elements of music. He died, it is supposed, in 1553, at the age of seventy, in Paris, and was buried in the churchyard of St. Paul, Rue des Jardins, at the foot of a tree, which, out of respect to his memory, was religiously spared, until it disappeared by natural decay. It is untrue that he sent to cardinal du Bellay, from his deathbed, this idle message, by a page whom the cardinal had sent to know his state – “Tell the cardinal I am going to try the great ‘perhaps’ – you are a fool – draw the curtain – the farce is done;” or that he made this burlesque will, – “I have nothing – I owe much – I leave the rest to the poor;” or that he put on a domino when he felt his death approaching, because it is written, “beati qui moriuntur in Domino.” They are impertinent fictions. Duverdier (quoted by Niceron in his Literary Memoirs, vol. xxxii.) had spoken ill of Rabelais in his “Bibliothéque Française,” but retracted in his “Prosographie,” and bore testimony to the Christian sentiments in which he died. No monument has been placed over the grave of Rabelais, but he has been the subject of many epitaphs. We select two of them; one in Latin, the other in French:– Ille ego Gallorum gallus Democritus, illo Gratius aut siquid gallia progenuit. Sic homines, sic et cœlestia numina lusi, Vix homines, vix ut numina læsa putes. Pluton, prince du sombre empire, Ou les tiens ne rient jamais, Reçois aujourdhui Rabelais, Et vous aurez, tous, de quoi rire. /

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CORNEILLE. 1606–1684. T HERE is something forcible and majestic attached to the name of the father of French tragedy. As Æschylus displayed a sublime energy before the beauty of Sophocles, and the tenderness of Euripides threw gentler graces over the Greek theatre, so (if we may compare aught French to the mightier Athenian), before Racine added elegance and pathos, did Corneille, in heroic verse and majestic situation, impart a dignity and simplicity to the French drama afterwards wholly lost. We know little of him – a sort of shadowy indistinctness confounds the course of his life; but in the midst of this obscurity we trace the progress of a master mind – a man greater than his works, and yet not so great; who conceived ideas more sublime than any he executed, and who yet was held back from achieving all of which he might have been capable by a certain narrowness of taste. Had Corneille been English or Spanish, unfettered by French dramatic rules, unweakened by the jejune powers of French verse, his talent had shown itself far more mighty. As it is, however imperfect his plays may be, we admire the genius of the man far more than that of his successors, as displayed in the same career. It has been observed, that Shakspeare himself never portrayed a hero – a man mastering fate through the force of virtue. Corneille has done this; and some of his verses are instinct with an heroic spirit worthy a language more capable of expressing them. Pierre Corneille, master of waters and forests in the viscounty of Rouen, and Marthe Le Pesant, a lady of noble family, were the parents of the poet, Pierre Corneille, / surnamed the great. They had two other children: Thomas, who followed his brother’s career, and was a dramatic author: and Marthe, who also shared the talents of this illustrious family. She was consulted by her brother, who read his plays to her before they were acted. She married, and was the mother of Fontenelle, the author.a Pierre was a pupil of the Jesuits of Rouen, and always preserved feelings of gratitude towards that society. He was educated for the bar, but neither displayed taste for, nor obtained any success in, this career; while the

a

Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle (1657–1757), secretary to the Academy of Sciences. His hagiographic and unreliable ‘Vie de Corneille’ was included in many editions, and used by all biographers. Some inaccuracies, as Taschereau notes, were corrected by the Abbé François Granet’s edition of Œuvres diverses de P. Corneille (1738). DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768-24

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spirit of the age and his own genius pointed out another, in which he acquired high renown. The civil dissensions which had hitherto desolated France prevented the cultivation of the refined arts. Henry IV. bestowed peace on his country; but the men of his day, brought up in the lap of war, were rough and unlettered. It is generally found that national struggles develope, in the first instance, warriors and statesmen; and, when these are at an end, intellectual activity, finding no stage for practical exertion, turns itself to the creation of works of the imagination. Thus, at least, it was in Rome, where Virgil and Horace succeeded to Cato and Cæsar; – thus in France, where Corneille and Fenelon replaced Sully and his hero king.a The influence of Henry IV. had been exerted to raise men fitted for the arts of government – that of Richelieu, to depress them. In the midst of the peace of desolation,b bestowed by this minister on his country, which crushed all generous ardour for liberty or political advancement, the arts had birth; and the cardinal had not only sufficient discernment to encourage them in others, but entertained the ambition of shining himself. The theatre as yet did not exist in France; monastic exhibitions, mysteries and pageants, had been in vogue, which displayed neither invention nor talent. By degrees the French gathered some knowledge of the Spanish stage – the true source of modern drama, but they imitated them badly. The total want of merit in the plays of Hardy has condemned them to entire oblivion,c and the dramas of Richelieu, though / mended and patched by the best authors in Paris, were altogether execrable: but the spirit was born and spread abroad. Pierre Corneille, in the provincial town of Rouen, imbibed it, and was incited to write. His first play was a comedy called “Melite.” The plot was simple enough, and suggested by an incident that occurred to himself. A friend who was in love, and met with no return, introduced Corneille to the lady, and asked him to write a sonnet addressed to her, in his name. The young poet found greater favour in the lady’s eyes, and became a successful rival; and this circumstance, which he mixed up with others less credible, forms the plot of “Melite.”d “This,” writes Corneille, “was my coup d’essai. It is not in the rules, for I did not then know that such existed. Common sense was my only guide, added to the example of Hardy. The success of my piece was wonderful; it caused the a

Maximilien de Béthune, Baron de Rosny, duc de Sully (1559–1641), protestant, Henry IV’s brother-in-arms, friend and his able Superintendant of Finance. Cato (the Younger), stoic (95– 46 BC ) and Julius Caesar (101–44 BC ) were opponents during the Roman Civil war. All were both warriors and statesmen. b Recalling Tacitus, Agricola, ch. 30: ‘Solitudinem faciunt pacem appelant’ (‘[The Romans] make a desert and call it peace’). c Alexandre Hardy (c. 1570–1632), influential promoter of the neo-classical ‘rules’ of dramatic composition. d The marginal date ‘1629’ for the composition of Mélite shows that Mary Shelley is following a corrected date and disregarding Fontenelle, who dated it 1625; for the correction, Taschereau cited the Parfait brothers’ Histoire du Théâtre François. The probable source of the story about the lady is an editor’s note appended to ‘Excuse à Ariste’ (see below, p. 333, note b).

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establishment of a new company of players in Paris; it equalled the best which had then appeared, and made me known at court.”a The comedy itself has slight merit, and reads dully. Perhaps the spectators felt this, for it had its critics. Corneille made a journey to Paris to see it acted. He there heard that the action of a play ought to be confined within the space of twenty-four hours; and he heard the meagerness of his plot and the familiarity of the language censured. As a sort of bravado, to show what he could do, he undertook to write a tragedy full of events, all of which should occur during the space of twenty-four hours, and raised the language to a sort of tragic elevation, while he took no pains to tax his genius to do its best.b At this time Corneille neither understood the basis on which theatrical interest rests (the struggle of the passions), nor had he acquired that force of expression which elevates him above all other French dramatic writers. He went on writing plays whose mediocrity renders them absolutely unreadable, and produced six comedies, which met with great success, as being the best which had then appeared, but which are now neither read nor acted.c Thus brought into notice, he became / one among five authors who corrected the plays of cardinal de Richelieu. His associates were L’Etoile, Boisrobert, Colletet, and Rotrou; of whom the last only was a man of genius, and he alone appreciated Corneille’s merit.d The others envied and depreciated him. They were joined in this sort of cabal by men of greater talent, and who ranked as the first literati of the day. Scuderi and Mairet both attacked him;e and at last he had the misfortune to awaken the ill feelings of the cardinal-minister-author. Richelieu had caused a play to be acted at his palace, called the “Comedie des Tuileries,” the scenes of which he himself arranged. Corneille ventured, unbidden, to alter something in the third act. Two of his associates represented this as an impertinence; and the cardinal reproved him, saying, that it was necessary to have “un esprit de suite,” or an a

From Corneille’s ‘Examen de Mélite’, slightly abridged. Coup d’essai: first attempt; ‘in the rules’: observing the neo-classical ‘rules of the Unities’ of time, place and action derived by 16thcentury critics from a particular interpretation of Aristotle’s Poetics. The action of a play should take the same time as its performance, there should be no changes of scene, no subplots and few persons on the stage at a time. Even in France, the unities were seldom enforced with absolute rigour. The unity of time, for instance, was usually extended to a period of 24 hours. Corneille appended ‘Examens’ to the collected edition of his dramas (1660); they contain his conscientious assessments of the defects and merits of the plays. b From ‘Corneille made a journey’ to this point is taken from his ‘Examen de Clitandre’. c Some were tragi-comedies. The six are Clitandre (1632), La Veuve, La Galérie du Palais, La Suivante (all of 1634), La Place Royale (1636), plus Mélite. d Claude de L’Étoile (c.1597–c.1651), early member of the Académie, a writer of laboured poems and plays; Abbé François de Boisrobert (1589–1662), possible initiator of the Académie; Guillaume Colletet (1598–1659), father of the François whom Boileau satirised; Jean de Rotrou (1609–50), best known for the drama Venceslas, loyal friend of Corneille. e Georges de Scudéri (or Scudéry) (1601–67), coterie writer, brother of Madeleine de Scudéri, the romance-writer later ridiculed by Boileau. He wrote the hostile ‘Observations sur le Cid’. Jean Mairet (1604–86), staunch upholder of neo-classical ‘rules’ of drama; his Sophonisbe (1633) is credited by Voltaire with being the first French drama to observe them perfectly.

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orderly mind, meaning a cringing one.a This circumstance probably disgusted Corneille with his occupation of corrector to greatness; for, under the pretext that his presence was required at Rouen for the management of his little property, he retired from his subaltern employment. Another reason may have induced him to take up his principal abode at Rouen. The same lady who inspired the first conception of “Melite” continued to have paramount influence over his thoughts. Her name was madame du Pont; she was wife of a maitre des comptes of Rouen, and perfectly beautiful. This was the serious and enduring passion of his life. He addressed many love poems to her, which he always refused to publish, and burnt two years before his death. She first inspired him with the love of poetry; and her secret admiration for his productions rendered him eager to write.*b His genius was industrious and prolific. / * “J’ai brulé fort longtemps d’une amour assez grande, Et que jusqu’au tombeau je dois bien estimer, Puisque ce fut par-là que j’appris à rimer. Mon bonheur commença quand mon ame fut prise. Je gagnai de la gloire en perdant ma franchise. Charmé de deux beaux yeux, mon vers charma la cour; Et ce que j’ai de nom je le dois à l’amour. J’adorai done Phylis, et la secrète estime Que ce divin esprit faisait de notre rime. Me fit devenir poëte aussitôt qu’amoureux: Elle eut mes premiers vers, elle eut mes premiers feux; Et bien que maintenant cette belle inhumaine Traite mon souvenir avec un peu de haine, Je me trouve toujours en état de l’aimer; Je me sens tout ému quand je l’entends nommer; Et par le doux effet d’une prompte tendresse, Mon cœur, sans mon aveu, reconnait sa maîtresse. Après beaucoup de vœux et de soumissions, Un malheur rompt le cours de nos affections; Mais tout mon amour en elle consommée, Je ne vois rien d’aimable après l’avoir aimée; Aussi n’aimé-je plus, et nul objet vainqueur N’a possédé depuis ma veine ni mon cœur.” C ORNEILLE . – Poésies Diverses. a From ‘thus brought to notice’ to ‘a cringing one’ is derived from Voltaire’s ‘Preface du Commentateur sur le Cid’. b Information about Mme du Pont, including her name, derives from a note first appended (1738) by the Abbe Granet to ‘Excuse à Ariste’ (1636) and continued thereafter. It may ultimately derive from Fontenelle, via his Histoire du Théâtre rather than his Vie de Corneille. Whether she was also the inspiration for Mélite was debated by 19th-century Corneille biographers. Poésies Diverses were commonly included in a section in collected Œuvres of Corneille (for instance, vol. X of the 10-volume Œuvres of Corneille (Duchêsne, 1772)); ‘I have burned for many a day with a very great love, which I must needs prize until the day I die, for it was the making of me as a poet. My happiness began when my soul was enthralled. I gained glory in losing my liberty. Charmed by two lovely eyes, my verses charmed the court; and whatever fame I have, I owe to love. I then adored Phylis and the secret esteem in which her divine spirit held

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We have few traces to denote that Corneille was a scholar. However, of course, he read Latin, and Seneca furnished him with the idea of a tragedy on the subject of Medea. The “Sophonisba” of Mairet was the only regular tragedy that had appeared on the French stage. Corneille aspired to classic correctness in this new play; but his piece met with little success. It was a cold imitation of a bad original – the interest was null. Corneille was afterwards aware of its defects, and speaks openly of them when he subsequently printed it.a After “Medea” he wrote another comedy, in his old style, called “The Illusion.”b It is strange that a writer whose merit consists in energy and grandeur should have spent his youth in writing tame and mediocre comedies. At length Corneille broke through the sort of cloud which so long obscured his genius and his glory. And let not the French ever forget that he owed his initiation into true tragic interest to the Spanish drama. Difference of manners, religion, and language renders the heroic subjects, which are so sublime and vehement in their native Greek dress, in modern plays either tame expositions of book learning, or false pictures, in which Frenchmen take ancient names, but express modern sentiments. Spanish poets at once escaped from these trammels: they portrayed men such as they knew them to be; they represented events such as they witnessed; they depicted passions such as they felt warm in their own hearts; and Corneille, by recurring to these writers, at once entered into the spirit of stage effect and interest, and opened to his countrymen a career, which, if they and he had had discernment to follow, might have raised them far higher in the history of modern drama. The incongruities of the Spanish theatre are, it is true, numerous; and, in following their example, much was to be avoided, both in plot and dialogue. Corneille felt this; but, in some degree, he fell into the opposite extreme. An Italian secretary of the queen, Mary de’ Medici, named Chalons, having retired to Rouen, advised Corneille to learn Spanish, and pointed out the “Cid”

my rhymes made me at once both a poet and a lover. She was the object of my first verses and of my first flame and though now that inhuman beauty treats the memory of me with something of hatred, I find myself still in love with her. I feel stirred when I hear her name and, by the sweet effect of a quick tenderness, my heart, without my conscious will, recognises its mistress. After many promises and submissions, ill-success stems the current of our affections, but, with all my love consumed in her, I see nothing worth loving after having loved her; so I have not loved again, and no other ruling object has dominated my poetic fire or my heart.’ a Médée (1635) on the subject of Jason’s infidelity to Medea and her murder of their children. Lucius Annaeus Seneca (c. 4 BC–AD 65), Roman philosopher and dramatist to whom nine plays, including Medea, have been attributed. Mary Shelley implies that, unlike herself, Corneille could not read Greek. In his ‘Examen de Médée’ he says that his play was founded on both Euripides and Seneca, but he could have read the former in a Latin translation. He admits that the catastrophe in which Creon and Creusa burn to death in shirts of flame failed to work in the theatre, partly because the flames were necessarily invisible. Voltaire’s ‘Commentary’ accuses Corneille of glossing over greater defects: ‘les personnages inutiles, les longeurs, les froides déclamations’. b L’Illusion comique (1636). Fontenelle pronounced it irregular and bizarre.

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of Guillen de Castro as affording an admirable subject for a drama.*a There are several old Spanish romances which narrate the history of the blow received by the father of the Cid from the Count Lozano – the death of the former by the youthful hand of the avenging son – and the subsequent demand which Ximena, daughter of Lozano, makes the king of the hand of Rodrigo.b The Spanish poet saw that, by interweaving the idea of a prior attachment between Rodrigo and Ximena, the struggle of passion that must ensue, ere she could consent to marry the slayer of her father, presented a grand, deeply moving subject for a drama. Corneille followed closely in Guillen de Castro’s steps: he rejected certain puerilities adopted by the Spaniard from the ancient ballads of their country, which were venerable in Spain, but might excite ridicule in France; but he at the same time injured his subject by too much attention to French rules. The senseless notion of unity of time takes away from the probability of the circumstances; and that which becomes natural after a lapse of years, is monstrous when crowded into twenty-four hours; so that we repeat Scuderi’s exclamation, “How actively his personages were employed!”c The French rule of having but two or three persons on the stage at a time detracts from the spirited scene, where, in the Spanish play, the nobles quarrel, and the blow is given at the council board / of the sovereign. Corneille mentions one or two defects himself, which show rather his erroneous notions than defects in his play. Speaking of the weakness of purpose and want of power which the king displays as a fault, he says, no king ought to be introduced but as powerful and prudent;d though he gives no reason why a dramatic sovereign should be an abstract idea, instead of an historic and real personage. When the king, in Guillen de Castro, shows himself as he was, the lord paramount of turbulent feudal nobles, whom he was unable to control, and yet to whom he will not yield, and exclaims– * See Voltaire’s preface to his Commentary on the Cid, and also the admirable account of Guillen de Castro, by Lord Holland. a

Guillen de Castro (1569–1631), author of Las Mocedades del Cid (1618); the romances of the Cid were based on the exploits of Don Rodrigo Díaz de Bivar (c. 1030–99) and were collected by Fernando del Castillo at the beginning of the 16th century as explained in Sismondi, III, chs xxiii–xxiv and Lord Holland, Some Account of the Life and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio and Guillen de Castro, 2 vols (London: Longman [etc.], 1817), pp. 8–13; hereafter Holland (1817). Corneille’s Le Cid was published late in 1636 or early 1637. b In the ancient Spanish ballad (but not in Corneille’s play) Ximena requests the Cid for her husband, her calls for vengeance having been ignored (‘Romance 10’, Holland (1817), II, pp. 52–7). c Scudéri, ‘Observations sur le Cid’, included in many collected editions, including vol. III of Corneille (1795). In one day, Don Rodrigue (the Cid) kills in a duel of honour the father of his love, Chimène, and defeats the Moors; several passionate interviews between him and Chimène take place. The Infanta vainly loves the Cid. The king tells Chimène to marry the Cid (though he eventually grants a year’s delay). d In his ‘Examen du Cid’, which also contains his defence of the anachronisms mentioned below.

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“Rey soy mal obecido, Castigarè mis vasallos!”–a

we see at once the various motives of action which rendered him eager to crush a quarrel between two influential families by uniting them in marriage. Corneille makes the scene take place at Seville, a city not in possession of the Spaniards till many years after.b Certainly, the countryman of Shakspeare have no right to be severe on anachronisms; but the reason Corneille gives for his choice of place displays slender knowledge of the ancient state of a neighbouring country, or even of its geography. He says he does it to make the sudden incursion of the Moors, and the unprepared state of the king, more probable, by causing the attack to come by sea; when, in fact, in those days the boundaries of the warring powers were so uncertain, and the inroads so predatory, that nothing was more frequent than unforeseen invasions; and, besides, Seville is on the Guadalquivir, and several miles from the coast. The real interest of the play, resting on the position of Rodrigo, who, despite his affection for Ximena, avenges his father, and of the miserable daughter, who feels her attachment for her lover survive the death of her parent, and the mutual struggles that ensue, overpowers these minor defects, aided as it is by powerful language and energy of passion. The success of the tragedy was unprecedented, it was received with enthusiasm in Paris, and all France re-echoed the praise, till a sort of epidemic transport / was spread through the country. It became a national phrase to applaud any thing or person by calling them as excellent as the Cid (beau comme de Cid); the name spread through the world; translations of the play were made in all languages; a knowledge of it became incorporated with all minds. “I knew two men,” says Fontenelle, in his life of Corneille, “a soldier and a mathematician, who had never heard of any other play that had ever been written; but the name of the Cid had penetrated even the barbarous state in which they lived.”c So much renown of course inspired his would-be rivals with rancour; they tried to detract from the merit of the successful play, and to show that at least it ought not to have succeeded. Scuderi published a bitter and elaborate attack, remarkable chiefly for the entire ignorance it displays of all the real springs of human passion and human interest. He calls Chimene a monster, and speaks of “the odious struggle of love and honour.”d He appealed to the French academy to decide a ‘I’m mock’d. Authority shall have its day, / And fear shall teach my vassals to obey’ (Holland, (1817), II, p.77). b Two centuries, as Sismondi, possibly the first to notice the anachronism, observes (Sismondi, III, p. 169). c Most of this paragraph is taken from Fontenelle, Vie (Corneille (1795), I, pp. 23–4). d Scudéri in ‘Observations sur le Cid’ objected that Chimène was a monster to endure the Cid’s appearance before her covered with blood after fighting the Moors, and that, with her father not even buried, filial duty should have entirely eclipsed the passion of love. Despite his own strictures, Voltaire ridiculed these particular objections in his notes to Le Cid.

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on the justice of his criticism. The academy, not long before instituted by the cardinal de Richelieu, penetrated the minister’s annoyance at Corneille’s success, and his wish to have a rival crushed; so they by no means liked to come forward in defence of the poet; nor, on the other hand, did they relish the invidious task of pronouncing against him; they signified, therefore, that they should remain silent, unless invited by the author himself to decide on his merits. The cardinal, eager for a blow against the young poet, commissioned Corneille’s intimate friend Boisrobert to write to him at Rouen on the subject. Corneille evaded giving an assent, on the score that the task in question was unworthy to occupy the academy; but, pressed by reiterated letters, he at last replied, that the academy could do as it liked; adding, “and as you say that his eminence would be glad to see their decision, and be diverted by it, I can have no objection.” On this, Richelieu urged the academy to its task. Three of their number, De Bourzey, Des Marets, and Chapelain,a were commissioned to draw up / a judgment: each performed his work apart; and Chapelain cooked it into form, and presented it to the cardinal for his approbation. Richelieu wrote his observations in the margin, and his grudge against the poet suggested at least one ill-natured one. The academy, as an excuse for their criticisms, remarked, that the discussions concerning the greatest works, the “Jerusalem” of Tasso, and the “Pastor Fido,” tended to improve the art of poetry. Richelieu observed on this, “The praise and blame of the ‘Cid’ is a dispute between the learned and the ignorant, while the discussions on the other works mentioned were between clever men.”*b The work of the academy was, however, not over. The cardinal recommended that a few handsful of flowers should be scattered over Chapelain’s criticism; but, when these flowers were added, he found them far too fragrant and ornamental, and had them plucked up and thrown away. After a good deal of discussion, and five months’ labour, the judgment of the academy was got up and printed.c Scuderi hailed it as * Voltaire says that he gives the cardinal credit for good faith in this remark, since he saw and felt the defects of the “Cid.”d Voltaire was himself accused of envy on account of the mass of criticism he accumulated on Corneille, and was glad to show toleration for that which he desired to be tolerated. Both, probably, were sincere in their blame. The question is, how far covert envy (unacknowledged even to themselves) opened their eyes to defects, which otherwise had passed unnoticed. a Amable de Bourzeis or de Bourzey (1606–72), literary man and controversialist theologian, one of the earliest members of the Academy; Jean Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin (1596–1676), poet and comic dramatist; Jean Chapelain (1595–1674), epic poet, later satirised by Boileau. b Supporters of Ariosto were indignant at Tasso’s daring to challenge the supremacy of their poet as writer of epic romance with his Gerusalemme Liberata (1580, 1581); Guarini’s Pastor Fido (1589), written to rival Tasso’s Aminta, led to a controversy concerning the genre of tragi-comedy. Richelieu’s words are quoted by Voltaire in his ‘Préface du Commentateur sur Le Cid’. c ‘Sentiments de l’Académie sur Le Cid’, included in Corneille (1795), vol. III. d ‘Je suis donc persuadé que le cardinal de Richelieu était de bon foi’ (Voltaire, ‘Préface’ to Le Cid’).

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a sentence in his favour: Corneille was not so well pleased; but, after some indecision, he resolved to abstain from all reply. Such a course was the most dignified; and he excused the failure of respect it might show to the academy on the score that it marked a higher degree towards the cardinal. He never, it may be believed, forgot the cardinal’s ill offices on this occasion, though his fear of offending caused him to dedicate his play of “Horace” to him in an adulatory address. This tragedy shows a considerable advance in the power of expressing noble and heroic sentiments. The framework is too slight, being the duel of the Horatii and the Curiatii, and the subsequent murder of his sister by the surviving Horatius, when / she reproached him for slaying her betrothed.a Such a subject in the hands of Shakspeare had not, indeed, been threadbare. He would have brought the jealousies of the states of Rome and Alba in living scenes before our eyes. We should have beheld the collision of turbulent, ambitious spirits, and felt that the world was not large enough for both.b The pernicious rule of unity of time and place prevented this: the ambition of Rome could be displayed only in the single person of Horatius. All we have, therefore, are various scenes between him, his sister, his wife, and the Curiatius, betrothed to the former, and brother to the latter; and these scenes are, for the most part, repetitions one of another; for the same rules confining the time of action, restrict the whole play to the delineation of the catastrophe; variety of incident and feeling is excluded, and the art of the French dramatist consists principally in petty devices, to delay the catastrophe, and so to drag it through long téte-à-téte conversations, till the fifth act: often they are unable to defer it beyond the fourth, and then the fifth is an appendix of little account. “Horace” is, however, a masterpiece. Corneille could speak as a Roman, and the character of the hero is conceived with a simplicity and severity of taste worthy of his country.c In his next piece Corneille rose yet higher. “Cinna” is usually considered his chef d’ œuvre. It contains admirable scenes, unsurpassed by any author. Did the scene in which Augustus asks the advice of Cinna and Maximus as to his meditated abdication pass between the personages (Mecænas and Agrippa) who really a

Horace (1639–40), based on Livy’s History of Rome, I. xxiv. The Alban war was to be settled by a fight to the death between the three Horatii (Romans) and the three Curiatii (Albans). In Corneille’s drama the betrothed slain by Horace, the survivor, is his leading Alban opponent, Curiace. Horace is pardoned for murdering his own sister Camille, but forever dishonoured. As with Le Cid, the drama hinges on a situation where a national hero is also a domestic homicide. b As with Mark Antony and Octavius Caesar ‘We could not stall together / In the whole world’ (Antony and Cleopatra, V. i. 39–40). c Cf. ‘“Corneille” says Saint-Evremond, “makes his Greeks speak better than the Greeks of old ever spoke, his Romans than the ancient Romans” […] “The Romans” says La Bruyère, “are greater and more Roman in his verses than in their actual history”’; quoted in François Guizot, Vie de Corneille (1813), facsimile rpt of translated 1852 rev. edn, Corneille and his Times (Washington NY: Kennihat, n.d.), p. 226.

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were called into consultation on the subject, it had been faultless.a The mixture of admirable reasoning, covert and delicate flattery, forcible eloquence, and happy versification, is perhaps unequalled in any work that exists. It is, to a degree, spoiled as it stands; for the false part which the conspirators act, and the peculiarly base conduct of Cinna, deteriorate from the interest of the whole drama; and, although in subsequent portions of / the play he appears in the more interesting light of a man struggling between remorse and love, we cannot recover from the impression, and thus the character wants that congruity and likelihood necessary for an ideal hero. As works of art, we may say, once for all, Corneille’s tragedies are far from perfect. Very inferior poets have attained happier combinations of plot: but not one among his countrymen – few of any nation – have equalled him in scenes; in declamations full of energy and poetry; in single expressions that embody the truth of passion and the result of a life of experience; in noble sentiments, such as made the great Condé weep from admiration.b In this play he did not happily confine himself to absolute unity of place. Such was his erroneous notion that he mentions this as a fault; while Voltaire drolly, yet seriously, observes that unity of place had been preserved had the stage represented two apartments at once. How far this would have helped the imagination it is impossible to say; but in real life no spectator commands a view of the interior of two separate rooms at once, except, indeed, in a penitentiary.c The tragedies that followed “Cinna” continued to sustain the reputation of the poet. “Polyeucte,” which succeeded to it the following year, is, perhaps, the most delightful of all his plays.d I know no other work of the imagination in which a woman, loving one man and marrying another, preserves at once dignity and sweetness. Pauline loves Severus with all the enthusiasm of a girl’s first passion; – she fears to see him again, so well does she remember the power of that love; but, a

Cinna (1640) is based on the history of the grandson of Pompey who conspired against Augustus Caesar. Corneille’s Cinna is given the added motivation of avenging the death of the father of his love, Émilie. The emperor unwittingly consults with Cinna and his co-conspirator Maxime as to whether he should abdicate. Cinna continues to conspire, but Maxime, also in love with Émilie, betrays his plans. Auguste magnanimously pardons his enemies. In Lemprière’s historical account Augustus consulted with Marcus Agrippa Vipsanius and Virgil’s patron, Caius Cilnius Maecenas (‘Mecaenas’ in Lemprière), each giving conflicting advice. Voltaire thought Cinna Corneille’s masterpiece, but Fontenelle rated Polyeucte higher. b Louis II de Bourbon (1621–86), duc d’Enghien, titled prince de Condé from 1646, later called Le Grand Condé. He is best known for his military prowess; see ‘Rochefoucauld’. c This reflection may have also been prompted by a passage in the ‘Examen de Médée’ where Corneille points out the difficulties of staging prison scenes because of having to place an actor behind a grille, thus distancing him from the audience. Apart from the Venetian dungeons in 1818, Mary Shelley is not known to have visited a penitentiary. d Polyeucte, martyr, tragédie crétienne (1643). Sévère is sent by the Roman emperor to put down Christianity in Armenia, where he finds his former love, the Roman Pauline, married to an Armenian, Polyeucte. Pauline’s passion for Sévère is rekindled. Polyeucte reveals his conversion to Christianity, destroys statues of the pagan gods and is martyred. Pauline, overcome by her husband’s courage and conviction, also converts to Christianity, leaving Sévère awed by Christian heroism.

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though she fears, she does not lament: we perceive that conjugal tenderness for a young and virtuous husband, a sense of duty, hallowed by purity of feeling and softened by affection, have gathered over the ruins of a former attachment for another, while the heroism and generosity of Severus adds dignity to the character of her who once loved him so fondly. The only fault that strikes at all forcibly in this piece is a sort of / brusquerie, or want of keeping, in the character of the martyr. The tragedy opens with his wishing to defer the sacrament of baptism because his wife had had a bad dream; and, after this, we are not prepared for his sudden resolution to overthrow the altars of his country, and to devote himself on the instant to martyrdom. The poet meant that we should feel this increase of fervour as the effect of baptism; but he has somewhat failed, by not making us expect it: and to raise expectation, so that no event should appear startling, is the great art of dramatic writing. The real fault is in the senseless notion of unity of time: had the author given his personages space to breathe, all had been in harmony. It must not be omitted, that when Corneille read this play, before its representation, to an assembly of beaux esprits,a at the hotel de Rambouillet, the learned conclave came to the decision that it would not succeed, and deputed Voiture to persuade the author to withdraw it, as christianity introduced on the stage had offended many. Corneille, frightened at this sentence, endeavoured to get it out of the hands of the actors, but was persuaded by one among them to let it take its chance.*b The fine people of Paris could not imagine that a christian martyr would command the interest and sympathy of an audience. Where the scene, however, is founded on truth and nature, the hearts of the listeners are carried away; and Corneille could always command admiration for his heroes, through the power of the situations he conceived, and the elevation and beauty of his language. Corneille again attempted a comedy. Voltaire justly observes, that the French owe their first tragedy and their first comedy of character to the Spanish.c The “Menteur” of Corneille is taken from “El Verdad sospechosa” of Lope de Vega;d and bears marks of its Spanish origin in the intricacy of its intrigue, and its lovemaking out of window, so usual in Spain, and unnatural elsewhere. This comedy had the greatest success; / many of the verses passed into sayings – the very situ* Fontenelle. a

‘Wits’: intellectuals who are also brilliant conversationalists. The hotel de Rambouillet: Parisian town mansion of Catherine de Vivonne de Savelli, marquise de Rambouillet, where her coterie held its meetings between 1610–60. She is credited with inventing the Parisian salon; the poet Vincent Voiture (1597–1648), founding member of the Académie Française, was a key figure in the coterie. Its influence was greatest from 1620 to 1665. b From Fontenelle, Vie (Corneille (1795), vol. I, p. 28). c ‘Most of our plays were imitated from the drama of Madrid’ (Voltaire, 'Préface’ to the Cid). d Le Menteur (1643–4); La sospechosa Verdad, ‘Suspected Truth’, according to Holland (1817), II, Appendix, doubtfully by Lope. It is now ascribed to Ruiz de Alarcón (1581–1639).

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ations became proverbs. “The Liar” had just arrived from Poictiers; and it grew into a fashion, when any man told an incredible story, to ask whether he had come from Poictiers? “Rodogune,” which succeeded, is (with the lamentable defect of the unlucky unity of time and place) more like a Spanish or an English play than any other of Corneille’s, except the “Cid.”a The very intricacy and faults of the plot, founded, as it is, on some old forgotten tale, give it the same wild romantic interest. Corneille, indeed, says he took the story from Appian and other historical sources; but, as the tale existed, perhaps he saw that first, and then consulted the ancient authorities.b Voltaire, in his remarks, scarcely knows what to say to it. It succeeded brilliantly, kept possession of the stage, and always ranks as one of Corneille’s best tragedies. He is forced, therefore, to acknowledge its merit, although the fault in the conduct and story struck him forcibly. He repeats, perpetually, “The pit was pleased; so we must allow this play to have merit, though there is so much in it to shock an enlightened critic.”c Corneille himself favoured this tragedy with particular regard. “I have often been asked at court,” he says, “which of my poems I preferred; and I found all those who questioned me so partial either to ‘Cinna’ or the ‘Cid,’ that I never dared declare all the tenderness I felt for this one, to which I would willingly have given my suffrage,d had I not feared to fail in some degree in the respect I owed to those who inclined the other way. My preference is, perhaps, the result of one of those blind partialities which fathers sometimes feel for one child rather than another: perhaps some self-love mingles with it, since this tragedy seems to me more entirely my own than any of its predecessors, on account of its surprising incidents, which are all my own invention, and which had never before been witnessed on the stage; and, finally, perhaps a little real merit renders this partiality not entirely unjust.”e Fontenelle / mentions, as another cause for it, the labour he bestowed; since he spent a year in meditating the subject. There might be another reason, to which neither Corneille nor his biographer allude – that this play occasioned him a triumph over a rival. Gilbert brought out a tragedy on the same subject a few months before: as it is acknowledged that Corneille’s was written first, he, perhaps, heard of the a

Rodogune (1644–5). Cléopâtre, queen of Syria, tells her rival twin sons, Seleucus and Antiochus, that whoever kills Rodogune, princess of Parthia, will be her heir. Rodogune, loved by both princes, promises that she will marry whichever twin kills his mother. Cléopâtre kills Seleucus and plans to poison Antiochus and Rodogune at their wedding. Her crimes are discovered and she is herself forced to drink the poison. b Appian: Alexandrian historian, 1st century AD, writer of a universal history of the Roman Empire; cf. P. B. Shelley’s remark in the Defence of Poetry that Hamlet and Lear were founded on popular tales. c Not in Voltaire’s ‘Préface’ to the play, but remarks as described by Mary Shelley are found at various points in his annotations. He admires Corneille’s variety of invention, but not the execution. d Vote. e In the first paragraph of the ‘Examen de Rodogune’.

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subject, and took the details from the novel in question.a However that may be, Gilbert’s play was never acted a second time; yet it met with powerful patrons in its fall, and was published, with a flourishing dedication to the king’s brother; but nothing could preserve it from oblivion. The German critics are particularly severe on “Rodogune,” and with some justice:b there is want of nature in the situations and sentiments; we are attached to none of the characters; and the heroine herself is utterly insignificant. Corneille had now reached the acme of his fame. Other plays succeeded, which did not deserve the name of tragedies, but ought, as Voltaire remarks, to be entitled heroic comedies.*c These pieces were of unequal merit; having here and there traces of the great master’s hand, but defective as wholes. Usually, he introduces one character of power and interest that elevates them, and which, when filled by a good actor, rendered them successful; but they were not hailed with the enthusiasm that attended his earlier plays. The great Condé looked cold on “Don Sancho,” and it was heard of no more; while the fastidious taste of the French revolted from the subject of “Theodore.”d Worse overthrow was in store. “Pertharite,” founded on a Lombard story, failed altogether; and its ill fortune, he tells us, so disgusted him as to induce him to retreat entirely from the theatre.e He * It is curious enough that such pieces often replace the higher tragedy with great effect in days when poetry is at a low ebb, and an audience desires rather to be amused than deeply moved. Such at this time are the delightful dramas of Sheridan Knowles, such the charming “Lady of Lyons,” which portray the serious romance of real life, and impart the interest of situation and character, without pretending to the sublime terrors or pathos of heroic tragedy.f a

Gabriel Gilbert (d. before 1680), prolific poet and playwright. Apart from Act V, the two Rodogunes are said to be very similar. Mary Shelley takes details of the rivalry from Voltaire’s ‘Préface’. Voltaire mentions having heard of a novel on the subject of Rodogune but says he has not seen it. b The ‘German Critics’ are Schlegel and G. F. Lessing. Both criticise Rodogune in particular for absurd plotting (Auguste Wilhelm Schlegel, Course of Lectures in Dramatic Art, 2 vols, trans J. Black (London, 1815), vol. I, pp. 374, 379; II, 7n.). c Voltaire, ‘Préface’ to Don Sanche d’Aragon (1649). Sancho, heir to the throne, has been brought up as a fisherman’s son for his own protection, but nature overcomes nurture and he is impelled to leave his humble abode for valorous deeds. Eventually he wins the hand of Isabelle, Queen of Castile. d Théodore, vierge et martyre (1645). In ancient Antioch, the evil Marcelle wants her daughter to marry her stepson, Placide, but Placide loves the Christian princess Théodore. Marcelle tries to prostitute Théodore, but Didyme rescues her, making Placide jealous. When Marcelle kills both Théodore and Didyme, Placide kills himself. e Pertharite (1652). Grimoald, usurper of the Lombard throne, desires Rodelinde, wife of his ousted rival. Pertharite returns to regain his wife by yielding the kingdom. Overcome by his generosity, Grimoald renounces Rodelinde and instead marries his own fiancée, Edüige, Pertharite’s sister; he invites Pertharite to share the kingdom with him. f James Sheridan Knowles (1784–1862) was a friend of Hazlitt and Lamb. In Nov. 1839 Mary Shelley praised his Love for providing ‘inspiring situations founded on passion and sentiment’. She also congratulated Bulwer (Edward Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton (1803–73)), having seen his The Lady of Lyons, which opened on 15 Feb. 1838; see MWSL, II, pp. 295, 330.

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turned his thoughts to other works. He / wrote his “Essays on the Theatre,” which contain much acute and admirable criticism; though, like all French writers on that subject, he misses the real subject of discussion.a He translated, also, the “Imitation of Jesus Christ” into French – being persuaded to this design by the jesuits.b He fails, as our poets are apt to fail, when they versify the psalms; the dignified simplicity of the original being lost in the frippery of modern rhyme.c It had been happy for Corneille had he adhered to his resolves to write no more for the theatre. But M. Fouquet, the celebrated and unfortunate minister of finances to Louis XIV., caused him to break it. Fouquet begged him to dramatise one of three subjects which he mentioned.d Corneille chose Œdipus, “Its success,” he writes, “compensated to me for the failure of the other; since the king was sufficiently pleased to cause me to receive solid testimonials of his satisfaction; and I took his liberality as a tacit order to consecrate to the amusement of his majesty all the invention and power which age and former labours had spared.”e This was a melancholy resolve – his subsequent plays were not worthy of their predecessors. They contain fine scenes and eloquent passages; but a hard dry spirit crept over him, which caused him to mistake exaggerated sentiments for nobleness of soul. The plots, also, were bad; the conduct enfeebled by uninteresting episodes, or by the worse expedient of giving the hero himself some under amatory interestf that lowered him entirely. Voltaire remarks, “Corneille’s genius was still in force. He ought to have been severe on himself, or to have had severe friends. A man capable of writing fine scenes might have written a good play. It was a great misfortune that no one told him that he chose his subjects badly.”g It is sad to be obliged to make excuses for genius. No doubt Corneille failed in invention as he grew older. His former power of boldness and felicity of expression often shed rays of light upon his feebler works; but he could no longer conceive a a

Trois discours sur l’art dramatique (1660): ‘On the Dramatic Poem’, ‘On Tragedy’ and ‘On the Unities’. b L’Imitation de Jésus Christ traduite et paraphrasée en vers françois par P. Corneille (1651–6), a verse translation of Thomas à Kempis’s 15th-century devotional manual Imitatio Christi, published with a parallel Latin text. Corneille’s version went into many editions. Mary Shelley’s knowledge of the Imitatio, one of the most widely-read Christian works after the Bible, does not appear to be recorded elsewhere. It was translated into English by John Wesley. c This may refer to Sternhold and Hopkins’s often reprinted Metrical Version of the Psalms (1551) or to the 18th-century versifications by Joseph Addison and Isaac Watts. d Nicolas Fouquet (or Foucquet) (1615–80), patron of Corneille, Molière and La Fontaine, who in 1661 was charged with misappropriation of funds and imprisoned; see ‘Sévigné’ (vol. 3), and, for comparison, ‘La Fontaine’. The phrase ‘celebrated and unfortunate’ also occurs in the latter. e Oedipe (1659), a version of the Oedipus Rex story of Sophocles; ‘compensate to’ is a typical example of Mary Shelley’s sporadic tendency to use obsolescent English idioms; see OED, ‘compensate’ v. 1 c. f i.e. a subordinated love-story; see OED, ‘under’, a. 3. In Oedipe Corneille added a pair of lovers, Dirce and Theseus, who are free to marry after Oedipe blinds himself. g Voltaire ceased to write prefaces to some of Corneille’s plays, because he found so little that he could praise.

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whole, whose parts / should be harmonious, whose entire effect should be sublime. The bounty of the king in bestowing a pension on him, it is probable, was one cause of his establishing himself in Paris, and his brother’s recent success as a dramatist a yet more urgent one. Hitherto Corneille had resided at Rouen, visiting the capital only at intervals, when he brought out any new play. In 1642 he had been elected member of the French academy; but that circumstance caused no change in his mode of life. He was not formed to shine at court, nor in the gay Parisian circles. Simple, almost rustic, in his manners and appearance, his genius was not discernible to the casual observer. “The first time I saw him,” says a writer of the day, “I took him for a merchant of Rouen – his exterior gave no token of his talents, and he was slow, and even dull, in conversation.” Corneille certainly neglected the refinements of society too much; or, rather, nature, who had been so liberal to him in rich gifts, had withheld minor ones. When his familiar friends, who desired to see him perfect, spoke to him of his defects, he replied with a smile, “I am not the less Pierre Corneille.” La Bruyere bears the same testimony: “Simple and timid; tiresome in conversation – he uses one word for another – he knows not how to recite his own verses.”*a In truth, Corneille’s merit did not, as with many Frenchmen, lie on the surface. Conscious of his own desert, ambitious of glory, proud, yet shy, he shrunk from society where all excellence is despised that does not sparkle and amuse. We are inclined to believe from these considerations that his migration to Paris is attributable rather to his brother than to himself. / Thomas Corneille was twenty years the junior. The brothers had married two sisters of the name of De Lampériere, between whom existed the same difference * Corneille gives much the same account of himself in some verses written in his youth, and which he calls a slight picture of himself:– “En matière d’amour je suis fort inégal; J’en ecris assez bien, et le fais assez mal; J’ai la plume féconde, et la bouche sterile: Bon galant au théâtre, et fort mauvais en ville; Et l’on peut rarement m’ écouter sans ennui; Que quand je me produis par la bouche d’autrui.”b a Jean de la Bruyère (1645–96), best known for his epigrammatic pen-portraits; see ‘Des Jugements’, no. 56, in Les caractères ou les moeurs de ce siècle (1688–94) (Oeuvres complètes, ed. Julien Benda, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (Paris, 1957), p. 381). Quotations, including ‘Je ne suis pas le moins Corneille’, are all found in the above sequence in Taschereau, Corneille, pp. 253– 4; the ‘writer of the day’ id Vigneul-Marville, alias Bonaventure d’ Argonne, author of a literary miscellany (1701). The sentence on Corneille’s slowness and dullness is not included in Taschereau’s quotation from Vigneul, however. b ‘When it comes to love, I am very unequal; I write of it pretty well, but make it pretty badly. My pen is fertile, but my mouth sterile; I am a romantic hero in the theatre, but a feeble figure in the town, and I can seldom be listened to without boredom except when my words are put into the mouth of somebody else.’

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of age. The family was united by all the bonds of affection and virtue. Their property, even, was in common; and it was not until after Corneille’s death that the inheritance of their wives was divided, and that each sister received her share. The brothers were fondly attached, and lived under the same roof. We are told that Thomas wrote verses with much greater facility than Pierre, and he well might, considering what his verses are; and, when Pierre wanted a rhyme, he opened a trap door communicating with his brother’s room, and asked him to give one. Nor was Pierre less attached to his sister, to whom he was accustomed to read his pieces when written. She had good taste and an enlightened judgment, and was worthy of her relationship to the poet. Thomas Corneille had lately met with success in the same career as his brother. His play of “Timocrates” was acted for six months together; and the king went to the unfashionable theatre of the Marais, at which it was brought out, for the purpose of seeing it. Nothing could be more dissimilar than the productions of the brothers. Thomas Corneille had merit, and one or two of his plays (“Le Comte d’Essex” in particular) kept possession of the stage: he had, however, knack instead of genius. He could contrive interesting situations to amuse the audience; but his verses are tame, his dialogue trivial, his conceptions altogether mediocre. Still, in its day, success is success, and, under its influence, the younger Corneille aspired to the delights of a brilliant career in the capital.a The establishment of the family in Paris is ascertained by a procuration or power of attorney given by the brothers, empowering a cousin to manage their affairs at Rouen. Corneille seemed to feel the change as a new spur to exertion; but, unfortunately, invention no longer waited on industry, as of old. Considering it / his duty to write for the stage, he brought out piece after piece, in which he mistook involved intrigue for interest, crime on stilts for heroism, and declamation for passion. His tragedies fell coldly on the public ear; and, as he could not understand why this should be, he always alleges some trivial circumstance as the cause of his ill success; for, having laboured as sedulously as in his early plays, he was insensible to the fact, that arid though pompous dialogues were substituted for sublime eloquence. Boileau’s epigram on these unfortunate testimonies of decayed genius is well known: – when the wits of Paris repeated after him “J’ai vu l’Agésilas; Hélas! Mais après Attila, Hola!”b a

Timocrates and Le Comte d’Essex (‘The Earl of Essex’) were included by Voltaire in his edition of Corneille’s plays, because he considered them his best. Other editions followed his lead. b ‘I read Agésilas / Alas! / But after Attila, / Stop, stop!’ Imitated by Byron in Mar. 1817: ‘I turned a page of “Waterloo” / Pooh! Pooh! / I looked at Wordsworth’s milk-white “Rylstone Doe”; / Hillo!’ (‘Versicles’ (3), ll. 9–12; first published in Moore’s Letters and Journals of Lord Byron (1830)). In Agésilas (1666) the king of Sparta wishes to make an impolitic marriage with a Persian princess, but eventually sacrifices desire to duty. Attila followed in 1667.

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Corneille might well regret that he had not persevered in the silence to which he condemned himself when Pertharite failed. A young rival also sprung up – a rival whose graceful diction, whose impassioned tenderness, and elegant correctness, are the delight of French critics to this day. Yet, though Voltaire and others have set Racine far above Corneille, and though Saint Evremond wrote at the time that the advanced age of Corneille no longer alarmed him, since the French drama would not die with him, the younger poet’s superiority was by no means universally acknowledged in his own time.a Corneille had a party who still adhered to their early favourite, and called Racine’s elegance feebleness, compared with the rough sublimity of the father of the art. “Racine writes agreeably,” says madame de Sévigné, in a letter to her daughter; “but there is nothing absolutely beautiful, nothing sublime – none of those tirades of Corneille which thrill. We must never compare him with Racine; but be aware of the difference. We must excuse Corneille’s bad verses in favour of those divine and sublime beauties which fill us with transport – these are traits of genius which are quite inimitable. Despréaux / says even more than me, – in a word, this is good taste; let us preserve it.”b If, therefore, Corneille had ceased to write, if he had let his nobler tragedies remain as trophies of past victory, and not aimed at new, he might have held a proud position, guarded by numerous partisans, who exalted him far above his rival. But he continued to write, and he was unsuccessful – thus it became a living struggle, in which he had the worst. He did not like to appear envious: he felt what he said, and he said justly, that Racine’s Greek or Mahometan heroes were but Frenchmen with ancient or Turkish names; but he was aware that this remark might be considered invidious. Yet he could not conceal his opinion, nor the offence he took, when Racine transplanted a verse from the Cid into his comedy of the “Plaideurs” – “Ses rides sur son front ont gravés ses exploits.”

“It ill becomes a young man,” he said, “to make game of other people’s verses.”c It was still worse when he was seduced into what the French have named a duel with Racine. Henrietta, daughter of our Charles I., wife of the brother of Louis XIV., was a principal patroness of men of genius;d – her talents, her taste, her a Charles de Saint-Évremond (c.1615–1703), poet and wit; the source of his remark is unlocated. b Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, Marquise de Sévigné; see Sévigné (1974), vol. I, pp. 459; Despréaux: another name for Boileau; see vol. 3 for their Lives. c ‘His deeds have inscribed the lines on his forehead’ (Le Cid, l. 35, referring to Rodrigue’s heroism). Racine applies the line, slightly adapted, to a legendarily successful litigant, playing on the double meaning of ‘rides’ and ‘exploits’ to give ‘All his writs inscribed the wrinkles on his forehead’ (Les Plaideurs, l. 154). d Henrietta of England (1644–70), wife of the Duke of Orleans. Louis XIV (1638–1715), ‘the Sun King’; succeeded to the throne 1643. ‘It ill […] verses’: Mary Shelley seems to have slightly changed the sense of the quotation, which is rendered by Taschereau as ‘Ne tient-il donc qu’ à un jeune homme […] de venir ainsi tourner en ridicule les vers des gens?’ (p. 225) Taschereau also mentions Corneille’s engaging in a ‘boutade contre Racine’.

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accomplishments; the generosity and kindness of her disposition, made her respected and loved. Louis and she had been attached to one another; their mutual position forced them to subdue the passion; but their triumph over it was not achieved without struggles, which, no doubt, appeared romantic and even tragical to the poor princess. She wished this combat to be immortalised; and, finding in the loves and separation of Titus and Berenice a similarity with her own fate, she deputed the marquis de Dangeau to engage Corneille and Racine, unknown to one another, each to write a tragedy on this subjecta – not a very promising one at best – and still more difficult on the French stage, where the catastrophe alone forms the piece. But Racine conquered these difficulties; – tenderness and truth of passion interested in / place of incident – the audience wept – and criticism was mute. Corneille floundered miserably: love with him is always an adjunct and an episode, but not the whole subject: it helps as a motive – it is never the end. He fancied that his young rival was angry with him for competing with him; and he gave signs of a querulousness which he had no right to feel*; but there is something so naive in his self praises, and such ingenuousness in his repinings, that we look on them as traits portraying the simplicity and singleness of his character, rather than as marks of vanity or invidiousness. After “Berenice,” he wrote two other plays, “Pulcherie” and “Surena,”b and then, happily, gave up composition. Though he saw the pieces of his young rival hailed with delight, he had the gratification of knowing that his own chef-d’œuvres were often acted with applause, that the best critics regarded them with enthusiasm, and that his position was firmly established as the father of French tragedy. He lived to a considerable age; and his mind became enfeebled during the last year of his life. He died on the 1st September, 1684, in the seventy-ninth year of his age.c There is a harmony between the works of Corneille and his character, which his contemporaries, who appreciated only the brilliant, mistook, but which strikes forcibly. He was proud and reserved. Though his dedications are phrased * See his “Excuse à Ariste.” In another place he says, – “Si mes quinze lustres Font encore quelque peine aux modernes illustres; S’il en est de facheux jusqu’a se chagriner, Je n’aurai pas long-temps à les importuner.”d a

Philippe, Marquis de Dangeau (1638–1720); Tite et Bérénice (1670). Pulchérie (1672); in Suréna (1674) two noble lovers choose to die rather than to submit to the evil king of Parthia. c The day of his death is elsewhere given as 30 September. d ‘If my three-score years and fifteen still cause modern luminaries some pain, if any are irritated to the point of distress, I shall not be bothering them for very much longer’; from ‘Au Roi’ (1676), in which he thanks Louis XIV for causing his plays to be revived. The ‘Excuse à Ariste’ displays arrogance rather than querulousness. One tactless line ‘Je ne dois qu’à moi seul toute ma renommée’ (I owe my renown to myself alone) was especially provocative. b

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according to the adulatory ceremonial of the day, his conduct was always dignified and independent. He seldom appeared at court, where his lofty, though simple, character found nothing to attract. He was, besides, careless of the gifts of fortune: he detested the cares of property, shrinking, with terror, from such details. Serious, and even melancholy, trifles had no charms for him: dramatic / composition absorbed his whole thoughts; his studies tended to improvement in that vocation only. Straitforward and simple in manner, – his person, though tall, was heavy – his face was strongly marked and expressive – his eyes full of fire, – there was something in the whole man that bespoke strength, not grace – yet a strength full of dignity. His fortunes were low. The trifling pension allowed him by Cardinal Richelieu expired with that minister. Many years afterwards, Louis XIV. granted him a pension of 2000 francs as the first dramatic poet of the world. He was wholly indifferent to gain; the actors paid him what they pleased for his pieces; he never called them to account. He lived frugally, but had little to live on. A few days before his death his family were in considerable straits for want of money, and the king, hearing of this, sent him 200 louis. In these traits, recorded chiefly by his brother and his nephew, Fontenelle, we see the genuine traces of a poet. Of a man whose heart is set on the ideal, and whose mind is occupied by conceptions engendered within itself – to whom the outward world is of slight account, except as it influences his imagination or excites his affections. The political struggles and civil wars, in which his youth was spent, gave a sort of republican loftiness to his mind, energy without fierceness, somewhat at variance with the French character. Once, on entering a theatre at Paris, after a longer retreat than usual in his native town, the actors stopped short: the great Condé, the prince of Conti,a together with the whole audience, rose: the acclamation was general and long continued. Such flattering testimonials embarrassed a man modest by nature, and unused to make a show of himself; but they evince the generous spirit of his country. Marks of veneration followed his death. His character commanded and met with respect. He had long been the eldest member of the academy: on his death his brother was elected to succeed him. / Racine contended for the honour of receiving the new academician; on which occasion it was the custom to make a speech in praise of the late member whose place the new one took. Racine’s eulogy on Corneille met with great applause, and he recited it a second time before the king. He spoke with enthusiasm of his merits, and, in particular, of “a certain strength, a certain elevation, which transports, and renders his very defects, if he had any, more venerable than the excellence of others.”b This testimony was honourable to Racine, who had, a

Armand de Bourbon, prince de Conti (1629–60), brother of Le Grand Condé. Jean Racine, ‘Discours prononcé a l’Académie Française’, 2 Jan. 1685 (Jean Racine, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Raymond Picard et. al., Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 2 vols (Paris, 1951– 2), II, pp. 345–6. b

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indeed, so heartfelt an appreciation of his best passages, that, although he interdicted dramas and poetry from his children, he caused them to learn, and taught them to admire, various scenes in Corneille. Many years after Voltaire discovered a descendant of the great poet*: he spread the discovery abroad; he invited the young lady to Ferney as to her home; and published for her benefit his two volumes of commentary on her great ancestor’s works.a This commentary has been found fault with for the degree of blame it contains. Voltaire says himself, he wrote it chiefly to instruct future dramatic poets, and he was sincere in his views, even if he were mistaken. It is chiefly remarkable for the extent of its verbal criticism, and his earnest endeavour to banish all familiar expressions from tragic dialogue, thus rendering French tragedies more factitious than ever. It is strange to remark the different genius of various languages. We endeavour perpetually to bring back ours to the familiar and antique Saxon. We regard our translation of the Bible as a precious treasure, even in this light, being a source to which all good writers resort for true unadulterated English. It has been remarked that the sublimest passages of our greatest poets are written in short words, that is, in AngloSaxon, or pure English.b While Voltaire, on the contrary, tried to substitute words unused / in conversation, strangers to the real living expression of passion, and which give a factitious and false air, peculiar to the French buskin, and alien to true elevation of language. So much has been said of Corneille’s tragedies in the preceding pages that we need scarcely revert to them. He originated the French theatre. It was yet in the block when he took up his artist-tools. We grieve at the mistakes he made – mistakes, as to the structure of the drama, confirmed by subsequent writers, which mark classic French tragedy as an artificial and contracted offspring of a school, instead of being the free and genuine child of nature and genius. Corneille’s originality, however, often bursts through these trammels: he has more truth and simplicity than any of his successors, and, as well as being the father of the French drama, we may name him the most vigorous and sublime poet that France has produced. / * Corneille had three sons: two entered the army; the third became an ecclesiastic; one fell at the battle of Grave, in 1677; they all died without posterity. He had one daughter, from whom descended the family of Guenebaud. a Voltaire spread his discovery by letter to M. le Brun and Mme du Deffand; see Voltaire, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Beaumarchais et al., 70 vols (Kehl, 1784), vol. 50, pp. 445–6, 479. b Perhaps thinking of Wordsworth’s comparisons of metrical paraphrases by Pope, Prior, Johnson and Cowper adversely to passages in the King James Bible in his Appendix to the 1802 ‘Preface” to the Lyrical Ballads; also of Coleridge’s advocacy of Bible-reading as a better means to forming a good English style than learned writings (Biographia Literaria (1817), ch. xvii). Macaulay’s criticism of ‘Johnsonese’ typifies a contemporary shift of taste away from Latinism and towards ‘strong and plain’ Anglo-Saxon words (Edinburgh Review, Sept. 1831). ‘Sublimest passages’ using short words include King Lear’s dying speech (‘Pray you, undo this button; thank you, sir’); a precise source for the remark has not been found.

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ROCHEFOUCAULD. 1613–1680. G RIMM , in his correspondence, records, that it was a saying of d’Alembert, that, in life, “Ce n’est qu’heur et malheur,” that it was all luck or ill luck.a The same thing may be said of many books; and, perhaps, of none more than that which has given literary celebrity to François, duke de la Rochefoucauld. The experience of a long life, spent for the most part in the very nucleus of the intrigues of party and the artifices of a court, reduced into sententious maxims, affords food for curiosity, while it flatters our idleness. The most indolent person may read a maxim, and ponder on its truth, and be led to meditate, without any violent exertion of mind. In addition, knowledge of the world, as it is called, always interests. Voltaire says of the “Maxims,” “Though there is but one truth in this collection, which is that self-love is the motive of all, yet this thought is presented under such various aspects that it is always impressive.”b If we considered the pervading opinion of the book theoretically, we might be inclined to parody this remark, and say, “though there is but one multiformed falsehood in this collection,” – but we defer our consideration of the principles of this work till we have given an account of its author, who was no obscure man, meditating the lessons of wisdom in solitude, but the leader of a party, a soldier, a man of gallantry and of fashion; one such as is only produced, in its perfection, in a society highly cultivated; yet the foundations of his character were thrown in times of ignorance and turbulence. The family of La Rochefoucauld is one of the noblest in France: it ranks equal with that of the sovereign, / and enjoyed almost monarchical power when residing on its own possessions; while its influence might give preponderance to the party it espoused, and even shake the throne. François, the eldest son of the duke then in possession, was born at his paternal castle of Rochefoucauld, in Angoumois, in 1613, two years subsequent to the assassination of Henry IV.c He grew up, therefore, during the reign of Louis XIII., and first came to court during the height of a Untraced in Grimm (Correspondance Littéraire, Philosophique et Critique de Grimm et de Diderot, 1753–1790, ed. J. Taschereau, 16 vols (Paris: Furne et Ladrange, 1830)); it may derive ultimately from Montaigne, ‘L’heur et le mal’heur sont à mon gré deux souveraines puissances’ (‘De l’art de conférer’, III. 8; Montaigne, Essais, vol. 3, p. 148). b Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, p. 170; also cited by Suard, Maximes, p. 13. c François V (1588–1650), first duc de la Rochefoucauld. The family traced its origin to the 11th century, and included many eminent in Church and State.

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349768-25

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cardinal de Richelieu’s power.a His education had been neglected. Madame de Maintenon said of him, in after times, that “his physiognomy was prepossessing, his demeanour dignified; that he had great talent, and little knowledge.”b We have no details of his early life at court. He was the friend of the duchess de Chevreuse,c favourite of the queen, Anne of Austria; and, when this lady was banished, the family of la Rochefoucauld fell into disgrace, and retired to the shelter of their estates. But a few years before the nobles of France possessed greater power than the king himself. The short reign and wise administration of Henry IV. and Sully had infused a somewhat better spirit into the body politic of the kingdom than that which for forty years had torn the country with civil war; but the happy effects of that prosperous period were obliterated on the accession of Louis XIII. After a series of struggles, however, Richelieu became prime minister; and with unflinching courage, and resolute and merciless policy, he proceeded to crush the nobility, and to raise the monarchical power (invested, it may be said, in his own person,) into absolute rule. The nobles in those days did not plot to supplant each other in the favour of their royal master, nor to gain some place near the royal person; they aimed at supremacy over the king himself: reluctantly, and not without struggles that cost the lives and fortunes of many of the chief among them, did the nobles yield to the despotism of Richelieu. The mother of their sovereign was banished; his brother disgraced; his queen enslaved; the prisons filled with victims; the provinces with exiles; the / blood of many flowed: the cardinal reigned secure, and the power of the contending nobles was reduced to feudal command in their own domains.d At length Richelieu died: and, for a moment, his vanquished enemies fancied that their turn was come for acquiring dominion. The state prisons were thrown a

See ‘Montaigne’ and ‘Corneille’. Richelieu was regarded in 1830s Britain as the one who transformed the French monarchy into a despotism. He is today regarded as a judicious architect of the French style of ‘absolute’ monarchy, rather than as an abettor of tyranny. His policy concentrated royal power over excessively powerful nobles, combated regional separatism and introduced a more centralised administration. b Maintenon, Lettres, vol. I, p. 304. Francoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon (1635– 1719), governess to Louis XIV’s children by Mme de Montespan, and later his morganatic second wife, influenced the king to become more devout. See also ‘Racine’ and ‘Fénélon’ (vol. 3). c Marie de Rohan, duchesse de Chevreuse (1600–79), Superintendent of the Queen’s Household and political intriguer. She lost her influence over the Queen and was banished when the latter became Regent. d Referring to two failed attempts to end Richelieu’s influence, one in 1629 (‘The Day of Dupes’) led by Marie de Médicis, the Queen Mother, resulting in her house arrest; another in 1632, led by the duc de Montmorency, a supporter of Gaston, duc d’Orléans (1608–60), the king’s brother and then heir to the throne, resulting in the former’s execution and the latter’s disgrace. Marie then escaped abroad. In 1637 Louis XIII’s wife Anne of Austria (1601–66) was discredited by Richelieu for corresponding with France’s enemies, England and Spain (though the following year the birth of an heir restored her to respect and influence). Richelieu reestablished royal authority and claims to revenue over the provinces and the great nobles, whose ability to raise troops weakened the monarchy.

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open; the exiles hastened to return. The friends of the family of la Rochefoucauld wrote to advise them to appear at court. The reigning duke and his sons immediately followed this counsel.*a His eldest sonb was called prince de Marsillac: his name and person were well known as the friend of the duchess of Chevreuse, and as a favourite of Anne of Austria. He has left us an account of that period, in which he details the high hopes of his party and subsequent disappointment. “The persecution I had suffered,” he writes†,c “during the power of the cardinal de Richelieu, having finished with his life, I thought it right to return to court. The ill health of the king, and the disinclination that he manifested to confide his children and kingdom to the queen, made me hope that I might soon find important occasions for serving her, and of giving her, in the present state of things, the same marks of attachment which she had received from me on all occasions when her interests, and those of Madame de Chevreuse, were in opposition to those of cardinal de Richelieu. I arrived at court; and found it as submissive to his will after his death as during his life. His relations and his creatures continued to enjoy all the advantages they had gained through him; and by a turn of fortune, of which there are few examples, the king, who hated him, and desired his fall, was obliged, not only to conceal his sentiments, but even to authorise the disposition made by the cardinal in his will of the principal employments and most important places in his kingdom. He chose cardinal Mazarind to succeed him in the government. / Nevertheless, as the health of the king was deplorable, there was a likelihood that every thing would soon change, and that, the queen or monsieure (the duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIII.) acquiring the regency, they would revenge on the followers of Richelieu the outrages they had received from himself.” Affairs, however, took a very different turn. Mazarin and others, the creatures of and successors to Richelieu, were less arrogant, less ambitious, and less resolute than their master. They were willing to acquire power by allying themselves to the adverse party. Mazarin, in particular, felt that, on the death of Louis XIII., he should not possess influence enough to cope with the persons who, by rank, were destined to the regency; and he perceived, at once, that it was his best policy to become the friend, instead of the rival, of the queen and the duke of Orleans. Anne of Austria saw safety in encouraging him in this conduct. Mazarin grew into a favourite, and supplanted those who had stood by her during her years of adver* Mémoires de Gourville. † Mémoires de la Régence d’Anne d’Autriche, par le duc de la Rochefoucauld. a

Gourville, vol. I, p. 7. i.e. La Rochefoucauld. ‘Prince de Marsillac’ was the title of the heir to the dukedom, to which he succeeded in 1650. c La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 1–2, slightly abbreviated. d Cardinal Jules Mazarin (1602–61), papal diplomat and then protégé of Cardinal Richelieu whom he succeeded as first minister to Louis XIII. Subsequently first minister and possibly secret husband of Anne of Austria, by then widow of Louis XIII, mother of Louis XIV. e Courtesy title of the King of France’s brother (here, Gaston d’Orléans). b

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sity. Thus, while the surface of things appeared the same, the spirit was changed. Rochefoucauld saw that the queen entertained new views and new partialities, and was supported by the same party by which she had been hitherto oppressed. As her friend, he perceived the advantages she gained by this line of conduct, and, by prudent concessions, retained her regard. When the king died, and she became regent, Mazarin had made himself necessary to her, for it was by his policy that the other members of the council of the regency were reduced to insignificance; so that the queen, entirely attached to him, anticipated with something of aversion the reappearance of madame de Chevreuse, who, on the death of Louis XIII., hastened to return to Paris. The prince of Marsillac perceived her apprehensions, and asked her permission to meet madame de Chevreuse on her way, which the queen readily granted, hoping that the prince would dispose her former friend to seek the friendship of Mazarin. This was, indeed, Marsillac’s purpose: he gave the fallen / favourite the best advice that prudence could suggest, and the duchess promised to follow it. In this she failed. She fancied that she could supplant the cardinal in the queen’s favour; she acted with arrogance; and her imprudence insured her ruin. Le bon temps de la régence followed.a For five years France enjoyed external and internal prosperity. The former was insured by the battle of Rocroi, and other successes, obtained by the prince of Condé and Turenne, against the power of Spain.b The latter was more fallacious. The intrigues, cabals, and dissensions of the court were carried on with virulence. Manners became every day more and more corrupt – the gulf between Mazarin and his antagonists wider. We have little trace of Marsillac’s conduct during this interval. He followed the campaigns, and served gallantly in several actions. He was present at the siege of Mardike,c in which he was wounded in the shoulder, which obliged him to return to Paris. He bought the governorship of Poitou, and took up his residence there.d He visited Paris, but want of money prevented his remaining. His secretary, Gourville, lets us into a view of the corruption of the times, when he details how he enriched his master by only obtaining from Emery,e the comptroller of the finances, a man of low extraction, whose extortion, luxuriousness, and debauchery disgusted the nation, a passport for a thousand tons of wheat, to be brought from Poitou to the capital; and the profit he gained by this transaction enabled the prince, to his infinite joy, to remain in Paris.f a Proverbial description, ‘The good old times of the Regency’, i.e. the Regency of Anne of Austria, during Louis XIV’s minority, 1643–51. Mary Shelley quotes and follows James, vol. II, pp. 213ff. in her account of the rise of Mazarin. b Le Grand Condé inflicted a crushing defeat on Spain in 1643 at Rocroi, in the Spanish Netherlands (modern Belgium). Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne (1611–75), second son of the duc de Bouillon, was widely regarded as the greatest soldier of the age, a masterly strategist, and a model of gentlemanly conduct. c Mardijk, near Dunkirk, in Flanders. d The region surrounding Poitiers, in west central France. e Michel Particelli, Sieur d’Hémery, Controller General of Finances 1643–48. f This paragraph is based on Gourville, vol. I, pp. 11–14.

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There can be little doubt that, at this time, he had immersed himself in political intrigue. Madame de Chevreuse was again banished; but affairs had taken another and more important aspect than mere intrigues and disputes among courtiers for royal favour. The extravagance of the court, and corruption of the times, had thrown the finances into disorder; and every means most subversive of the prosperity of the people, and of / justice, was resorted to by Emery to supply the royal treasury. The consequence was universal discontent. Parliament resisted the court by its decrees; the populace of Paris supported parliament; and a regular system of resistance to the regent and her minister was formed. This opposition received the name of the Fronde: the persons who formed it were called Frondeurs. These were bent, the duke de la Rochefoucauld tells us, in his memoirs, on arresting the course of the calamities at hand; having the same object, though urged by a different motive, as those who were instigated by hatred of the cardinal.a At first the remonstrances of parliament, and the opposition of the court, was a war of words only; but when the court, enraged at any opposition to its will, proceeded to arrest three principal members of parliament, the people of Paris rose in a body; the day of the barricades ensued, the members were set free, and the court forced to yield.b But the tumults did not end here: the celebrated De Retz,c then coadjutor to the archbishop of Paris, who saw his towering ambition crushed by the distrust of the court, resolved to make himself feared; and, instead of permitting the spirit of sedition in the capital to subside, he excited it to its utmost.d It became necessary for him, in the system of opposition that ensued, to secure some prince of the blood at the head of his party. His eyes turned towards the great Condé; but he continued faithful to the queen: the coadjutor was, therefore, forced to centre his hopes in this prince’s younger brother, the prince of Conti.e Rochefoucauld gives an account, in his memoirs, of the winning over of this prince. “The prince of Conti,” he writes, “was ill satisfied at not possessing a place in the council, and even more at the neglect with which the prince of Condé treated him; and as he was entirely influenced by his sister, the duchess de Longueville,f who was piqued a

La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 26–7. By ‘parliament’ is meant the Paris parlement, the senior appeal court of law, not a representative institution. As it registered laws, including taxes, it could present remonstrances against them. In 1648 it spear-headed tax revolts and constitutional protests. Mary Shelley draws on James, vol. I, pp. 311–18. c Jean-François-Paul de Gondi, cardinal de Retz (1613–79), noted preacher and politician. An opponent of Richelieu with powerful family connections in the army and the church, he became one of the leaders of the Parisian and aristocratic Frondes. The Archbishop of Paris to whom he was coadjutor, i.e. assistant and nominated successor, was his uncle. d Mary Shelley follows James, vol. I, pp. 293, 326–33, 339–56, selectively. e The prince de Conti was a participant in the Fronde before reconciliation with Louis XIV. Mary Shelley follows James, vol. I, pp. 365, 394–5. f Anne-Geneviève de Bourbon-Condé, one of the key figures of the Fronde and a figure of great interest to 19th-century French novelists and historians. She married as his second wife Henri d’Orléans (1595–1663), duc de Longueville. In her forties she became extremely devout. b

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at the indifference her elder brother displayed towards her, he abandoned himself without reserve to his resentment. This / princess, who had a great share afterwards in these affairs, possessed all the advantages of talent and beauty to so great a degree, joined to so many charms, that it appeared as if nature had taken pleasure in forming a perfect and finished work in her: but these qualities lost a part of their brilliancy through a defect which was never before seen in a person of this merit; which was that, far from giving the law to those who had a particular adoration for her, she transfused herself so entirely into their sentiments that she entirely forgot her own. At this time the prince de Marsillac had a share in her heart; and, as he joined his ambition to his love, he inspired her with a taste for politics, to which she had a natural aversion; and took advantage of her wish to revenge herself on the prince of Condé by opposing Conti to him. De Retz was fortunate in his project, through the sentiments entertained by the brother and sister, who allied themselves to the Frondeurs by a treaty, into which the duke de Longueville was drawn by his hopes of succeeding, through the help of parliament, in his ill-founded pretensions of being treated like a prince of the blood.”*a The state of tumult and street warfare into which Paris was plunged by these intrigues at last determined the queen to the most desperate measures: she resolved to escape from the capital, with the young king, the cardinal, / and the whole court, and then to blockade it. In this plan she succeeded, through her admirable presence of mind and fearlessness. The court retreated to St. Germain.b Here they were unprovided even with necessaries. They lived in disfurnished apartments, they slept on straw, and were exposed to a thousand hardships. The prince of Conti, and Marsillac, and the duke de Longueville followed the court. * It is well known that the history of the troubles of the Fronde is recounted by a variety of eye-witnesses, no two of which agree in their account of motives – scarcely of facts. Cardinal de Retz, in his memoirs,c gives a somewhat different account of the adhesion of madame de Longueville to his party. It is singular to remark how each person in his relation makes himself the prime mover. Rochefoucauld makes us to almost understand that he drew over the princess to the Fronde. The cardinal tells us that, seeing madame de Longueville one day by chance, he conceived a hope, soon realised, of bringing her over to his party. He tells us that at that time M. de la Rochefoucauld was attached to her. He was living at Poitou; but came to Paris about three weeks afterwards; and thus Rochefoucauld and De Retz were brought together. The former had been accused of deserting his party, which rendered De Retz at first disinclined to join with him; but these accusations were unfounded, and necessity brought them much together. The cardinal allows that madame de Longueville had no natural love for politics, – she was too indolent; – anger, arising from her elder brother’s treatment, first led her to wish to oppose his party; gallantry led her onward; and this causing party spirit to be but the second of her motives, instead of being a heroine, she became an adventuress. a La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 55–6. La Rochefoucauld refers to himself in the third person in his memoirs. Princes of the blood (of whom Le Grand Condé was one) were those closely related to the monarch and ranked as royal, though not always treated as such, which could cause disaffection. b Following James, vol. I, pp. 401, 403; St Germain is the royal palace near Paris. c Retz (1987), vol. I, pp. 349–51, 374–5.

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De Retz was confounded by their retreat; and sent the marquis de Nourmoutiera to learn the cause of their secession, and, if possible, to bring them back. The motive of these princes in apparently deserting their party was, it would seem, to further their own private interests.* Marsillac left his secretary, Gourville, behind, to negotiate with the leading members of parliament for the electing the prince of Conti generalissimo of the Parisian troops. When this transaction was arranged, the princes determined on their return to the capital. It was a matter of danger and difficulty to escape from St. Germain. When the method of so doing was arranged, Marsillac held a long conversation with Gourville, telling him what account he was to carry to Paris, in case he should be made prisoner, in which case he felt sure that he should be decapitated. Gourville, however, begged him to write his last instructions, as he was resolved to share his fortunes to the last. Their attempt, however, was attended with success: the adventurers made good their entrance into Paris; and, after some opposition, gained their point, principally through the appearance of the beautiful duchesses de Bouillon and Longueville, who presented themselves before the people of Paris with their children, and excited a commotion in their favour. The prince of Conti was elected generalissimo. Meanwhile Condé blockaded the metropolis; and the volunteers of Paris, composed of its citizens, poured out to resist the blockade. The warfare was of the most / ridiculous kind: the people of Paris made a jest of their own soldiery, which excelled only in the talent of running away. These troops went to the field by thousands, dressed out in feathers and ribands: they fled if they encountered but 200 of the royal troops: when they returned, flying, they were received with laughter and shouts of ridicule. Couplets and epigrams were multiplied and showered upon them and their leaders; the populace were diverted, while the most frightful licence prevailed; blasphemy was added to licentiousness, and the bands of society were loosened, its core poisoned. At length the middling classes, most active at first in the work of sedition and lawlessness, got tired of the wickedness they saw exhibited round them, and of the dangers to which they were perpetually exposed. Blood was spilt, and they scarcely knew for what they fought: each side began to sigh for peace. De Retz failed in gaining the assistance of Turenne, for, corrupted by an emissary of Mazarin, the army of Turenne deserted him. The same arts were used to gain over the partisans of De Retz.b The prince de Marsillac was suffering from a severe wound. He had headed a squadron sent out with other troops for the purpose of escorting some convoys of provisions. The party * Rochefoucauld’s Mémoires; Mémoires de Gourville; James’s Life and Times of Louis XIV.c a

Antoine-Françoise de La Trémouille, duc de Nourmoutier (1612–66). The paragraph to this point derives from James, vol. I, pp. 437, 453–5. c La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 55–6; Gourville, vol I, pp. 15–18; James, vol. I, pp. 406– 8, 416. b

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was attacked, and fled on the instant, with the exception of the party led by Marsillac, (who, de Retz observes,a had more valour than experience) that kept the ground till the prince had a horse killed under him, and was seriously wounded himself, when he returned to Paris. This circumstance led him, probably, to listen more readily to the representations of Mazarin’s emissaries. He became an entire convert to the desire for peace, and by degrees, though with difficulty, the prince of Conti and the duchess de Longueville were brought to acquiesce in its necessity. A sort of unsettled tranquility was thus restored. After a time the court returned to Paris: but the peace was hollow, and the bad passions of men fermented still. The capital, with the exception of not being under arms, was in a state of perpetual and disgraceful tumult. The / war of the Fronde has been named a tragic farce;b for it was carried on as much by mutual insults and epigrams as by the sword. Never did mankind display so total a disregard for decency and moral law: churchmen acknowledged their mistresses openly; wives made no secret of favouring their lovers; and infamy became too common to render any one conspicuous. As the nobility of the Fronde were the most dissolute, so, by degrees, did it lose favour with the people. Each noble sought his own interests: each changed side as his hopes changed. The Fronde lost many of its chief partisans. The prince of Condé became reconciled to the prince of Conti; and he, and the duke and duchess de Longueville, and the prince Marsillac, now duke de la Rochefoucauld, through the recent death of his father, fell off from the Fronde, at the same time that they continued to oppose and insult the queen and Mazarin. Meanwhile De Retz was eager to renew a warfare which raised him to the rank of leader. He was still intriguing – still, as it were, covertly in arms, – continuing to exercise unbounded influence over the people of Paris, and to carry on intrigues with the discontented nobles. The court, meanwhile, thoroughly frightened by the late events, was bent on weakening its enemies by any means, however treacherous and violent. While, therefore, the false security of peace prevented their being on their guard, suddenly one day the prince of Condé, his brother, and brother-in-law, were arrested, and sent to Vincennes;c and the queen sent to the duchess de Longueville, requiring her immediate attendance. Rochefoucauld had seen reason to suspect this piece of treachery, and had wished to warn the princes; but the person he intrusted with the commission failed to execute it. When the duke de Vrillière brought the order to the duchess requiring her attendance, Rochefoucauld persuaded her, instead of obeying, to quit Paris on the instant, and hasten to Normandy, to raise her friends in Rouen and Havre de Grace, in favour of her husband and brothers. Rochefoucauld accompanied her; but the duchess having / failed in her attempt, and being pressed by the enemy, was forced to embark, and take refuge in Holland, while Rochefoucauld repaired to his a b c

Retz (1987), vol I, p. 401. By James, vol. I, p. 353. A fortress prison in eastern Paris.

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government at Poitou.a All was now prepared for war. Turenne, at Stenay, was in revolt. The dukes of Bouillon and la Rochefoucauld collected troops in Guienne. Rochefoucauld was the first in arms, though he had no resource, except his credit and friends, in collecting troops. He made the ceremony of the interment of his father the pretext for assembling the nobility and tenants of his province, and thus raised 2000 horse and 600 foot.*b His first attempt was to succour Saumur,c besieged by the king’s troops. But Mazarin had not been idle: he had engaged what Frederick the Great called his yellow hussarsd in his favour, and, by bribery and corruption, possessed himself of the town. After this Bordeaux became the seat of war, Bouillon and Rochefoucauld having entrenched themselves in that city, and the royal troops attacking it. Ill defended by fortifications, it soon capitulated, but obtained favourable terms. Bouillon and Rochefoucauld were allowed to retire. Mazarin exerted all his powers of persuasion to gain them, but they continued faithful to the princes. Rochefoucauld retreated once again to his government of Poitou, discontented at having received no compensation for his house of Verteuil, which the king’s party had razed.e Soon after the divisions in France took somewhat a new face. De Retz gained over the duke of Orleans, and united himself to the party of the princes. The Fronde, thus reinforced, turned all its force against Mazarin. He was forced to fly, and the princes were liberated. It is not here that a detail of the strange events of the war of the Fronde can be given. They are introduced only because Rochefoucauld took a prominent part. Changes were perpetually taking place in the state of parties; and a sort of confusion reigns throughout, arising from the want of any noble or / disinterested object in any of the partisans, that at once confuses and wearies the mind. To detail the conduct of a nobility emancipated from all legal as well as all moral and religious restraint, – bent only on the acquisition of power, – influenced by hatred and selfishness, – is no interesting task. It may be instructive; for we see what an aristocracy may become, when it throws off the control of a court, whose interest it is to enforce order, – and of the people, who spontaneously love and admire virtue, – and at once tramples on religion and law. * Mémoires du due de Rochefoucauld. a The account of the duchess’s flight to Holland is based on Gourville, vol. I, p. 20. ‘Vrilliere’ is Balthazar Phelypeaux, duc de la Vrillière, d. 1700, Secretary of State for Protestant Affairs and member of an important dynasty of ministers and officials. Rouen is the capital and Le Havre de Grace (Le Havre) the main port of the province of Normandy, in northern France. b La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 119–66, with troop reference p. 126, specifying 800 infantry. Stenay: territory in the north east bestowed on Condé in 1648 by Louis XIV; FrédéricMaurice de la Tour d’Auvergne, duc de Bouillon (1605–52): elder brother of Turenne and leading Frondeur; Guienne: major province dominating the south-west of France. c Key river port on the western Loire river. d Frederick II, King of Prussia 1740–86; yellow hussars: gold coins. e The actions around Bordeaux, the main port on the Garonne river in west-central France, commanding access to Spain and the Atlantic trade, are based on Gourville, vol. I, p. 22. Verteuil: the family seat of the La Rochefoucaulds, in the Angoumois.

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The nobles of the Fronde had lost the dignity and grandeur of feudal power; they aimed at no amelioration for the state of the kingdom; they neither loved freedom nor power in any way permanently advantageous, even to their own order. Turbulent, dissolute, and unprincipled, they acted the parts of emancipated slaves, not of freemen asserting their rights.a We seek for some trace of better things in Rochefoucauld’s own views and actions, but do not find it. He avows ambition; that and his love for the duchess de Longueville are all the motives that are discernible in his own account of his conduct. When, however, we find madame de Maintenon, who was an excellent and an impartial judge, praise him, in the sequel, as a faithful, true, and prudent friend,b we are willing to throw the blame from him on those from whom he divided. Madame de Longueville was certainly guilty of inconstancy; and we are told how entirely she was influenced by the person to whom she attached herself. She drew the prince of Conti after her. Meanwhile, the party in opposition to Mazarin became divided into the new and old Fronde. No one could tell to which De Retz would adhere long. He, for the moment, headed the old, the prince of Condé the new. Rochefoucauld hated De Retz, we are told, with a hatred seldom felt, except by rival men of talent.* He now, / therefore, sided with Condé, and endeavoured to alienate him entirely from the coadjutor, and to draw over his brother and sister to the same side. He entered zealously into the plan of breaking off a marriage proposed between the prince of Conti and mademoiselle de Chevreuse, who was known to be the mistress of De Retz, which event widened the separation between the parties. This led to more violent scenes than ever. Condé was forced to retreat, and only appeared strongly guarded; and the queen took advantage of this show of violence to accuse him of high treason to parliament. This occasioned the most tumultuous scenes. The two parties met in the Palace of Justice; both Condé and De Retz surrounded by followers eager to draw their swords on each other, – none more eager than Rochefoucauld, whom De Retz detested, and (if we believe the duke’s own account) had several times sought to have assassinated. On this occasion Rochefoucauld was on the alert to revenge himself. Molé,c the intrepid and courageous president, alone, by his resolution and firmness, prevented bloodshed. He implored the prince and the coadjutor to withdraw their troops from the palace: they assented. De Retz left the hall to command his followers to retire. * Cardinal de Retz relates a scene in which he spoke disparagingly of Rochefoucauld. He supposes that this was reported to the duke: “I know not whether this was the case,” he says; “but I could never discover any other cause for the first hatred that M. de la Rochefoucauld conceived against me.”d a It is a Godwinian and Shelleyan tenet that the too-suddenly emancipated slave will behave with ‘ferocity and thoughtlessness’. (P. B. Shelley, Preface to Laon and Cythna (The Revolt of Islam)). b Maintenon, Lettres, pp. 304–5. c Mathieu Molé (1584–1656), First President of the Paris Parlement 1641–53. d Retz (1987), vol. I, pp. 370–1.

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Rochefoucauld was sent by Condé on a similar mìssion to his partisans. This was a more difficult task than they had apprehended: both parties were on the point of coming to blows; and the coadjutor hastened to return to the great chamber, when an extraordinary scene, related by the duke in his memoirs, ensued. He had returned before the coadjutor, and De Retz, pushing the door open, got half in, when Rochefoucauld pressed against it on the other side, and held his enemy’s body in the doorway, half in and half out of the chamber. “This opportunity might have tempted the duke de la Rochefoucauld,” writes the duke himself. “After all that had passed, both public and private reasons led him to desire to destroy his most mortal enemy; as, besides the facility thus offered of revenging himself, while / he avenged the prince for the shame and disgrace he had endured, he saw also that the life of the coadjutor ought to answer for the disorder he occasioned. But, on the other side, he considered that no combat had been begun; that no one came against him to defend the coadjutor; that he had not the same pretext for attacking him as if blows had already been interchanged – the followers of the prince, also, who were near the duke, did not reflect on the extent of the service they might have rendered their master in this conjuncture; – in fine, the duke would not commit an action that seemed cruel, and the rest were irresolute and unprepared; and thus time was given to liberate the coadjutor from the greatest danger in which he had ever found himself.”*a Rochefoucauld adds the description of another incident, not less characteristic of the times, that happened subsequently. After this scene in the Palace of Justice, the coadjutor avoided going there or meeting Condé; but, one day, the prince was in his carriage with Rochefoucauld, followed by an immense crowd of people, when they met the coadjutor, in his pontifical robes, leading a procession of relics and images of saints. The prince stopped, out of respect to the church, and the coadjutor went on till he came opposite to the prince, whom he saluted respectfully, giving both him and his companion his benediction. They received it with marks of reverence; while the people around, excited by the rencontre,b uttered a thousand imprecations against De Retz, and would have torn him to pieces, had not the prince caused his followers to interfere to his rescue. In all this we see nothing of the high bearing of a man of birth, nor the gallantry and generosity of a soldier. * Cardinal de Retz, in describing this scene, declares that Rochefoucauld called out to Coligny and Recousse to kill De Retz, as he held him pinned in the doorway: they refused; while a partizan of the coadjutor came to his aid, and, representing that it was a shame and a horror to commit such an assassination, Rochefoucauld allowed the door to open. Joly relates the occurrence in the same manner; and, although a little softened in expression, the duke’s account does not materially differ.c a

This incident and the next are found in La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 206–9. Encounter. c See Retz (1987), vol. II, pp. 228–9. Jean de Coligni, d. 1686, scion of a distinguished military family, soldier and governor of Autun in Burgundy; Gui Joly, dates unknown, historian and secretary to Cardinal de Retz; Mary Shelley probably read Joly’s version in Mémoires (see Retz (1817), vol. V, pp. 213–14. b

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That Rochefoucauld did not murder De Retz scarcely redeems him, / since we find that he entertained the thought, and almost repented not having put it in execution. In the heat of this quarrel the coadjutor had named him coward: (“I lied,” De Retz writes in his memoirs, “for he was assuredly very brave;”a) giving him, at the same time, his nickname, Franchise, which he got in ridicule of his assumption of the appearance of frankness as a cloak to double-dealing and real astuteness of disposition. We are willing, however, to suppose that he practised this sort of astuteness only with his enemies, and that he continued frank and true to his friends. He had now become the firm partisan and friend of Condé. This prince, a soldier in heart and profession, grew impatient of the miserable tumults and brawls of Paris, and resolved to assert his authority in arms. He retreated to the south of France, and raised Guienne, Poitou, and Anjoub against the court. He was surrounded by the prince of Conti, the duchess de Longueville, Rochefoucauld, Nemours,c and many others of his boldest and most powerful adherents. He was received in Bordeaux with joy and acclamations: ten thousand men were levied; and Spain eagerly lent her succour to support him in his rebellion. This was, for France, the most disastrous period of its civil dissensions. All the blessings of civilisation were lost; commerce, the arts, and the sciences were, as it were, obliterated from the face of society; the industrious classes were reduced to misery and want; the peasantry had degenerated into bandits; lawlessness and demoralisation were spread through the whole country. The total disregard for honour and virtue that characterised the higher classes became ferocity and dishonesty in the lower. Condé, into whose purposes and aims we have small insight, – that he hated Mazarin, and desired power, is all we know, – reaped little advantage from the state to which he assisted, at least, to reduce his country. His friends and partisans quarrelled with each other; supplies fell off; he saw himself on the brink of ruin; and determined to retrieve himself by a total change of / plan. His scheme was to cross the whole of France, and to put himself at the head of the veteran troops of the duke de Nemours. The undertaking was encompassed with dangers. His friends at first dissuaded, but, finding him resolved, they implored permission to accompany him. He made such division as he considered advantageous for his affairs; leaving Marsind behind, with the prince of Conti, to maintain his interests in Guienne, and taking with him Rochefoucauld, his young son, the prince de Marsillac,e and several other nobles and officers. Gourville, Rochefoucauld’s secretary, who had made several journeys to and fro between Paris and Bourdeaux, and was a man of singular activity, astuteness, and presence of mind, was to serve as their guide. a

Retz (1987), vol. II, p. 231. The western province to the north of Poitou and Guienne. c Charles-Amédée, duc de Nemours (1624–52), lover of the duchesse de Longueville, brother-in-law of the duc de Beaufort, who killed him in a duel. d Jean-Gaspard-Ferdinand, comte de Marchin (d. 1673), Flemish nobleman. e La Rochefoucauld’s eldest son, François (1634–1714). b

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The party set out on Palm Sunday, disguised as simple cavaliers; the servants and followers being sent forward by water. The journey was continued by day and night, almost with the same horses. The adventurers never remained for two hours together in the same place, either for repose or refreshment. Sometimes they stopped at the houses of two or three gentlemen, friends of one of the party, for a short interval of rest, and for the purpose of buying horses: but these gentlemen were far from suspecting that Condé was among them, and spoke so freely, that he heard much concerning himself and his friends which had never before reached his ears. At other times they took shelter in outhouses, or poor publichouses by the way side, while Gourville went to forage in the towns. Their fare was meager enough. In one little inn they found nothing but eggs. Condé insisted on making the omelet himself, piqueing himself on his skill: the hostess showed him how to turn it; but he, using too much force in the manœuvre, threw the supper of himself and his friends into the fire. During the fatigues of this journey Rochefoucauld was attacked by his first fit of the gout; but their greatest embarrassment arose from the young prince de Marsillac, who almost sunk under the fatigues to which he was / exposed. Gourville was the safeguard of the party: he foraged for food, answered impertinent questions, invented subterfuges, and executed a thousand contrivances to ensure their safety, or extricate them from danger. When refreshing their horses in a large village a peasant recognised Condé, and named him. Gourville, hearing this, began to laugh, and told his friends as they came up, and they joining in bantering the poor man, he did not know what to believe. All the party, except the prince at the head of it, whose frame was of iron, were overcome by fatigue. After passing the Loire, they were nearly discovered by the sentinels at La Charité, whom they encountered through a mistake of the guide. The sentinel demanded who went there: Gourville replied that they were officers of the court, who desired to enter. The Condé, pursuing the same tone, bade the man go to the governor, and ask leave for them to be admitted into the town; some soldiers, who were loitering near, were about to take this message, when Gourville exclaimed, addressing the prince, “You have time to sleep here, but our congé ends to-morrow, and we must push on;” and he proceeded, followed by the others, who said to the prince, “You can remain if you like;” but Condé, as if discontented, yet not liking to part company, followed, telling them that they were strange people, and sending his compliments to the governor. After passing the river, their dangers were far from over. Some of the companions of the prince were recognised: the report began to spread that he was of the party. They left the high road, and continued their journey to Chatillon in such haste, that they went, according to Rochefoucauld’s account, the incredible distance of thirty-five leagues, with the same horses, in one day – a day full of dangerous recognitions and misadventures:a they were surrounded by troops; and, a La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 269–77. 35 leagues would be approximately 100 miles (160 km).

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one after the other, Condé was obliged to send his companions on various missions to ensure his safety, till he was left at last with only Rochefoucauld, and his son, the prince de Marsillac. / They proceeded guardedly, Marsillac an hundred steps in advance of, and Rochefoucauld at the same distance behind, Condé, so that he might receive notice of any danger, and have some chance of saving himself. They had not proceeded far in this manner before they heard various reports of a pistol, and, at the same moment, perceived four cavaliers on their left, approaching at full trot. Believing themselves discovered, they resolved to charge these four men, determined to die rather than be taken; but, on their drawing near, they found that it was one of their own number, who had returned, accompanied by three gentlemen; and altogether they proceeded to Chatillon.a Here Condé heard of the situation of the army he was desirous of joining; but he heard, at the same time, that he was in the close neighbourhood of danger, several of the king’s guard being then at Chatillon. They set out again at midnight; and were nearly discovered and lost at the end of their adventure, being recognised by many persons. However, as it turned out, this served instead of injuring them, as several mounted on horseback, and accompanied the party till they fell in with the advanced guard of the army, close to the forest of Orleans. They were hailed by a qui vive.b The answer, and the knowledge that spread, that Condé had arrived, occasioned general rejoicing and surprise in the army, which greatly needed his presence. Condé was opposed by Turenne, who now adhered to the court. These two great generals felt that they had a worthy match in each other. Before Condé’s presence was generally known, Turenne recognised his influence in an attack that was made; and exclaimed, as he hurried to the spot, “The prince of Condé is arrived!”c Warfare was thus transferred to the immediate neighbourhood of the capital, and intrigues of all kinds varied the more soldierly manœuvres of the contending armies. It is impossible here to detail either the vicissitudes of minor combats, or the artifices of De Retz and the other / leaders. Condé found himself forced at last to give way before Turenne. Finding the position he held at St. Cloud no longer tenable, he resolved to take up a new one at Charenton.d For this purpose he was obliged to make nearly the circuit of Paris, then held by the duke of Orleans, who considered himself at the head of the Fronde, but who displayed on this, as on every other occasion, his timid and temporising character. As soon as Condé began his march, Turenne became acquainted with it, and pursued him. Condé advanced às far as the suburbs of Paris, and, for a moment, doubted whether he would not ask permission to pass through the city;e but, afraid of being a

The journey thus far is based selectively on Gourville, vol. I, pp. 61–71. ‘Who goes there?’ Orléans is an important town on the river Loire. c La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 269–77. d Both in the vicinity of Paris, St Cloud being a royal hunting lodge. e i.e. was uncertain whether to ask for permission, a Gallicism. Paris was a walled city, its gates opening out into faubourgs (old spelling, fauxbourgs) or suburban districts. b

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refused, he resolved to march on. Danger approaching nearer and gathering thicker, he determined to make a stand in the fauxbourg St. Antoine. Here, therefore, the battle commenced. The combat was hard contested and fierce: it was attended by various changes in the fortune of the day. At one time Condé had been enabled to advance, but he was again driven back to the gates of St. Antoine, where he was not only assailed in front, but had to sustain a tremendous fire carried on from the surrounding houses. Rochefoucauld was at his side: he, and his son, and other nobles dismounted, and sustained the whole attack, without the assistance of the infantry, who refused to aid them. The duke de Nemours received thirteen wounds, and Rochefoucauld was wounded by an arquebuse, just above the eyes, which, in an instant, deprived him of sight; and he was carried off the field by the duke of Beauforta and the prince of Marsillac. They were pursued; but Condé came to their succour, and gave them time to mount. The citizens were averse to opening the gates of the city to the prince’s army, fearing that the troops of Turenne would enter with him: its safety, however, entirely depended on taking refuge in Paris. The duke of Orleans, vacillating and dastardly, heard of the peril of his friends, and of the loss they had sustained, and moved no finger to help them. His daughter, mademoiselle de Montpensier,b / showed a spirit superior to them all. She shamed her father into signing an order for the opening of the gates. She repaired to the Bastille, and turned its cannon on the royal army; and then, going herself to the gate St. Antoine, she not only persuaded the citizens to receive the prince and troops, but to sally out, skirmish with, and drive back their pursuers. Rochefoucauld, seeing the diversion made in their favour, desired to take advantage of it; and, though his eyes were starting from his head through the effects of his wound, he rode to the fauxbourg St. Germain, and exhorted the people to come to Condé’s aid. Success crowned these efforts; and the prince, after displaying unexampled conduct and valour, entered Paris with flying colours.c This was the crisis of the war of the Fronde. His success and gallantry had raised Condé high in the affections of the Parisians; but popular favour is proverbially short lived, and, in a very short time, he became the object of hatred. De Retz never slept at the work of intrigue. The court, assisted by Turenne, rallied. A popular tumult ensued, more serious than any that had yet occurred; a massacre was the consequence, and the odium fell on Condé and his party. He lost his power even over his own soldiery, and the utmost license prevailed. Several of the leaders of the Fronde died also. The duke of Nemours fell in a duel with his brother-in-law, the duke of Beaufort: the dukes of Chavignid and Bouillon died of a François de Bourbon-Vendôme (1616–69), duc de Beaufort, grandson of Henri IV by Gabrielle d’Estrées, duchesse de Beaufort. b Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, duchesse de Montpensier (1627–93), daughter of Louis XIII’s brother Gaston d’Orléans; known as La Grande Mademoiselle. c The preceding account is based on La Rochefoucauld, Mémoires, pp. 303–9. d Léon Bouthillier, comte de Chavigny (1608–52), minister in opposition to Mazarin, whom he hoped to supplant.

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a typhus fever then raging in Paris. Scarcity, the consequence of the presence of the soldiery and the state of the surrounding country, became severely felt. Each party longed for repose. The court acted with discretion. Mazarin was sacrificed for the time; and the royal family returned to Paris, Condé having quitted it shortly before. He hastened to Holland, eager, like a true soldier, to place himself at the head of an army; but ill success pursued him: he was declared a rebel; and, from that hour, his star declined. After much treaty, much intrigue, and various acts of treachery, a peace was concluded between / the court and the remnant of the Fronde, and the authority of the king, now declared major, was universally acknowledged.a On the retreat of Condé from Paris, Rochefoucauld retired with his family to Danvilliers, where he spent a year in retirement; recovering from his wounds; and making up his mind to extricate himself from the web of intrigue in which he had immeshed himself.b The Fronde was already at an end: it crumbled to pieces under the influence of fear and corruption. Rochefoucauld had already broken with the prince of Conti and the duchess de Longueville*: his last tie was to * The couplet, written by Rochefoucauld at the bottom of a portrait of the duchess de Longueville is well known “Pour meriter son cœur, pour plaire à ses beaux yeux, J’ai fait la guerre aux rois: je l’aurois faite aux dieux.”

When he quarrelled with her, after his wound in the combat of the fauxbourg de St. Antome, he parodied it. “Pour ce cœur inconstant, qu’enfin je connois mieux, J’ai fait la guerre aux rois; j’en ai perdu les yeux.”c It may here be mentioned, that the prince of Conti and the duchess of Longueville held out in Bourdeaux and Guienne against the royal authority for several years. Through the interposition of Gourville they acceded to terms in 1658. The conclusion of madame de Longueville’s life was singular. Cardinal de Retz and Rochefoucauld both describe her as naturally indolent, but they both so inoculated her with a love of party intrigue, that, when the war of the Fronde ceased, she found it impossible to reconcile herself to a quiet life. She became jansenist. She built herself a dwelling close to the abbey of Port Royal aux Champs.d She put herself forward in all the disputes, and was looked up to with reverence by the leaders of the party, and contrived, when every one else had failed, to suspend the disturbances caused by the formula. “A a

i.e. Louis XIV was now considered to be of age. Mary Shelley’s summary probably derives from James, vol. I, pp. 174–291. b Gourville, vol. I, p. 80. c Both couplets are cited in Suard, Maximes, p. 8: ‘To deserve a place in her heart, to win favour in her sight, I made war against kings; I would have made war on the gods” (from the Dunyer tragedy Alcyonée); ‘For this inconstant heart, which I now know better, I made war on kings, and in so doing lost my sight.’ d Convent near Paris, founded in 1204 and reformed by Marie-Angélique Jacqueline Arnauld (1612–94); it was associated with the Jansenist movement within French Catholicism, which stressed the doctrine of predestination and espoused an austere morality. Former supporters of the Fronde settled near the abbey, forming a community. See also ‘Racine’, ‘Pascal’ and ‘Fénélon’ (vol. 3) for Mary Shelley’s discussions of Jansenism.

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Condé. He received representations from his friends, and, doubtless, his own mind suggested the advantage of breaking this last link to an overthrown party. One of the bribes held out to him was the marriage of his son with mademoiselle de la Roche-Guyon, his cousin and an heiress.a Desirous of acting honourably, he sent Gourville to Brussels, to disengage him / from all ties with Condé. Gourville executed the task with his usual sagacity: he represented to the prince that the duke could no longer be of any service to him; and, having family reasons for wishing to return to France, he asked his consent and permission. The prince admitted his excuses, and freed him from every bond. Gourville then went to Paris, to negotiate the duke’s return with cardinal Mazarin. After some difficulty he obtained an interview with the minister, who readily granted leave to the duke to return, and completed his work by gaining over Gourville himself.b Thus ended, as far as any trace remains to us, the active life of a man who hereafter reaped lessons of wisdom from the busy scenes through which he had passed. From various passages in Gourville’s memoirs it is evident that he spent the years immediately succeeding to the war on his own estate of la Rochefoucauld. He was nearly ruined by the career he had gone through; and, finding his affairs almost hopelessly deranged, he asked Gourville, who had turned financier, to receive his rents and revenues, and to undertake the management of his estate, household, and debts, allowing him forty pistoles a month for dress and private expenses; which arrangement lasted till his death.c Subsequently he lived almost entirely in Paris, where he made a part of what may emphatically be called the best society, of which he was the greatest ornament; and was respected and beloved by a circle of intimate and dear friends. He had always been one of the chief ornaments of the Hotel de Rambouillet. We cannot tell how far he deigned to adopt the jargon of the fair Precieuses; but, as the society assembled there was celebrated as the most intellectual and the most virtuous in Paris, it was an honour for a man to belong to it.d singular woman,” the French biographer writes, “who even became renowned while working out her salvation, and saved herself on the same plank from hell and from ennui.”e Her piety was sincere, for she submitted to great personal privations, and fasted so strictly, that she died, it is said, from inanition. She died about a month after the duke de la Rochefoucauld. The bishop of Autun preached her funeral oration, as madame de Sévigné says, with all the ability, tact, and grace that it was possible to conceive. The children and friends of Rochefoucauld were among his audience, and wept his death anew.f a The grand-daughter and heiress of La Rochefoucauld’s uncle, the marquis de Liancourt and duc de la Roche-Guyon. b The preceding is based on Gourville, vol. I, pp. 82–8. c Summarised from the detailed account in Gourville, vol. II, pp. 32–48. d The précieuses (flourished c. 1654–63), a small group of aristocratic salonières in the Hotel de Rambouillet coterie (see ‘Sévigné’, vol. 3). Précieuses were identified with excessive fastidiousness and linguistic affectation as well as virtue and intellectuality. e Source uncertain, but possibly from the first edition of Michaud’s Biographie Universelle, or J. F. B. de Villefore’s La Veritable Vie d’Anne Geneviève de Bourbon, Duchesse de Longueville (Amsterdam: Jean François Joly, 1739). f Sévigné (1974), vol. III, pp. 902–3. The Bishop of Autun (1676–1702) was Gabriel de Roquette.

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It is singular also to remark, that the most unaffected writers of the time of Louis XIV. had once figured as Alcovistes or Precieuses.a Madame de la Fayette, who, in her works, adopted a simplicity of sentiment and expression that contrasts forcibly with the / bombast of the school of Scuderi;b madame de Sévigné, whose style is the most delightful and easy in the world; Rochefoucauld, who, first among moderns, concentrated his ideas, and, abjuring the diffuseness that still reigned in literature, aimed at expressing his thoughts in as few words as possible, had all been frequenters and favourites at the Hotel de Rambouillet. It would seem that intellectual indolence is the mind’s greatest foe; and, once incited to think, persons of talent can easily afterwards renounce a bad school. Platonic gallantries, metaphorical conceits, and ridiculous phraseology, were not the only accomplishments prized by the Precieuses. Learning and wit flourished among them; and when Molière, with happy ridicule,c had dissolved the charm that had steeped them in folly, these remained, and shone forth brightly in the persons already named, and others scarcely less celebrated – Ménage, Balzac, Voiture, Bourdaloue, &c.d To return to Rochefoucauld himself. His best and dearest friend was madame de la Fayette, the authoress of “La Princesse de Clêves,” and other works that mark her excellent taste and distinguished talents. Madame de la Fayette was, in her youth, a pupil of Ménage and Rapin.e She learned Latin under their tuition, and rose above her masters in the quickness of her comprehension. In general society she carefully concealed her acquirements. “She understood Latin,” Segraisf writes, “but she never allowed her knowledge to appear; so not to excite the jealousy of other women.” She was intimately allied to all the clever men of the time, and respected and loved by them. She was a woman of a strong mind; witty and discerning, frank, kindhearted, and true. Rochefoucauld owed much to her, while she had obligations to him. Their friendship was of mutual benefit. “He gave me intellect,” she said, “and I reformed his heart.”g a Alcovistes were so-called because the marquise de Rambouillet, an invalid, conversed with her guests while lying on a day-bed placed in an alcove of her bedchamber, la chambre bleue. b Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Verge, 1634–93, married the comte de Lafayette in 1655. Her novel La Princesse de Clèves (1678) is regarded as the first novel of character; Madeleine de Scudéry (1608–1701), author of lengthy, historical prose romances, notably Artamène, ou le Grand Cyrus (1649–53) and Clélie (1654–60), whose characters, nominally set in the past, were thought to resemble noted 17th-century political and literary figures. Clélie was the favourite novel of the précieuses. c i.e. Molière’s play Les Précieuses Ridicules; see ‘Molière’, vol. 3. d The abbé Giles Ménage 1613–92, and Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac (1594–1654), critic, both advocates of classicism and moulders of taste; Louis Bourdaloue (1623–1704), fashionable Jesuit preacher. e René Rapin (1627–87), Jesuit priest, poet and critic. f Jean Regnauld de Segrais (1624–1701), cleric who became a poet, and literary assistant first to the duchesse de Montpensier, then to Mme de Lafayette. g Found in Michaud’s Biographie Universelle (1835–65 edition); the earlier edition is possibly Mary Shelley’s immediate source. Not otherwise traced.

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This heart might well need reform and cure from all of evil it had communicated with during long years of intrigue and adventure. The easiness of his temper, his turn for gallantry, the mobile nature of his mind, / rendered him susceptible to the contamination of the bad passions then so active around him. Ardent, ambitious; subtle, – we find him, in the time of the Fronde, busiest among the intriguers; eager in pursuit of his objects, yet readily turned aside; violent in his hatred, passionate in his attachments, yet easily detached from both, after the first fire had burnt out. His vaccillation of conduct and feeling at that time caused it to be said, that he always made a quarrel in the morning, and the employment of his day was to make it up by evening. Cardinal de Retz, his great enemy, accuses him of thinking too ill of human nature.* Thrown among the fools, knaves, and * “Il y a toujours eût du je ne sais quoi en tout M de la Rochefoucauld. Il a voulu se mêler d’intrigues dès son enfance, et en un temps où il ne sentait pas les petits intérêts, qui n’ont jamais été son faible, et où il ne connoissait pas les grands, qui, d’un autre sens, n’ont pas été son fort. Il n’a jamais été capable d’aucune affaire, et je ne sais pourquoi; car il avait des qualités qui eussent supléé, en tout autre celles qu’il n’avait pas. Sa vue n’était pas assez étendue, et il ne voyait pas même tout ensemble ce qui était à sa portée; mais son bon sens, très bon dans la speculation, joint à sa douceur, à son insinuation, et à sa facilité de mœurs, qui est admirable, devait recompenser plus qu’il n’a fait le défaut de sa pénétration. Il a toujours eût une irrésolution habituelle; mais je ne sais même à quoi attribuer cette irrésolution: elle n’a pu venir en lui de la fécondité de son imagination, qui est rien moins que vive. Je ne puis la donner à la stérilité de son jugement, car quoiqu’il ne l’ait pas exquis dans l’action, il a un bon fonds de raison. Nous voyons l’effects de cette irrésolution, quoique nous n’en connaissons pas la cause. Il n’a jamais été guerier, quoiqu’il fut tres soldat. Il n’a jamais été par lui-même bon courtisan, quoiqu’il ait eût toujours bonne intention de l’être. Il n’a jamais été bon homme de parti, quoique toute sa vie il y ait été engagé. Cet air de honte et de timidité que vous lui voyez dans la vie civile s’était tourné dans les affaires en air d’apologie. Il croyait toujours en avoir besoin, ce qui joint à ses maximes, qui ne marquent pas assez de foi à la vertu, et à sa pratique, qui à toujours été à sortir des affaires avec autant d’impatience qu’il y est entré, me fait conclure qu’il eut beaucoup mieux fait de se connaitre et de se réduire à passer, comme il eût pu, pour le courtisan le plus poli et pour le plus honnête homme, à l’égard de la vie commune, qui eût paru dans le siècle.” a a

‘There was always something elusive about everything to do with M. de la Rochefoucauld. He wanted, from his infancy, to mix himself up in intrigue, during an epoch when he had no taste for petty matters, for that was never his weakness; and when he had no knowledge of large ones, for, in another sense, these were not his strength. He was never capable of any great matter, and I do not know why; for he had qualities which in anyone else, would have stood in for those he lacked. His horizons were not very extensive, and he did not even take in everything which was in front of him; but his good sense, especially in speculative issues, together with his gentle ways, ingratiating qualities, and truly admirable ease of manner, should have made up more than it did for his lack of penetration. He was habitually indecisive, but I do not know the cause of this indecision. It could not have come from an abundant imagination, as his is lively, no more, no less. Nor can it be due to a sterility of judgement, since although he is not nimblefooted in action, he basically has a sound stock of good sense. We can see the result of this irresolution, even if we cannot fathom its cause. He was never a warrior, though he was very soldierly. He has never succeeded in being a good courtier, although it was always his intention to be one. The air of diffidence and timidity you see in his private life was translated, in public matters, into a continual air of self-excuse. He always sought to justify himself, which together with his Maxims, which display no marked faith in virtue, and his practice, which has always

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demoralised women of the Fronde, we cannot wonder that he, seeing the extent of / the evil of which human nature is capable, was unaware that these very passions, regulated by moral principle and religion, would animate men to virtue as well as to vice. He read this lesson subsequently in his own heart, when, turning from the libertine society with which he spent his youth, he became the friend of madame de la Fayette, madame de Sévigné and the most distinguished persons of the reign of Louis XIV. Yet the taint could not quite be effaced. It left his heart, but it blotted his understanding. He could feel generous, noble, and pious sentiments; but having once experienced emotions the reverse of these, and having found them deep-rooted in others, he fancied that both virtue and vice, good and evil, sprang from the same causes, and were based on the same foundations. Added to this, we may observe that his best friends belonged to a court. True and just as was madame de la Fayette, – amiable and disinterested as madame de Sévigné, – brave as Turenne, – noble as Condé, – pious as Racine, – honest as Boileau, – devout and moral as madame de Maintenon might be, and were, the taint of a court was spread over all; the desire of being well with the sovereign, and making a monarch’s favour the cynosure of hearts and the measure of merit. Rochefoucauld fancied that he could discern selfishness in all; yet, had he turned his eye inward with a clearer view, he had surely found that the impulses that caused his own heart to warm with friendship and virtue, were based on a power of forgetting self in extraneous objects; for he was a faithful, affectionate, and disinterested friend, a fond father, and an honourable man. He was brave also; though madame de Maintenon tells us that he was accustomed to say that he looked on personal bravery as folly.a This speech lets us into much of the secret recesses of his mind. His philosophy was epicurean;b and, wanting the stoic Such is the character de Retz gives of his rival. Madame de Sévigné has preserved a portrait of the cardinal by Rochefoucauld. He gives him high praise for good understanding and an admirable memory. He represents him as high minded, and yet more vain than ambitious, an easy temper, ready to listen to the complaints of his followers; indolent to excess, when allowed to repose, but equal to any exertion when called into action; and aided on all occasions by a presence of mind which enabled him to turn every chance so much to his advantage that it seemed as if each had been foreseen and desired by him. He relates that he was fond of narrating his past adventures; and his reputation was founded chiefly on his ability in placing his very defects in a good light. He even regards his last retreat as resulting from vanity, while his friend, madame de Sévigné, more justly looks upon it as resulting from the grandeur of his mind and love of justice.c been to abandon affairs with as much impatience as when he sought them out, leads me to conclude that he would have done better to have acquired more self-knowledge, and to have limited himself to being accounted – as he was well equipped to be – the most polished and best bred gentleman in society to have appeared in this century’ (Retz (1987), vol. I, p. 374). a Maintenon, Lettres, p. 305. b Epicureans strove for a balanced existence with due allowance for sensuous enjoyment, while stoicism, which enjoyed revived interest in the 17th century, emphasized control of the passions in the pursuit of heroism and public duty. c Sévigné (1974), vol. I, pp. 737–8.

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exaltation of sentiment, and worship of good for good’s sake, he mistook the principles of the human mind, and saw no excellence in a forgetfulness of self, / the capacity for which he was thus led to deny.* Madame de Maintenon adds, in her portrait, “M. de Rochefoucauld had an agreeable countenance, a dignified manner, much intellect, and little knowledge. He was intriguing, supple, foreseeing. I never knew a friend more constant, more frank, nor more prudent in his advice. He loved to reign: he was very brave. He preserved the vivacity of his mind till his death; and was always lively and agreeable, though naturally serious.”ca The latter part of his life was embittered by the gout, which seldom left him free from pain. The society of madame de la Fayette and other friends were his resource during the intervals of his attacks, and his comfort throughout. Madame de Sévigné makes frequent mention of him in her letters, and always in a way that marks approbation and respect. She often speaks of his fortitude in suffering bodily pain, and his sensibility when domestic misfortunes visited him severely. His courage never abandoned him, except when death deprived him of those he loved. One of his sons was killed and another wounded in the passage of the Rhine. “I have seen,” writes madame de Sévigné, “his heart laid bare by this cruel disaster. He is the first among all the men I ever knew for courage, goodness, tenderness, and sense. I count his wit and agreeable qualities as nothing in comparison.”b It is from her letters that we gather an account of his death. Mention is made of him, as well and enjoying society, in the / month of February. On * We doubt the exact truth of these assertions even while we write them. It is true that Rochefoucauld detects self-love as mingling in many of our actions and feelings, but he does not advance the opinion that no disinterested virtue can exist, and, still less, the Helvetian metaphysical notion that self-love is the spring of every emotion, which it is, inasmuch as it is we that feel, and that our emotions cause our pulses to beat, not another’s; but is not, inasmuch as we do not consult our own interest or pleasure in all we feel and do.c Madame de Sévigné relates an anecdote of an officer who had his arm carried off by the same cannon-ball that killed Turenne, but who, careless of the mutilation, threw himself weeping on the corpse of the hero. She adds that Rochefoucauld shed tears when he heard this told. Such tears are a tribute paid to disinterested virtue; and prove, though the author of the “Maxims” could trace dross in ore wherever it existed, yet that he believed that virtue could be found in entire purity.d a Maintenon, Lettres, p. 304–5; in part a duplication of the citation on p. 351 but with the first line translated differently (a sign of Mary Shelley’s working under pressure). Sending copy for typesetting of the lengthier Lives in batches, which she evidently did with ‘Rousseau’, would have increased the likelihood of this happening. b Sévigné,(1974), vol. I, p. 538; also cited by Suard, Maximes, p. 16. The wounded son was his heir, the prince de Marsillac; his fourth son, Jean Baptiste de la Rochefoucauld, a Knight of Malta, was killed during the Dutch Wars in 1672. c Mary Shelley challenges the materialist views of Claude-Adrien Helvétius (1715–91) who argued in De L’Esprit (1758) that the mainspring of morality was self-interest and the drive to seek pleasure and to avoid pain. He therefore advocated an ethics based on making anti-social behaviour painful, thus eliminating Christian and humanistic notions of disinterested virtue. d An apparent conflation of Sévigné (1974), vol. II, p. 53, where Mme de Sévigné speaks of La Rochefoucauld and his guests weeping at the account of Turenne’s death, with vol. II, p. 165, where de Sévigné weeps at the incident of a young officer who lost his arm the same day nearby.

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the 13th of March she writes, “M. de la Rochefoucauld has been and is seriously ill. He is better to-day; but there is every appearance of death: he has a high fever, an oppression, a suppressed gout. There has been question of the English doctor and other physicians: he has chosen his godfather; and frère Ange will kill him, if God has thus disposed. M. de Marsillac is expected: madame de la Fayette is deeply afflicted.”a On the 15th of the same month she writes, “I fear that this time we shall lose M. de la Rochefoucauld: his fever continues. He received the communion yesterday. He is in a state worthy of admiration. He is excellently disposed with regard to his conscience, – that is clear: for the rest, it is to him as if his neighbour were ill: he is neither moved nor troubled. He hears the cause of the physicians pleaded before him with an unembarrassed head, and almost without deigning to give his opinion. It reminded me of the verse, Trop dessous de lui, pour y prêter l’esprit.b

He did not see madame de la Fayette yesterday, because she wept, and he was to take the sacrament: he sent at noon to inquire after her. Believe me that he has not made reflections all his life to no purpose. He has in this manner approached so near to the last moments that their actual presence has nothing new nor strange for him. M. de Marsillac arrived at midnight, the day before yesterday, overwhelmed with grief. He was long before he could command his countenance and manner. He entered at last, and found his father in his chair, little different from his usual appearance. As M. de Marsillac is his friend among his children, there must have been some internal emotion; but he manifested none, and forgot to speak to him of his illness. I am continually with madame de la Fayette, who could never have experienced the delights of friendship and affection were she less afflicted than she is.”c On the 17th of March the scene closed; and madame de Sevigné writes, / “M. de la Rochefoucauld died this night. My head is so full of this misfortune, and of the extreme affliction of my poor friend, that I must write about it. On Saturday, yesterday, the remedies had done wonders; victory was proclaimed; his fever had diminished. In this state, yesterday, at six o’clock, he turned to death: fever recurred; and, in a word, gout treacherously strangled him: and, although he was still strong, and had not been weakened by losing blood, five or six hours sufficed to carry him off. At midnight he expired in the arms of M. de Condom (Bossuet).d M. de Marsillac never quitted him for a moment: he is plunged in inexpressible affliction. Yet he will return to his former life; find the king and the court as they were; and his family will still be around him. But where will madame de la Fayette find such a friend, such society; a similar kindness, resource, and reliance, or equal consideration for herself and her son? She is a

Sévigné (1974), vol. II, p. 873. ‘Too much beneath him, for him to give it any notice’. c Sévigné (1974) vol. II, pp. 873–5. d Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704), preacher, cleric, political theorist and historian, tutor to the Dauphin, successively Bishop of Condom, then Meaux; see also ‘Fénélon’, vol. 3. b

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infirm; she is always at home, and cannot run about town. M. de la Rochefoucauld was sedentary. This state rendered them necessary to each other; and nothing could equal their mutual confidence, and the charm of their friendship.”a This grief, this friendship, is the most honourable monument a man can receive: who would not desire thus to be sepultured in the heart of one loved and valued? One might regret the pain felt; but, as madame de la Sévigné so beautifully observes, this pain is the proof of the truth and warmth of the affection that united them, and the pleasure they mutually imparted and received. In successive letters there are traces of the inconsolable affliction of madame de la Fayette. “She has fallen from the clouds: every moment she perceives the loss she has suffered;” and again, “Poor madame de la Fayette knows not what to do with herself. The loss of M. de la Rochefoucauld makes so terrible a void in her life that she feels more sensibly the value of so delightful an intimacy. Every one will be consoled at last, except her.” A sadder testimonial of her affection is contained in a short passage, saying, “I saw madame de la Fayette. I found her in tears: / a writing of M. de la Rochefoucauld had fallen into her hands which surprised and afflicted her.”b We are not told the subject of this paper, nor the cause of her affliction: was it some trace of past unkindness or secret injustice? These are the stings, this the poison, of death. There is no recal for a hasty word; no excuse, no pardon, no forgetfulness, for injustice or neglect; – the grave that has closed over the living form, and blocked up the future, causes the past to be indelible; and, as human weakness for ever errs, here it finds the punishment of its errors. While we love, let us ever remember that the loved one may die, – that we ourselves may die. Let all be true and open, let all be faithful and single-hearted, or the poison-harvest reaped after death may infect with pain and agony one’s life of memory.c We may say, in defence of Rochefoucauld, that Gourville, in his memoirs, alludes to a circumstance that annoyed him with regard to madame de la Fayette: he says that, taking advantage of Gourville’s attachment to his former master, she and M. de Langlade plotted together to do him an ill turn, which would have turned greatly to the lady’s advantage; and that, at the time of the duke’s death, it was said that he was much hurt at having discovered this little intrigue.d At the same time madame de la Fayette may have been innocent of the charge. Gourville disliked her, and might accuse her unjustly, and have deceived Rochefoucauld by representations which were false, though he believed in them himself. We have entered thus fully into all the details known of Rochefoucauld’s life, that we might understand better on what principles and feelings the “Maxims” were founded. We find a warm heart, an impetuous temper, joined to great duca

Sévigné (1974), vol. II, pp. 875–6. Mary Shelley quotes successively Sévigné (1974), vol. II, pp. 884, 891–2, 903. This observation appears to come from Mary Shelley’s own experience. d Gourville, vol. II, pp. 69–71; Jacques de Langlade, seigneur de Méridan (c.1620–80), successively employed as a trusted administrator by the duc de Bouillon, Cardinal Mazarin, and the Prince de Conti. b c

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tility, some insincerity, and no imagination; – we find a penetrating understanding, joined to extreme subtlety, that might well overshoot itself in its aim; – strong attachments, which took the colour greatly of their object. Disease tamed his passions; but his mind was still free to observe, and to form opinions. / The result was an Epicurean philosophy, which answered the cui bonoa by a perpetual reference to self – to pleasure and to pain; while he passed over the first principle of morals, which is, that it is not the pleasure we receive from good actions which actuates us, but love of good. This passion produces pleasure or pain in its result; but the latter is the effect forgotten till it arrives; the former the cause, the impelling motive, the true source, from which our virtues spring. Were we to praise a knife for being sharp, and a stander-by should say, “It deserves no praise. No wonder that it is sharp: it is made of the finest tempered steel, and infinite labour has been bestowed on the manufacture of it:” should we not reply, “Therefore we praise it: because the material is good, and has been rendered better by care, we consider it excellent.” The passions and the affections, by their influence over the soul, produce pleasure or pain; but shall we not love and approve those who take pleasure in cultivating virtuous affections, and rejecting vicious ones? Thus considered, it may be said that the question is reduced to a mere war of words; but in practice it is not so. No person could habitually entertain the idea that he was selfish in all he did without weakening his love of good, and, at last, persuading himself to make self-interest, in a confined and evil sense, the aim of his actions; while if, on the contrary, we recognise and appreciate that faculty of the soul, that permits us to forget self in the object of our desire, we shall be more eagerly bent to entertain piety, virtue, and honour, as objects to be attained; satisfied that thus we render ourselves better beings, though, probably, not happier than those of meaner aspirations.b We turn to Rochefoucauld’s maxims, and find ample field for explanation of our view in the observations that they suggest. We cannot turn to them without discussing inwardly their truth and falsehood. Some are true as truth: such as – “There is in the human heart a perpetual generation of passions; so that the destruction of one is almost always the birth of another.” / “We promise according to our hopes; we perform according to our fears.” “No one is either so happy or so unhappy as he imagines.” “Fortune turns every thing to the advantage of those whom she favours.” “There is but one true love; but there are a thousand copies.” “It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them.” “A fool has not stuff enough in him to be virtuous.” a

Latin, ‘for whose benefit?’ Mary Shelley reflects on the same problem as Godwin in ‘Of Self-love and Benevolence’, Essay XI of Thoughts on Man (1831), pp. 205–25; rpt Political and Philosophical Writings of William Godwin, gen. ed. Philp (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1993), vol. 6. Godwin likewise rejects the values of La Rochefoucauld and sees him as a precursor of Helvétius. Mary Shelley, an admirer of Thoughts on Man, nevertheless leans more towards stoicism here than Godwin. b

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“Our minds are more indolent than our bodies.” “Jealousy is always born with love, but does not always die with it.” “It would seem that nature has concealed talents and capacities in the depths of our minds of which we have no knowledge: the passions alone can bring these into day, and give us more certain and perfect views than art can afford.” “We arrive quite new at the different ages of life; and often want experience in spite of the number of years we have lived.” “It is being truly virtuous to be willing to be always exposed to the view of the virtuous.” Some maxims are too subtle; and among such is to be ranked the celebrated one, “That we often find something in the misfortunes of our best friends that is not displeasing to us.”a Taking this in its most obvious sense it merely means, that no evil is so great but that some good accompanies it. Our own personal misfortunes even bring, at times, some sort of compensation, without which they would be intolerable. Regarded more narrowly, it appears that Rochefoucauld meant that we are ready to look upon the sorrows of our friends as something advantageous to ourselves. This, in a precise sense, is totally false, where there is question of real affection and true friendship. There is an emotion, however, of a singular description that does often arise in the heart on hearing bad news. The simpleminded Lavater, in his / journal, was aware of this. He mentions that, on hearing that a friend had fallen into affliction, he felt an involuntary emotion of pleasure.b Examination explains to us the real nature of this feeling. The human mind is adverse (we talk of the generality of instances, not of exceptions,) to repose: any thing that gives it hope of exercise, and puts it in motion, is pleasurable. The consciousness of existence is a pleasure; and any novelty of sensation that is not personally painful brings this. When Lavater heard that his friend was in affliction he was roused from the monotony of his daily life. Novelty had charms: he had to tell his wife to set out on a journey for the purpose of seeing and consoling his friend. All this made him conscious of existence, gave him the hope of being useful, caused his blood to flow more freely, and thus even imparted physical a

Mary Shelley quotes successively from Suard, Maximes, pp. 27, 34, 37, 40, 43, 45, 122, 144, 116, 126, 126, 73, 84. In 1825 she applied ‘Rochefoucauld’s now trite maxim’ (not quoted but identifiable from the context as the ‘celebrated’ one under discussion here) to the news that Trelawny was invalided out of the Greek War of Independence. Her compassion for his suffering was self-confessedly mingled with satisfaction at the thought of his return ‘to his English friends’ (MWSL, I, p. 503). b Secret Journal of a Self-Observer, or Confessions and Familiar Letters of J. C. Lavater, 2 vols (London: Cadell & Davies, 1795), trans. Revd Peter Will, vol. I, pp. 59–61. Johann Caspar Lavater (1741–1801), Zurich-born pastor and man of letters, tried to establish a ‘science’ of physiognomy, using facial expression as an index of character. His widely-read Essays on Physiognomy were translated into English in 1795 by, among others, Thomas Holcroft, William Godwin’s close friend. Mary Shelley’s citation of Lavater (and Helvétius, above) reflects her revisiting the intellectual milieu of the late 1780s and 90s while preparing her ‘Life of William Godwin’ (begun 1836; see vol. 4).

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pleasure; and, indeed, I should be apt to reduce the essence of this emotion to mere physical sensation, occasioned by an accelerated pulsation, the result of excitement. It may be, and it is, right to record this sensation in any history of the human mind; but it ought to be appreciated at its true value as the mere operation of the lower part of our nature for the most part, and, added to that, pleasure in the expectation of being of use. This sort of anatomy of mind, when we detect evil in the involuntary impulses of the soul, resembles the scruples felt by an over-pious person, who regards the satisfying hunger and receiving pleasure in eating a dry crust as sin. Dissecting things thus, it becomes difficult to say what is a misfortune. It is a misfortune to lose one’s child; so natural and instinctive is the sorrow that ensues that, perhaps, no other can be purer. If a friend lose a child, if we loved that child also, the misfortune becomes our own, and our sympathy may be perfect. If the child promised ill, the pain we feel from our friend’s grief may be mitigated by the sense that it is ill-founded, and even that we may derive benefit from the loss lamented: not being blinded by parental passion, we may rejoice in the alleviations foresight and / reason present to us. To call this selfishness is to quarrel with the structure of human nature, which is based on personal identity and consciousness. Passion enables us to throw off even these, sometimes, and totally to amalgamate our interests with those of another. But this is, indeed, of rare occurrence. We may remark, also, that even in those instances in which the mind does recognise benefit to arise from the misfortune of a friend, and feel involuntary self-gratulation, we regard this as a crime or a vice, and reject it as such, showing the power of disinterestedness over selfishness by dismissing and abhorring the feeling. The Fronde was the soil in which the “Maxims” had root: better times softened their harshness, and inspired better and higher thoughts. But the younger life of Rochefoucauld was spent in a society demoralised to a degree unknown before – when self-interest was acknowledged as the principle of all; and the affections alone kept a “few green spots”a – rare oases of beauty and virtue – amidst the blighted and barren waste of ambition and vice. Usually public revulsions give birth to heroism as well as crime; and war and massacre are elevated and redeemed by courage and self-devotion. But, in the time of the Fronde, there were no very great crimes, and no exalted actions: vice and folly, restless desire of power, and an eager, yet aimless, party spirit, animated society. Hence the mean opinion Rochefoucauld formed of human nature; and the very subtlety and penetration of his intellect occasioned him to err yet more widely in his conclusions. To adopt a maxim of his own, he erred, not by not reaching the mark, but going a Possibly conflating ‘green spot of delight’ and ‘those few green fields’. The first is from Thomas Moore, The Fudge Family in Paris (1818), Letter x, and is quoted in Lodore: ‘No “green spot” of delight soothed his memory’ (MWSN, vol. 6, p. 38). The second is from Wordsworth’s ‘The Brothers’ (1800), l. 207, placed among ‘Poems founded upon the Affections’ in 1815. Images of green oases in the desert are recurrent in the Shelleys’ writings.

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beyond it. Not that he went so far as his followers. Dry Scotch metaphysicians,a men without souls, reduced to a system what he announced merely as of frequent occurrence. They tell us that self-interest is the mover of all our actions: Rochefoucauld only says “self-interest puts to use every sort of virtue and vice.”b But he does not say that every sort of virtue, or even vice, in all persons is impregnated with self-interest, / though with many it is; and there are a multitude of his remarks which display a thorough appreciation of excellence. The maxims themselves are admirably expressed; the language is pure and elegant; the thoughts clearly conceived, and forcibly worded. Besides the maxims, Rochefoucauld wrote memoirsc of various periods of the regency of Anne of Austria and the wars of the Fronde. Bayle bestows great encomium on this work: “I am sure,” he says, “there are few partisans of antiquity who will not set a higher value on the duke de la Rochefoucauld’s memoirs than on Cæsar’s commentaries.”*d To which remark the only reply must be, that Bayle was better able to dissect motives, appreciate actions, and reason on truth and falsehood, than to discover the merit of a literary work. “Rochefoucauld’s memoirs are still read:” such is Voltaire’s notice, while he bestows great praise on the maxims.e The chief fault of the memoirs is the subject of them, – the wars of the Fronde, – a period of history distinguished by no men of exalted excellence; neither adorned by admirable actions nor conducing to any amelioration in the state of society: it was a war of knaves (not fools) for their own advancement, ending in their deserved defeat. /

* Bayle’s Dictionary, article Cæsar. a

Almost certainly an allusion to Adam Smith (1723–90) and his followers and possibly also to Adam Ferguson (1723–1816), who was influenced by Helvétius and Dugald Stewart. They tried to reconcile self-love and benevolence, but still within a framework of assuming that the former is the mainspring of our actions; for evidence of Smith’s knowledge of Rochefoucauld, though he regarded his system as ‘licentious’, see The Theory of Moral Sentiments, eds. D. D. Raphael and A. A. Macfie, 6th edn, vol. 1 of the Liberty Classics fascsimile edn of Adam Smith, Works (Indianopolis, 1976), intro., p. 11, 57, 127n and 308–9. b Suard, Maximes, p. 89. c The memoirs were published in various editions under different titles. The first, pirated edition, Mémoires de M. de la Rochefoucauld sur les brigues à la mort de Louis XIII, les guerres de Paris et Guyenne, et la prison de Princes, covered the period 1649–52. Editions after 1689, usually called Mémoires de la minorité de Louis XIV, included material covering the later period 1654–9. The 1804 edition probably used by Mary Shelley included extra material from 1624. d Pierre Bayle, Dictionnaire, Historique et Critique, Vol. II (Rotterdam, Reinier Leers, 1697), p. 410; Suard, Maximes, p. 12 n. refers to Bayle’s entry. e Voltaire, Siècle, p. 410. Also cited by Suard, Maximes, p. 12.

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EDITORIAL CORRECTIONS

Spanish and Portuguese Lives Page 8 14 15 18 20 21 28 34 43 58 58 59 69 69 81 87 94 98 98 102 104 123 127 133 134 135 136 136 137 140 141 147

Line 2 29 45 32 21 4 12 12 25 30 43 22 3 6–7 30 28 32 2 27 25 18 18 40 22 44 11 33 34 12 38 5 30–1

RIBEYRO] RIBEYRA sums] rums [or stereotypic flaw] were under] were Tesoro] Teroso note:] note. Enamorado] Enemorado year] pear drear] derar Sismondi] Simondi “Mas ya que á socorrerme] * “Mas ya que á soceorrerme le quede.”] le quede. * “Corrientes aguas] Corrientes aguas watchwords] watchwards Cambrai] Cambria no sé] nose ‘Ya desde] Ya desde entretegido] entrevgido ‘Diana’] “Diana” Enamorada.”] Enamorada. tender, elevated] tender elevated battles.”] battles. Acquaviva,] Acquaviva individuals] inviduals Leonora,] Leonora. &c.”] &c. equal him.”] equal him. author.”] author. “Galatea”] ‘Galatea’ Artieda.”] Artieda. contains.”] contains” wond’rous] wond rous ‘Buscapié’] “Buscapié” 377

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149 155 156 158 158 158 166 167 168 168 168 168 173 176 177 180 180 187 187 187 189 191 210 210 211 211 222 226 231 241 242 243 254 257 261 264 266 266 267 271 272 272 281

8 16 9 19 36 36 46 36 1 25 25 26 17 29 35 12 31 31 32 34 36 37 31 41 22 22 35 10 20 9 8 27 2 18 31 35 30 36 11 16 11 35 26

2

requisition.] requisition Quixote.”] Quixote. ‘Don Quixote’] “Don Quixote” “Persiles and Sigismunda”] Persiles and Sigismunda ‘Persiles and Sigismunda’] “Persiles and Sigismunda” ‘Robinson Crusoe’] “Robinson Crusoe” cruzaba] cruxaba cruzaban] cruxaban sdruccioli] druccioli “‘Well,’] “Well,” ‘even thus] “even thus avoid envy.’] avoid envy.” Tormes,”] Tormes, Vega,] Vega,” singularly] singulary “Dorotea”] ‘Dorotea’ su esposa] sn esposa de nieve] de n i eve fue] fu e sometimes] somtimes * Ecloga ] Ecloga pen.] pen decirle] decirla lengua] lingua or Nexera,] of Naxera, of Rioja,] or Rioja, † “Aquella] “Aquella soleil] soleit Naples, however,] Naples however, that] hat Lisi; Terpsichore] Lisi. Terpsichore regions] regons RIBEYRO] RIBEYRA introduced] ntroduced Sousa] Soura simplicity. simplicity, love!”] love! countries] counties de Sade] de Sades left] eft 26.] 20. Africa. Simon] Africa. – Simon jail.”*] jail.* 378

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ED IT ORI AL C OR R E CT ION S

286 286 286 290 291

32 38 39 29 16

Camoens’] Camoen’s his liberty] hi liberty as Camoens] a Camoens encouragement.”] encouragement. Mickle’s] Mickles’

French Lives [Montaigne to Rochefoucauld] 305 308 310 310 313 313 313 313 313 314 317 320 329 334 346 347 350 351 352 368 368 368 368 368

25 21 12 17 23 25 28 28 29 5 23 16 24 26 26 25 14 20 35 16 19 22 24 27

angoisse] àngoisses necessary] nec-sary “in the worst] in the worst parricidal] paricidal l’une qu’il] l’un qu’il ou n’avait] on n’avait mêloit] meloli du mepris] de mepris qu’il] qu’it Greece,] Greece. m’a] ma that is,] that is illo] ill de’ Medici] d’Medici of the] of The 1684] 1584 impressive.”] impressive.] Richelieu] Riche-elieu Régence] Regence suppléé] suplié a toujours] à toujours a un bon] à un bon lui-même] luimeme joint à] jointes a

379

THE PICKERING MASTERS

III

,!7IB1D8-hffabh!

www.routledge.com  an informa business

Mary Shelley's Literary Lives and Other Writings

Edited by Clarissa Campbell Orr

ISBN 978-1-138-75501-7

Mary Shelley's Literary Lives and Other Writings French Lives (Molière to Madame de Staël) Edited by Clarissa Campbell Orr

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS Volume 3. French Lives (Molière to Madame de Staël)

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS GENERAL EDITOR: NORA CROOK VOLUME EDITORS: CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR PAMELA CLEMIT A. A. MARKLEY TILAR J. MAZZEO LISA VARGO

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MARY SHELLEY’S LITERARY LIVES AND OTHER WRITINGS VOLUME

3

FRENCH LIVES ( MOLIÈRE

TO MADAME DE STAËL ) EDITED BY

CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR

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First published 2002 by Pickering & Chatto (Publishers) Limited Published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © Taylor & Francis 2002 All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797–1851. Mary Shelley’s Literary Lives and Other Writings (The Pickering Masters). 1. Authors, Italian – Biography 2. Authors, Spanish – Biography 3. Authors, Portuguese – Biography 4. Authors, French – Biography I. Title II. Crook, Nora, 1940- III. Italian Lives IV. Spanish and Portuguese Lives V. French Lives VI. Miscellaneous writings 809

ISBN-13: 978-1-85196-716-2 (set) DOI: 10.4324/9780429349775 Typeset by P&C

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CONTENTS

Abbreviations

vii

Notes on French Lives I [Molière to Fénélon]

xiii

Notes on French Lives II FRENCH LIVES VOLUME I

xviii [continued from volume 2]

Molière La Fontaine [not by Mary Shelley] Pascal Sévigné (Madame de) Boileau Racine Fénélon

1 49 71 93 137 171 193

FRENCH LIVES VOLUME II

Voltaire Rousseau Condorcet Mirabeau Madame Roland Madame de Staël

241 320 367 383 431 457

Editorial corrections

495

v

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ABBREVIATIONS

Beffara Berth, Œuvres Boileau (1746)

BM

Bret Brougham BUP

Butler Caractère

Carlyle

Louis François Beffara, Dissertation sur J.-B.-PoquelinMolière (Vente, 1821). Blaise Pascal, Œuvres de Blaise Pascal, ed. Berth, 5 vols (Paris, 1819). Oeuvres de Nicolas Boileau Despréaux avec des éclaircissemens historiques donnés par lui-même augmentée de la vie de l’auteur par [Pierre] Des Maizeaux, 4 vols (Dresden: George Conrad Walther, 1746). Biographie Moderne, or Lives of Remarkable Characters who have distinguished themselves from the commencement of the French Revolution to the present time, 3 vols (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown, 1811). [Entry on Condorcet, vol. I, pp. 296–300] Antoine Bret, Supplément to ‘Vie’ [by Voltaire] in Molière, Œuvres (1785) new edn (1821). [Henry Brougham] Works of Lord Brougham, 11 vols ( Edinburgh, Adam & Charles Black, 1872–3). Biographie Universelle et Portative des Contemporains ou dictionnaire Historique des hommes Vivants et des Hommes Morts depuis 1788 jusqu’à nos jours, ed. Rabbe et al., 5 vols (Paris, 1836). [Entry on Condorcet, vol. I, pp. 1058–64; entry on Necker, vol. III, pp. 749–52; entry on Mirabeau, vol. III, pp. 609–17; entry on Germaine de Staël-Holstein, vol. IV, pp. 1374–7] Charles Butler, The Life of Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees and Orme, 1810). Albertine Necker de Saussure, Notice sur le caractère et les écrits de Mme de Staël, par Madame Necker de Saussure [etc.] (Paris: Imprimerie de Dambray fils, 1820). [vol. I of Œuvres complètes de Mme de Staël (1820–4)] Thomas Carlyle, The French Revolution (1837); new edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989).

vii

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CCJ

Condorcet

Confessions Considérations Coulanges Daunou Deffand Des Maizeaux Discours Dix années Dumont Éloges Epinay Fénelon Genlis Graffigny

3

The Journals of Claire Clairmont, 1814–1827, ed. Marion Kingston Stocking, with the assistance of David Mackenzie Stocking (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968). Vie de Voltaire par M. le Marquis de Condorcet (includes Mémoires pour servir à la vie de M. de Voltaire écrit par luimême and Commentaire historique sur les œuvres de l’auteur de la Henriade), vol 1, Œuvres Complètes de Voltaire, 60 vols, (Paris: Thomine & Fortic, 1821). Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Les Confessions, ed. Jacques Voisine (Paris: Editions Garnier, 1964). Germaine de Staël, Considérations sur les principaux événemens de la révolution française (1818), 3 vols (Brussels: Auguste Wahlen, 1820). Recueil de Chansons Choisies [de Philippe de Coulanges], 2 vols (Paris: Simon Bernard, 1698). Nicholas Boileau-Despréaux, Œuvres Complètes, ed. Daunou, 3 vols (Paris: P. Pourrat Frères, 1831). Lettres de la Marquise du Deffand à Horace Walpole [etc.], 4 vols, (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1812). [trans. of 1810 Longman edn, ed. Mary Berry] Pierre Des Maizeaux, ‘La vie de l’auteur’ in vol. I of Boileau (1746). Discours sur la vie et les ouvrages de Pascal [in Berth, Œuvres]. Germaine de Staël, Dix années d’exil (1821), ed. Simon Balayé (Hachette: Paris, 1989). Étienne Dumont, Souvenirs sur Mirabeau et sur les deux premières assemblées législatives, ed. J. L. Duval (Paris: Librairie de Charles Gosselin, 1832). Jean le Rond D’Alembert, Éloges lus dans les séances publiques de l’Académie Française (Paris: Panckoucke & Moutard, 1779). Mémoires de Madame D’Epinay, ed. Paul Boiteau, 2 vols (Paris: Charpentier, 1865). Œuvres de Fénelon [ed. J. Chas], 10 vols (Paris: L. Tenré & Boiste Fils Aîné, 1810). Mémoires inédites de Madame de Genlis, sur le dix-huitième siècle et la Révolution Française depuis 1756 jusqu’à nos jours, 8 vols (Paris: Ladvocat, 1825). Madame de Graffigny, Vie privée de Voltaire et de Mme de Châtelet pendant un séjour de six mois à Cirey (Paris: Treuttel & Würtz, 1820).

viii

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AB B RE V IATI ONS

Grimarest Grimm LRR LeKain Longchamp Longman Archive Marmontel Molière Works Montigny M-P

MWSJ

MWSL MWSN Necker Notice

Jean-Léonor Le Gallois, sieur de Grimarest, La Vie de Molière (1705), ed. Georges Mongrédien (Paris: Michel Brient, 1955). Correspondance Littéraire, Philosophique et Critique de Grimm et de Diderot depuis 1753–1790, ed. Jules Taschereau, 16 vols (Paris: Furne & Ladrange, 1830). Louis Racine, Mémoires contenant quelques particularités sur la vie de Jean Racine (1747) rpt. in Racine. Mémoires de Henri LeKain, publiés par son fils ainé (Paris: Colnet, 1801). Mémoires sur Voltaire et sur ses ouvrages par Longchamp et Wagnière, ses secrétaires, 2 vols (Paris: Aimé André, 1826), vol. II. Publishers’ Archives: The House of Longman, 1794–1914, 73 reels (Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, January 1976–March 1978). Mémoires, ed. John Renwick, 2 vols (Clermont-Ferrand: Guy de Bussac, 1972). The Dramatic Works of Molière, trans. Henri van Laun, 6 vols (Edinburgh: William Paterson, 1876). Lucas Montigny, ed., Mémoires Biographiques, Littéraires et Politiques de Mirabeau écrits par son père, son oncle et son fils adoptif, 8 vols (Paris: Adolphe Guyot, 1824). V. D. Musset-Pathy, ed., Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Œuvres Complètes, 19 vols (Brussels: Cautaerts, 1827–8). [Histoire de J.-J. Rousseau, 2 vols in 1; Confessions, 5 vols in 2; Correspondance, 8 vols in 4] The Journals of Mary Shelley, 1814–1844, eds Paula R. Feldman and Diana Scott-Kilvert, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987). [corr. pbk one-vol. edn, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995] The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, ed. Betty T. Bennett, 3 vols (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980–8). The Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley, gen. ed. Nora Crook, with Pamela Clemit, introd. Betty T. Bennett, 8 vols (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1996). Mémoires sur la vie privée de mon père par Mme la Baronne de Staël-Holstein suivis des Mélanges de Necker (Paris and London: Colburn, 1818). Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages de Condorcet par Antoine Diannyère in Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de l’esprit humain, ouvrage posthume de Condorcet (Paris: n.pub., 1797).

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PBSL PBS, Prose Périer Racine Ramsay

Roland, Lettres Roland, Mémoires Saint-Pierre Saint-Saurin Schlegel Scott Sévigné (1820) Sévigné (1974) Taschereau Thiers Voltaire, Kehl

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The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. F. L. Jones, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964). The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, ed. E. B. Murray (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993) [One vol. only published to date]. La Vie de Pascal par Mme Périer in Blaise Pascal, Œuvres Complètes, ed. Jean Mesnard, 4 vols (Brussels: Desclée de Brouwer, 1964–92), vol. I. Œuvres de Racine, ed. Paul Mesnard, 8 vols (Paris: 1865– 88). [Andrew Michael Ramsay, known as Chevalier de Ramsay], Histoire de la Vie de Messire François de Salignac de la Motte-Fenelon Archevêque de Cambray (Amsterdam: François L’Honoré, 1727). Lettres Autographes de Madame Roland adressées à Bancaldes-Issarts, ed. Henriette Bancal-des-Issarts, introd. C.-A. Sainte-Beuve (Paris: Eugène Renduel, 1835). Mémoires de Madame Roland avec une notice sur sa vie, ed. MM. Berville et Barrière, 2 vols (Paris: Badouin Frères, 1821). Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, La vie et les ouvrages de JeanJacques Rousseau, ed. Maurice Soriau (Paris: Edouard Cornély, 1907). ‘Notice sur Madame de Sévigné, sur son famille et ses amis, par M. de Saint-Saurin’, in Sévigné (1820), vol. I. A. W. Schlegel, A Course of Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature [Cours de littérature dramatique], trans. J. Black, 2 vols (London, 1815). ‘Molière’, article vii in vol. XVII of The Miscellaneous Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. (1826), pp. 137–215. Lettres de Madame de Sévigné, de sa famille et de ses amis, ed. Louis Monmerqué, 10 vols (Paris: J. J. Blaise, 1820). Correspondance de Mme de Sévigné, ed. Roger Duchêne, 3 vols (Paris: Gallimard, 1974). Jules Taschereau, Histoire de la vie et des ouvrages de Molière (Paris, 1825). Adolphe Thiers, Histoire de la Révolution Française, 10 vols (Paris: Leconte & Duvey, 1823–7). Œuvres Complètes de Voltaire, ed. P. A. C. Beaumarchais et al., 70 vols (Kehl: De L’Imprimerie de la Societé Littéraire Typographique, 1784–9).

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Voltaire, Molière Voltaire, Siècle Wagnière

‘Vie de l’auteur’ in vol. I of Œuvres de Molière, augmenteé de la vie de l’Auteur, et des remarques historiques et critiques, ed. Voltaire, 2 vols, new edn (Paris: La Veuve David, 1785). François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire, Siècle de Louis XIV (1751), 2 vols ( London: R. Dodsley, 1752). Mémoires sur Voltaire et sur ses ouvrages par Longchamp et Wagnière, ses secrétaires, 2 vols (Paris: Aimé André, 1826), vol. I.

[The historic editions listed here are not necessarily the ones used by Mary Shelley]

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NOTES ON FRENCH LIVES I [MOLIÈRE TO FÉNÉLON] MOLIÈRE Mary Shelley read Molière’s works in 1818, although she was evidently familiar enough with his characters to make a joking reference in a letter of 1817 to Leigh Hunt (MWSL, I, pp. 32–3). The Shelleys’ book list of 1819–20 itemises a sixvolume ‘Œuvres de Molliere’ (Bodleian adds. c.5 f. 156r). Possible 6-volume editions include (1) Œuvres de Moliere, containing the commentary of Antoine Bret and the Vie de Molière by Voltaire (Paris, 1773). This had a reprint in 1788 and again in 1821 (2) Œuvres edited by Le Deux and Tenré (Paris, 1818). One cannot, however, assume continuing ownership into 1838 of all the Shelley books of 1819. She possibly used Voltaire’s edition of Molière’s complete works, as she refers to his critical remarks on each play. Alternatively she may have been consulting the Kehl edition (1784–9) of Voltaire’s complete works, which included his work on Molière, and which she was evidently using for her essay on Voltaire written about the same time. Her treatment of the classic authors of the seventeenth century is deeply imbued with her understanding of Voltaire’s critical evaluation of his immediate literary forebears. As she also seems directly acquainted with La Vie de Molière, by Jean-Léonor Le Gallois, sieur de Grimarest (1705), the 8-volume edition of Le Fèvre (Paris, 1824–6), which included Grimarest, is another possible source. However, Grimarest was extensively cited by Taschereau as well. As with Corneille, editions were plentiful and she could have used several simultaneously. The chief critical and contextual sources seem to have been J. Taschereau’s Histoire de la vie et des ouvrages de Molière (Paris, 1825), together with Sir Walter Scott’s long essay review of the same book, originally written for the Foreign Quarterly Review in 1828, and closely following Taschereau. She also takes issue with some critical remarks in A. W. Schlegel’s Course of Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature (tr. 1815), which she first read with P. B. Shelley in 1818; his pan-European scope would have long accustomed her to think widely about the inter-connections between the national dramatic traditions; certainly Molière’s debt to both Spanish and Italian drama was interesting to her. She does not show that other authorities she cites such as D’Assoucy, Diderot or Mme Campan, together with newspapers, pamphlets and archival evidence, have originally been cited by Taschereau. It is possible that she consulted a few of these directly (D’Assoucy, for example, where portions cited are not to be found in Taschereau). She follows Scott’s order of discussion and contextual explanations closely but disputes Scott’s comments on the vexed xiii

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question of the parentage of Molière’s wife and makes her own translations from Taschereau, restoring direct speech. The judgements on the plays and her choice of those she discussed remain completely her own, as when she discusses George Dandin, in order to take issue with Rousseau’s and Schlegel’s view that it pandered to aristocratic taste. Mary Shelley’s letter to Lardner of 14 May 1838 shows that ‘Molière’ was completed out of sequence after ‘Pascal’ (‘Pascal is done – I begin to see land’) as she was held up by the want of ‘Beffara’, i.e. Beffara’s Dissertation on Molière (Keats– Shelley Journal, 45 (1997), 67). She would have wished to go directly to Beffara, following her frequent practice, having found him cited in Taschereau. Beffara, however, may never have arrived, as the references to Beffara contain nothing outside Taschereau. LA FONTAINE (Not by Mary Shelley) We could wish that it had been Mary Shelley who here unfavourably compares J. W. Croker to La Fontaine, thus politely putting down the Quarterly reviewer who had cut up Frankenstein, but clearly it was not. La Fontaine and Rabelais were paid for together in 1830 (see the note on ‘Rabelais’ in vol. 2). Though they evidently share a common authorship, ‘La Fontaine’ is a far more engaging and lively piece. Two authors cited (Cailhava and Valknaer) do not appear anywhere else in French Lives. Uncharacteristic phrases (‘sacred lymph’, ‘Roman-catholic church’, ‘“a lion,” if one may use that ephemeral term”’), very heavy antithetical phrasing (‘he amused by his singularities, or delighted by his inspirations’) and a rather excessive dwelling on La Fontaine’s naivety and indolence would make this piece suspect in any case. There are inconsistencies between this life and the other lives not paralleled elsewhere. ‘La Fontaine’ casts a slight doubt over the story of Fouquet’s pursuit of La Vallière, whereas ‘Molière’ gives it complete credence. Louis is a ‘weak bigot’ here but a ‘great king’ in ‘Sévigné’. Madame de Sévigné shows ‘the presumption of a court lady dictating to her coterie’, whereas in ‘Sévigné’ every attempt is made to palliate her foibles. The implication that Boccaccio’s licentiousness is ‘unpardonable’ is more severe than Mary Shelley’s strictures. On the other hand, the author uses the letters of Madame de Sévigné, admires Italian writers, praises Henrietta of England, worries about servility, and refers to Apuleius’ ‘Psyche and Cupid’. All of these would be in other circumstances consistent with Mary Shelley’s authorship. Most striking is the crossreferencing. Both ‘La Fontaine’ and ‘Corneille’ call Fouquet ‘the celebrated and unfortunate’; both consider whether their respective subjects were bad conversationalists and invoke La Bruyère in this connection; ‘La Fontaine’ actually makes a direct comparison with Corneille. ‘Boileau’ cross-refers: ‘It has been related in the life of La Fontaine how displeased the king was with this omission’. Possible explanations for these links are as follows: (1) Mary Shelley inserted cross-references to ‘La Fontaine’ into her texts; (2) she inserted some light crossxiv

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referencing into ‘La Fontaine’ but without attempting to bring its opinions into line with her own; (3) she did both. Another, more complicated hypothesis, is that the 1830–2 lives of Rabelais, La Fontaine, Corneille and de Sévigné might have had a common author and originally contained cross-referencing between themselves. If they were then released to Mary Shelley, she wrote the last two totally afresh, but extracted a few sentences and ideas from the originals and added the ‘Boileau’ cross-reference. The first explanation is the simplest and for that reason alone might be preferred. All these explanations assume that she had access to ‘La Fontaine’ and was able to collate it with her own biographies. This is quite probable. With La Fontaine there were obvious dangers of overlap and repetition, especially with ‘Corneille’ ‘Molière’, ‘Sévigné’ and ‘Boileau’. It would have been sensible to try to avoid these, and, in the process, to make some discreet adjustments in the direction of giving the volume coherence. We also know that ‘La Fontaine’ was not typeset until the spring of 1838, when she was on her way towards finishing French Lives I, since in the 14 May letter referred to above she writes: ‘The Printers I suppose are progressing slowly with La Fontaine – but this does not help me. I leave town in a fortnight & want in the interim to get as forward as I can with my share of the volume – & have not yet had a single proof’. Her apparent awareness of the state of ‘La Fontaine’ at this point would support a conjecture that she had seen the MS but sent it back for printing before finishing ‘Molière’ and ‘Pascal’. N. C. PASCAL Mary Shelley’s two main sources for this were the Life of Pascal by Gilberte Périer, Pascal’s sister, the main biographical source for all subsequent biographers, together with the introductory Essay on the Life and Works of Pascal contained in the 1819 edition of Pascal’s works edited by Berth1 which closely followed Périer. Not all her citations of Pascal’s Pensées are to be found in vol. II of Berth, which suggests that she was also using one of the many different versions of this famous work, with their varying ordering of the Pensées. In addition she draws on her sources for Racine, that other Jansenist literary figure whose life as an artist she sees as deformed by an ascetic form of Christianity. Despite its fidelity to its sources for information, this is also an extremely personal essay, revealing her deeply considered views on the nature of Christian belief, which she locates in the heart rather than the reason, and on the question of freedom of the will. The essay also enables her to fulfil the Lardner brief of writing the Lives of Eminent Scientific as well as literary figures, and she lucidly expounds Pascal’s contribution to seventeenth-century physics and his place in a European network of mathematicians and philosophers, praising him for his empiricism. Here her exposition is underpinned by a life of Galileo in the same genre as the Lardner biographies, this time published by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.2 Voltaire’s xv

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scepticism regarding the miraculous healing of Pascal’s niece is mentioned but counter-balanced by insisting on Pascal’s personal veracity, and by a sympathetic account of the mentality informing Catholic devotional practices. She also gives space to Pascal’s sisters, deploring the waste of literary talent when Jacqueline became a nun, and his harsh asceticism when stigmatising Gilberte’s natural affection as a wife and sister. SÉVIGNÉ (Madame de) As stated in the editorial note on ‘Corneille’ (vol. 2) a previous ‘Corneille & [?]Sevgniey’ were commissioned and paid for together (Longman Archives) before 1836 and probably as early as 1832. The writing is not clear, but it is difficult to believe that anything other than ‘Sévigné’ is meant, and the spelling is explicable as a clerk’s attempt to write, and then correct, a unfamiliar French name. That a ‘Sévigné’ should be commissioned before Mary Shelley came on the scene is very plausible as de Sévigné was by then a canonised writer of the ‘Century of Louis XIV’, but this essay is unquestionably Mary Shelley’s work. The charitable judgements and thrust towards vindication, elements of self-identification with a woman who knew Italian and whose early political associations adversely affected the rest of her life, the dwelling on solitary reveries in the woods, the concern with free will, the allusion to the expulsion of the Moriscos (p. 134), which links with her research for Spanish Lives, the introduction of a favourite quotation from the Vicar of Wakefield (p. 106), the solecism ‘minutia’ for ‘minutiae (p. 129) and the marginal glosses, all evidence her hand. Her criticism of de Sévigné’s approval of Louis XIV’s treatment of the Huguenots (even though she mitigates it by contextualising it) also reveals her preoccupation with the most glaring abuse of France’s ‘Great Century’: its lack of religious toleration, which, she demonstrates in French Lives II, it will be the task of the Enlightenment to overcome. Mary Shelley first read the Lettres of Mme de Sévigné in 1819. She possibly used the new (1818) edition by the lawyer and literary scholar Louis J. N. D. Monmerqué, the most comprehensive one to date; she certainly used it in 1838, drawing on its biographical introduction and some supplementary material, such as essays by La Harpe and Suard, as well as re-reading the letters in some detail. Page 115 provides a vivid self-portrait of her browsing through the letters and becoming freshly absorbed despite her tight deadlines. For details of the entertainments at Versailles in which de Sévigné’s daughter shone, she turned to Voltaire’s Age of Louis XIV; while information on her subject’s contacts with Frondeurs like Cardinal de Retz and literary figures such as Mme de Lafayette, Rochefoucauld, and the Précieuses, drew on her sources for ‘Rochefoucauld’ and ‘Molière’. Finally, for her highlights on de Sévigné’s cousin, the poet Philippe Coulanges, she used either a 1698 or 1754 collection of his poems, to which she may have been directed by the entry in the Biographie Universelle.

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BOILEAU There is no record of Mary Shelley’s reading Boileau’s works before this Life, though her citation of Leigh Hunt’s periodical The Liberal shows that her interest could have been stimulated as early as 1823. Other signs of her authorship include the use of Louis Racine, which ‘Boileau’ shares with ‘Racine’ and a typical misspelling (‘Sevignè’) which has survived the transfer from press-copy to print. Her high valuation of Le Lutrin squares with the enjoyment of the mock-heroic shown elsewhere, as in ‘Pulci’, ‘Berni’, and ‘Tassoni’, and also reminds us of her delight in Byron’s Don Juan. It is also central to her critique of religious bigotry, since she applauds Boileau’s bravery in using the weapon of laughter in the battle against abuses of clerical power, and is closely linked to her understanding of Voltaire’s practice of satire and his view of his seventeenth-century predecessors. She seems to have consulted two editions of Boileau: one by Pierre Des Maizeaux (first edition 1711–13) where she extracted information from his annotations as well as the introductory ‘Vie’; and the 1831 edition by Daunou. RACINE Mary Shelley’s journal records no reading of Racine, though her lists become sketchy after 1818, and the Shelleys did have two volumes of ‘French Plays’ in Italy (Bodleian adds. c.5 fol. 156v). Personal touches in this life include the compliments to Lamartine and characteristic vocabulary such as ‘gifted him with genius’. Her main source was the ‘Life’ written by Racine’s son, prefacing an edition of his father’s works which included some of his correspondence with Boileau. The political and literary background of the biography had already been established using the sources in her previous essays. Racine is the classic author with whom she has least sympathy in French Lives I, both because she does not really admire the strict classicism of French tragedy, and because she is dismayed by Racine’s religious asceticism and his courting of royal patronage. FÉNÉLON Her chief sources were the biography by Charles Butler, a prominent Catholic layman and scholar, a friend of the Whig politician Charles James Fox and the first Catholic to be called to the bar when restrictions were relaxed in 1791; he had been active in pressing for Catholic Emancipation. His work was essentially an English version of the biography by the Jesuit Bausset, and incorporated material from the 1727 memoir by the Scottish Jacobite Ramsay, another key source she consulted independently. She evidently drew on the 1787 biography by the French Jesuit Querbeuf, either in the edited version by J. Chas prefacing editions of Fénelon’s complete works in 1810 and 1822 or in the original. Her account was also filtered through essays by two leading figures of the Enlightenment, Voltaire and D’Alembert, for whom Fénelon exemplified the ideal Catholic cleric who was xvii

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tolerant of all faiths, conscientious in his diocese, and willing to criticise the monarch for abuses of power. Their judgements on Fénelon amplify her own verdict on the age of Louis XIV and the figures in the preceding essays, as well as pointing toward the character of the succeeding century and the next volume of the Literary Lives. ‘Fénélon’ was almost certainly Mary Shelley’s personal choice; he was forever associated in her mind with her father, whose notorious selection of Fénelon in Political Justice to illustrate his principle that the life of someone who benefited mankind as a whole was worth more than that of one whose virtues were merely private had been one of the most criticised features of Political Justice. Because of her father’s extravagant estimate of Fénelon’s Telemachus the subject had especial significance for her, though she modifies her father’s view of the book.

NOTES ON FRENCH LIVES II VOLTAIRE Mary Shelley read Voltaire at least as early as 1814, when her journal records reading his Mémoires, and some of his tales, including Candide and Zadig. The following year she read his deistic La Bible enfin expliquée (The Bible Finally Explained) and his biography of Charles XII of Sweden, and 1818 saw her reading several of his tragedies. Twenty years later she was able to write a deeply considered portrait, which directly confronted the prejudices habitually surrounding a man most of her readers would have considered dangerously subversive to established religion. Many of her essays in Volume I had been influenced by the judgements found in his Age of Louis XIV, and she had used his editions of Corneille and Molière. Her previous reading of his plays and the critical essays associated with them would have given her an insight into his own sense of his place within the classical tradition, and she is keenly aware of Voltaire’s lifelong association with the stage. Her biography was structured around Condorcet’s Life which she had read in 1820. This was first published in the 1784 Kehl edition of Voltaire’s works. This edition, which she may have used, also included two autobiographical pieces by Voltaire: his Mémoires, which she read in 1814 and again in 1820, and his Comméntaire historique sur les œuvres de l’auteur de la Henriade, some of which was interpolated with the Mémoires. The 1821 edition of Voltaire’s works, which is an alternative possibility as a source for her Lardner essay, was based on the Kehl edition, but separately printed the Comméntaire. It is clear that she used all three biographical sources, in whatever edition she found them. Condorcet’s Life gave an outline of the main stages of Voltaire’s career but largely concentrated on his works, and on his contribution to reforming campaigns in the last twenty years of his life, when Condorcet had known him personally. Mary Shelley deftly supplexviii

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mented this somewhat austere and largely uncritical portrait with extracts from the memoirs of various people who could give a more intimate and occasionally less flattering glimpse of the man: his secretaries, Longchamp and Wagnière; the writer Mme de Graffigny, who visited him and his mistress Mme du Châtelet in Cirey in the 1740s; the actor LeKain, who was involved with his plays in the 1750s; his disciple Marmontel, who saw him in Ferney in the 1760s; and Mme de Genlis, who visited in 1776. Condorcet, Grimm’s Correspondance Littéraire, Mme du Deffand’s correspondence with Horace Walpole, and Wagnière all provided details of the final triumphant visit to Paris in 1778 followed by his death. She also quoted judiciously from Voltaire’s correspondence, which she had evidently read thoroughly in order to bring various facets of Voltaire’s life more fully to light, such as his friendship with Frederick the Great. Her brief citations can distil several months of correspondence, as for example with her references to the Abbé Desfontaines, Voltaire’s literary bugbear while he was at Cirey. Following Mary Shelley’s sources shows the extent to which she used Mme de Graffigny’s account in parallel with Voltaire’s own correspondence. Similarly, in looking at the Calas and La Barre episodes, she uses a combination of biographical or autobiographical accounts, Voltaire’s narrative summaries, and judicious quotation from his letters to various contemporaries. Her positive judgement of Voltaire’s Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations echoes Condorcet’s admiration, while her criticism of the arrangement of the Age of Louis XIV undoubtedly reflects the practical frustrations she had experienced in using it for several of the subjects of French Lives I. Despite its being her longest essay, she succeeds in being both concise in covering Voltaire’s many-faceted career, and engaging in her recreation of his personality and encounters with contemporaries. She was writing this essay in parallel with some of the seventeenth-century Lives, but it is possible that she was able to do so much at once because she had notes to hand from her earlier reading of Voltaire, or from material sketched for the book she suggested to John Murray in 1830 on eighteenth-century morals and literature (MWSL, II, p. 115). ROUSSEAU In composing her essay on Rousseau, Mary Shelley was drawing on a deep well of familiarity with his writings, especially his two novels, Emile and The New Eloisa, She read the former in 1815 and 1822, and the latter in 1815, 1817, and 1820. (MWSJ, II, p. 670). She was acquainted with his birthplace, Geneva, and understood its distinct political and religious culture, in contradistinction to that of France. She had thought deeply about Rousseau’s character and relationships, and already (1823) contributed a portrait of his beloved Mme d’Houdetôt to Hunt’s The Liberal, based very extensively on Mme d’Epinay’s Memoirs, which she again consulted for the Lardner essay. In writing this, she used one of the best early nineteenth-century editions of Rousseau, by V. D. Musset-Pathy, which included extensive annotations in its introductory biography to supplement or clarify Rousseau’s own autobiographical account in The Confessions, as well as the xix

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fullest collection of his correspondence to date. These were her main sources, supplemented by memoirs quoted by Musset-Pathy for the last years of Rousseau’s life, such as Mme de Genlis or the Prince de Ligne, some of which she consulted on her own account as well. In her summary of Rousseau’s writings, she conflated his First and Second Discourses, and while mentioning some of his more obscure political writings, such as the Letters from the Mountain, she singularly omits any discussion of his most significant political treatise, The Social Contract. The essay’s indignation concerning Rousseau’s abandonment of his children marks it as one of the most personal of all her Lives. CONDORCET The only evidence of Mary Shelley’s first-hand knowledge of Condorcet previous to this life is a journal entry of 1820 recording her reading of his Vie de Voltaire (MWSJ, II, p. 640). Yet we can assume a long-standing familiarity with his ideas from their influence upon both her father and her husband. In revising Political Justice for the 1796 edition Godwin used a 1795 edition of Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de l’esprit humain (Sketch for an Historical Panorama of the Human Mind) while P. B. Shelley ordered Condorcet’s works in 1812. Published biographical information on Condorcet was sparse. The chief was a biographical sketch by Antoine Diannyère which originally introduced the Esquisse. Mary Shelley may have used this, but her main source was certainly the anonymous entry in Rabbe’s 5-volume Biographie universelle et portative (1836) (BUP). She may also have looked at the brief biographical entry in the Biographie Moderne (published in English in 1811 as Lives of Remarkable Characters who have distinguished themselves from the commencement of the French Revolution to the present time). It is very unlikely indeed that she read David Brewster’s brief sketch in the Edinburgh Encyclopaedia, also reprinted in an English translation by Elias Johnstone of Condorcet’s Sure and Easy Method of Learning to Count (Edinburgh: William Blackwood, 1816). Brewster’s account was very hostile to both Condorcet’s free-thinking tendencies and his republicanism, whereas Mary Shelley read Condorcet more sympathetically. Though her text is to a great extent a translation or paraphrase of BUP, she integrates her source with her own estimate of Condorcet, taking the opportunity to present her considerations on the Utopian idealist and believer in human perfectibility. In so doing she explores a type that embraced her father, her husband and members of the circles her mother had been marginally introduced to in 1792–3. Surprisingly, she does not discuss Condorcet’s feminism (not mentioned in BUP though it is discussed in Diannyère’s Life, an indication that she may not have used the latter). She makes only brief mention of Sophie de Condorcet, although the latter was the translator of Hume and, like her husband, an ardent aristocratic liberal. A separate entry is devoted to her in Rabbe, and Mary Shelley had met people acquainted with her in the latter days of her life, so she did not lack information for a fuller account. Lack of space and pressure of time may possibly explain her absence here. xx

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MIRABEAU Mary Shelley’s main source for ‘Mirabeau’ was the biography compiled by his adopted son, Lucas Montigny, which quoted many letters and articles, including those assembled by Manuel from the period of Mirabeau’s incarceration in Vincennes prison; these last she does not seem to have consulted independently. She almost certainly used an 1834 edition, which included Victor Hugo’s essay on Mirabeau. She commented that Montigny’s work was ‘undigested’, and ‘diffuse’, and this editor can only concur. When Montigny reached the revolutionary era and tried to evaluate Mirabeau’s stance on every political issue, so losing a clear chronological thrust, Mary Shelley turned to other sources such as Adolphe Thiers’s Histoire de la Révolution, the memoir of Mirabeau by Dumont, Lafayette’s Memoirs, together with Carlyle’s History of the French Revolution. However she still did not quite succeed in wresting a clear chronological narrative out of this varied material. She may have begun by reading Carlyle, who had also drawn on Montigny and Dumont. He may have led her to them, or, if she started with Montigny (as would have been closer to her normal practice), have acted as her helpful guide through his undigested prolixity. Unlike Brougham and Hugo, whose essays are also cited by Mary Shelley, Thiers and Carlyle exonerated Mirabeau from venality, and she clearly wishes to do so too. Without describing him in quite such heroic terms as Carlyle,3 she argues strongly for his importance in trying to establish a constitutional monarchy. She also discusses the episodes from Mirabeau’s political career highlighted by Carlyle. The division of Mirabeau’s life into two halves, the private and the political, and the emphasis on his travails before the Revolution as representative of ancien régime tyranny, were both found in Montigny, Brougham, and Hugo. Finally, she very likely consulted Rabbe (BUP), which she used for her essays on Condorcet, Mme de Staël and Mme Roland, for some factual material. MADAME ROLAND Mary Shelley’s main source was Mme Roland’s Mémoires de Madame Roland, almost certainly in the annotated edition of 1821, which quoted contemporary comments that she also utilised. Additionally she used a collection of letters between Mme Roland and Bancal-des-Issarts, which had only recently been published in 1835 by his daughter, in conjunction with the critic Saint-Beuve. In her historical analysis she drew on Thiers’s Histoire de la Révolution, which showed the role of the constitutionalist Girondins, with whom Mme Roland had been associated, in a good light, compared with the Jacobin republicans who had orchestrated the Reign of Terror during which Mme Roland was guillotined. The eye-witness account by Riouffe of her execution is included in her reading of 1816 (MWSJ, II, p. 670), though for this essay she probably cited it from the edition of Roland’s Mémoires. xxi

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MADAME DE STAEL In writing an essay on Anne-Louise-Germaine de Staël, Mary Shelley was providing a portrait of a woman writer of great public significance to many English women writers, who admired her for her courageous opposition to Napoleon, literary talent and her embodiment (and self-promotion) as a female genius. There are also elements of personal self-identification insofar as Mary Shelley, like Mme de Staël, was also unusually close to her father, while de Staël had lived through and written about the French Revolution, like her mother. Mary Shelley had been a reader of de Staël’s works from 1815 onwards. She was acquainted with people who had known her subject and in 1829 had contemplated a biography of her,4 although she was cautioned by Prosper Mérimée that it would be difficult to write for an English audience about the irregularities in de Staël’s life, such as her affairs with Narbonne and Benjamin Constant, the fathers of her children.5 She deals with these matters in her essay by implication only, recording that ‘Benjamin Constant accompanied her’ to Germany. For her sources, she took the entry in the Biographie universelle et portative as a chronological skeleton, and then relied on the biographical notice written by de Staël’s cousin, Albertine Necker de Saussure, for the collected edition of de Staël’s works in 1820; on de Staël’s memoir6 of her father; on autobiographical sections in de Staël’s Considerations of the Principal Events of the French Revolution; and on her account of Napoleon’s hostile treatment toward her, Ten Years of Exile. The confidence with which she writes on de Staël may have been strengthened by her acquaintance with her subject’s surviving friends and contemporaries. Godwin had met de Staël when she visited England and Mary Shelley met Benjamin Constant in 1828 in Paris (MWSL, II, p. 39n.). CLARISSA CAMPBELL ORR

Notes 1

No further information is available on this elusive early 19th-century literary scholar. She would have encountered this book in footnote references to ‘Galileo’ (Sir David Brewster’s contribution to Italian Lives, not included in this edition). 3 Carlyle draws a picture of Mirabeau as ‘world-large in his destinies’ (p. 453), a ‘chosen man […] who shook old France from its basis’ (p. 454), who understood the revolutionary moment without political cant and who tried to save the monarchy and become its first minister. Mary Shelley had become personally acquainted with the Carlyles by Oct. 1839, and may have done so as early as 1835 through the Carlyles’ neighbours, the Hunts (MWSL, II, pp. 220n. and 328). 4 Letters to John Murray, 12 Nov. 1829, 5 Mar. 1830, 25 May 1830, 9 Aug. 1830 (MWSL, II, pp. 89, 105, 113). 5 Betty T. Bennett, ‘Seven Letters from Prosper Mérimée to Mary Shelley’, Comparative Literature, 31 (1979), 134–5. 6 First read by her in June 1822 (MWSJ, I, p. 411). 2

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MOLIÈRE. 1622–1673. LOUIS XIV, one day asked Boileau “Which writer of his reign he considered the most distinguished;” Boileau answered, unhesitatingly, “Molière.” “You surprise me,” said the king; “but of course you know best.”a Boileau displayed his discernment in this reply. The more we learn of Molière’s career, and inquire into the peculiarities of his character, the more we are struck by the greatness of his genius and the admirable nature of the man. Of all French writers he is the least merely French. His dramas belong to all countries and ages; and, as if as a corollary to this observation, we find, also, an earnestness of feeling, and a deep tone of passion in his character, that raises him above our ordinary notions of Gallic frivolity. Molière was of respectable parentage. For several generations his family had been traders in Paris, and were so well esteemed, that various members had held the places of juge and consul in the city of Paris; situations of sufficient importance, on some occasions, to cause those who filled them to be raised to the rank of nobles.b His father, Jean Poquelin, was appointed tapestry or carpet-furnisher to the king: his mother, Marie Cressé*, belonged to a family similarly situated; / her father, also, was a manufacturer of carpets and tapestry. Jean Baptiste Poquelin (such was Molière’s real name) was born on the 15th January, 1622, in a house in Rue Saint Honorè, near the Rue de la Tonnellerie. He was the eldest of a numerous family of children, and destined to succeed his father in trade. The latter * A thousand mistakes were current, even in Molière’s own day, with regard to various particulars of his history, which he took no pains to contradict, and which have been copied and recopied by succeeding biographers. Even the calumny that he had incurred the hazard of marrying his own daughter, which he disdained to confute in print, aware that facts known to every one acquainted with him bore the refutation with them, was faintly denied. These days, however, have brought forth a commentator, unwearied in the search for documents on the subject. M. L. F. Beffara hunted through parish registers and other public records, and, by means of these simple but irrefutable instruments, has thrown light on all the darker passages of Molière’s history, exonerated him from every accusation, and set his character in a higher point of view than ever.c a

Probably taken from Taschereau, p. 327. The position of judge or city councillor could enable men to enter the noblesse de la robe, socalled from the robes indicating their position. c Beffara’s Dissertation sur J.-B.-Poquelin-Molière (1821) inaugurated a new era of accurate biographical research. b

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being afterwards appointed valet de chambre to the king, and the survivorship of the place being obtained for his son,a his prospects in life were sufficiently prosperous. His mother died when he was only ten years of age, and thus a family of orphans were left on his father’s hands. Brought up to trade, Poquelin’s education during childhood was restricted to reading and writing; and his boyish days were passed in the warehouse of his father. His heart, however, was set on other things. His paternal grandfather was very fond of play-going, and often took his grandson to the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, where Corneille’s plays were being acted. From this old man the youth probably inherited his taste for the drama, and he owed it to him that his genius took so early the right bent. To him he was indebted for another great obligation. The boy’s father reproached the grandfather for taking him so often to the play. “Do you wish to make an actor of him?” he exclaimed. “Yes, if it pleased God that he became as good a one as Bellerose*,” the other replied.b The prejudices of the age were violent against actors. We almost all take our peculiar prejudices from our parents, whom, in our nonage (unless, through unfortunate circumstances, they lose our respect), we naturally regard as the sources of truth. To this speech, to the admiration which the elder Poquelin felt for actors and acting, no doubt the boy owed his early and lasting emancipation from those puerile or worse prejudices / against the theatre, which proved quicksands to swallow up the genius of Racine. The youth grew discontented as he grew older. The drama enlightened him as to the necessity of acquiring knowledge, and to the beauty of intellectual refinement: he became melancholy, and, questioned by his father, admitted his distaste for trade, and his earnest desire to receive a liberal education. Poquelin thought that his son’s ruin must inevitably ensue: the grandfather was again the boy’s ally; he gained his point, and was sent as an out-student to the college of Clermont, afterwards of Louis-le-Grand, which was under the direction of the jesuits, and one of the best in Paris. Amand de Bourbon, prince of Conti, brother of the grand Condé,c was going through the classes at the same time. After passing through the ordinary routine at this school, the young Poquelin enjoyed a greater advantage * Bellerose (whose real name was Pierre Le Melier) was the best tragic actor of the reign of Louis XIII.: he was the original Cinna of Corneille’s play. He was elegant in manner, and his elocution was easy. Scarron accuses him of affectation: and we are told, in the Memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, that a lady objected to M. de la Rochefoucault, that he resembled Bellerose in the affectation of gentleness.d a

Royal manservant; the post was transferable to another family member for a fee. This follows closely Grimarest, p. 37. c Armand de Bourbon, prince de Conti (1629–60), brother of Louis II de Bourbon, prince de Condé (1621–86), known as the Grand Condé, cousins of Louis XIV. d Paul Scarron (1610–60), poet, novelist and playwright; see ‘Rochefoucauld’ (vol. 2). The spelling ‘Rochefoucault’ was common. The lady criticised not La Rochefoucauld but one Geffroy de Laigue (Cardinal de Retz, Mémoires, (Paris, 1987), vol. II, p. 502). b

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than that of being a school-fellow of a prince of the blood. L’Huilier, a man of large fortune, had a natural son, named Chapelle, whom he brought up with great care. Earnest for his welfare and good education, he engaged the celebrated Gassendi to be his private tutor, and placed another boy of promise, named Bernier, whose parents were poor, to study with him.a There is something more helpful, more truly friendly and liberal, often in French men of letters than in ours; and it is one of the best traits in our neighbours’ character. Gassendi perceived Poquelin’s superior talents, and associated him in the lessons he gave to Chapelle and Bernier. He taught them the philosophy of Epicurus; he enlightened their minds by lessons of morals; and Molière derived from him those just and honourable principles from which he never deviated in after life. Another pupil almost, as it were, forced himself into this little circle of students. Cyrano de Bergeracb was a youth of great talents, but of a wild and turbulent disposition, and had been dismissed from the college of Beauvais for putting the master into a farce. He was a / Gascon – lively, insinuating, and ambitious. Gassendi could not resist his efforts to get admitted as his pupil; and his quickness and excellent memory rendered him an apt scholar. Chapelle himself, the friend afterwards of Boileau and of all the literati of Paris, a writer of songs, full of grace, sprightliness, and ease, displayed talent, but at the same time gave tokens of that heedless, gay, and unstable character that followed him through life, and occasioned his father, instead of making him his heir as he intended, to leave him merely a slight annuity, over which he had no control. Bernier became afterwards a great eastern traveller. Immediately on leaving college Poquelin entered on his service of royal valet de chambre. Louis XIII. made a journey to Narbonne;c and he attended instead of his father.* This journey is only remarkable from the public events that were then taking place. Louis XIII. and cardinal de Richelieu had marched into Rousillon to * Biographers are apt to invent, if they cannot discover the causes of even trifling events. That the son replaced the father on this occasion, made the elder biographers state that the latter was prevented by his advanced age. Beffara has discovered that the grandfather of Molière married 11th July, 1594, consequently that the father could not be more than forty-six years of age in 1641. A thousand reasons may be found for the substitution of the son. The aversion that Parisians have for travelling might suffice – the large motherless family that the elder Poquelin must leave behind, or a wish to introduce his son to the notice of the king, &c. a Claude-Emmanuel Lhuillier (1626–86); Pierre Gassendi (1592–1655), priest, philosopher, astronomer and expounder of Epicurus, Athenian philosophical materialist c. 300 BC, who advocated pleasure as the purpose of life. Gassendi maintained his doctrines were compatible with Catholicism. François Bernier (1620–88) summarised Gassendi’s philosophy and described his own Indian travels. Mary Shelley blends Grimarest, pp. 38–9 with Voltaire, Molière, pp. xxxiii–iv. b Savinieu de Cyrano (1619–55), dashing soldier and litterateur, subject of legends in his lifetime and a cult figure of early French Romanticism. c In Provence, in the south of France.

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complete the conquest of that province from the house of Austria – both monarch and minister were dying. The latter discovered the conspiracy of Cinq-Mars, the unfortunate favourite of the king, and had seised on him and his innocent friend De Thou – they were condemned to death; and conveyed from Tarrascon to Lyons in a boat, which was towed by the cardinal’s barge in advance.a Terror at the name of the cardinal, contempt for the king, and anxiety to watch the wasting illnesses of both, occupied the court: the passions of men were excited to their height; and the young and ardent youth, fresh from the schools of philosophy, witnessed a living drama, more highly wrought than any that a mimic stage could represent. / The cardinal had a magnificent spirit; he revived the arts, or rather nursed their birth in France. It has been mentioned in the life of Corneille, that he patronised the theatre; and even wrote pieces for it. The tragedy of the “Cid,”while it electrified France, by what might be deemed a revelation of genius, gave dignity as well as a new impulse to the drama. Acting became a fashion, a rage; private theatricals were the general amusement, and knots of young men formed themselves into companies of actors. Poquelin, having renounced his father’s trade, and having received a liberal education, entered, it is believed, on the study of the law; having been sent to Orleansb for that purpose. He returned to Paris, to commence his career of advocate; here he was led to associate with a few friends of the same rank, in getting up plays: by degrees he became wedded to the theatre; and when the private company resolved to become a public one, and to derive profit from their representations, he continued to belong to it; and, according to the fashion of actors in those days assumed a new name – that of Molière. His father was displeased, and took every means to dissuade him from his new course; but the enthusiasm of Molière overcame all opposition. There is a story told,c that one respectable friend, who was sent by his father to argue against the theatre, was seduced by the youth’s arguments to adopt a taste for it, and led to turn comedian himself. His relations did not the less continue their opposition; they exiled him as it were from among them; and erased the most illustrious name in France for their genealogical tree. What would their tree be worth now did it not bear the name of Molière as its chief bloom, which more rare than the flower of the aloe, which blossoms once in a hundred years, has never had its match. There were many admirable actors in Molière’s time, chiefly however in comedy. There were the three, known in farce under the names of Gauthier Garguille, a Armand-Jean du Plessis (1585–1642), cardinal de Richelieu from 1622, chief minister to Louis XIII from 1624–42, and chief architect of absolute monarchy in France (see ‘Corneille’, vol. 2). The province of Roussillon, gained in 1659, on the border with Spain, was ruled by the Habsburg dynasty, whose senior branch was based in Austria. Henrie Coëffier de Ruzé, marquis de Cinq Mars, and François-Auguste de Thou, a leading Paris lawyer, tried in 1642 to undermine Cardinal Richelieu’s authority. Tarrascon is a key river-port on the Rhône, further south of Lyons. b Orléans, to the west of Paris. c In Grimarest, p. 41.

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Turlupin, and Gros Guillaume, who in the end died tragically, / through the effects of fear. Arlechino (Harlequin) and Scaramouche, both Italians, were however the favourites: the latter is said to have been Molière’s master in the art of acting; and he never missed a representation at the Italian theatre when he could help it.a The native comedy of the Italians gave him a taste for the true humour of comic situation and dialogue; and we owe to his well-founded predilection what we and the German critics (in contradistinction to the French, who judge always by rule and measure, and not by the amusement they receive, nor the genius displayed) prefer to his five act pieces. Nor was this the only source whence he derived instruction. The bustle and intrigue of the Spanish comedies had been introduced by Corneille in his translation of Lope de Vega’s “Verdad Sospechosa.” Corneille, however, made the character of the Liar, who is the hero, more prominent. Molière is said to have declared, that he owed his initiation into the true spirit of comedy from this play. He took the better part; rejecting the intrigue, disguises, and trap-doors, and discerning the great effect to be produced by a character happily and truly conceived, and then thrown into apposite situations. There is much obscurity thrown over the earlier portion of Molière’s life. We know the names of some of his company. There was Gros René, and his beautiful wife; there were the two Bejarts, brothers, whose excellent characters attached Molière to them, and Madeleine Bejart, their sister, a beautiful girl, the mistress of a gentleman of Modena – to whom Molière was also attached.b Molière himself succeeded in the more farcical comic characters. The disorders of the capital during the regency at the beginning of Louis XIV.’s reign, and the war of the Fronde, replunged France in barbarism; and torn by faction, the citizens of Paris had no leisure for the theatre. Molière and his troop quitted the city for the provinces, and among other places visited Bordeaux, where he was powerfully protected by the duc d’Epernon, governor of Guienne.c It is said, that Molière / wrote and brought out a tragedy, called “The Thebaid,”in this town, which succeeded so ill, that he gave up the idea of composing tragic dramas, though his chief ambition was to succeed in that higher walk of his art. When we consider the impassioned and reflective disposition of Molière, we are not surprised at his desire to succeed in impersonating the nobler passions; we wonder rather how it was that he should have wholly failed in delineating such, while his greatest power resided in the talent for seizing and portraying the ridiculous. a The three actors are mentioned by Voltaire, Molière, p. xxxv; Arlechino and Scaramouche are not actors, but stock characters in Italian comedy, interpreted to acclaim in Molière’s day respectively by Domenico Locatelli and Tiberio Fiorelli. b Gros-René du Parc and his wife Thérèse de Gorla; Joseph and Louis Béjart; Madeleine Béjart (1618–72) was the mistress of Esprit de Rémond de Mormoiron, Count of Modena, a friend of Louis XIII’s brother Gaston d’Orléans. c Bordeaux was the chief Atlantic port of south-west France; the hinterland forms the province of Guyenne, whose military governor was Bernard de Nogaret de la Valette et de Foix, duc d’Epernon (1592–1661).

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After a tour in the provinces he returned to Paris. His former schoolfellow, the prince of Conti, renewed his acquaintance with him; and caused him and his company to bring out plays in his palace: and when this prince went to preside at the statesa of Languedoc, he invited them to visit him there. Finding Paris still too distracted by civil broils to encourage the theatre, Molière and his company left it for Lyons. Here he brought out his first piece, “L’Etourdi,”which met with great and deserved success. We have an English translation, under the name of “Sir Martin Marplot,” originally written by the celebrated duke of Newcastle, and adapted for the stage by Dryden; the French play, however, is greatly superior. In that the lover, Lelie, is only a giddy coxcomb, full of conceit and gaiety of heart. Sir Martin is a heavy plodding fool; and the mistakes we sympathise with, even while we laugh, when originating in mere youthful levity, excite our contempt when occasioned by dull obesity.b Thus in the English play, the master appears too stupid to deserve his lady at last – and she is transferred to the servant; a catastrophe which must shock our manners; and we are far more ready to rejoice in the original, when the valet at last presents Celie, with her father’s consent, to his master, asking him whether he could find a way even then to destroy his hopes. The “Dépit Amoureux”c followed, which is highly / amusing. Although Molière improved afterwards, these first essays are nevertheless worthy his genius. The company to which he belonged possessed great merit, both in public and private. We cannot expect to find strictness of moral conduct in French comedians, in an age when the manners of the whole country was corrupt, and civil war loosened still more the bonds of society, and produced a state characterised as being “a singular mixture of libertinism and sedition, rife with wars at once sanguinary and frivolous; when the magistrates girded on the sword, and bishops assumed a uniform; when the heroines of the court followed at once the camp and church processions, and factious wits made impromptus on rebellion, and composed madrigals on the field of battle.”d The war of the Fronde produced a state of license and intrigue: and of course it must be expected that such should be found in a company of strolling actors; to detail the loves of Molière at this time would excite little interest, except inasmuch as it would seem that he brought an affectionate heart and generous spirit, to ennoble what in a less elevated character would have been mere intrigue. Madeleine Bejart was a woman of talent as well as beauty; her brothers were men of good principles and conduct. The sort of liberal, friendly, and frank-hearted spirit that characterised the circle of friends, is well described in the autobiography of a singular specimen of the manners of a

The meeting of the provincial assembly. L’Étourdi, ou les contre-temps (The Blunderer, or the Mishaps), adapted by the poet John Dryden (1631–1700) as Sir Martin Mar-All from the translation by the theatrical patron William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle (1592–1676). The rest of this paragraph follows Scott, p. 145, selectively; ‘superior. In’ (previous sentence) should perhaps be ‘superior, in’. c Lovers’ Quarrels (1656). d Cited from Taschereau, pp. 21–2, using a M. Étienne as a source. b

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those times. D’Assouçya was a sort of troubadour; a good musician, and an agreeable poet, who travelled from town to town, lute in hand, and followed by two pages, who took parts in his songs; gaining his bread, and squandering what he gained without fore-thought. At Lyons, he fell in with Molière, and the brothers Bejart. He continues: “The stage has charms, and I could not easily quit these delightful friends. I remained three months at Lyons, amidst plays and feasts, though I had better not have staid three days, for I met with various disasters in the midst of my amusements (he was stripped of all his money in a / gamblinghouse.) Having heard that I should find a soprano voice at Avignon, whom I could engage to join me, I embarked on the Rhone with Molière, and arrived at Avignon with forty pistoles in my pocket, the relics of my wreck.” He then goes on to state how he was stripped of this sum among gamblers and jews; and adds, “But a man is never poor while he has friends; and having Molière and all the family of Bejart as allies, I found myself, despite fortune and jews, richer and happier than ever; for these generous people were not satisfied by assisting me as friends, they treated me as a relation. When they were invited to the States, I accompanied them to Pezenas, and I cannot tell the kindness I received from all. They say that the fondest brother tires of a brother in a month; but these, more generous than all the brothers in the world, invited me to their table during the whole winter; and, though I was really their guest, I felt myself at home. I never saw so much kindness, frankness, or goodness, as among these people, worthy of being the princes whom they personated on the stage.” At Pezenas, to which place they were invited by the prince of Conti, Molière’s company found a warm welcome and generous pay from the prince himself. Molière got up, for the prince’s amusement, not only the two regular plays which he had written, but other farcical interludes, which became afterwards the groundwork of his best comedies. Among these were the “Le Docteur Pedant;” “Gorgibus dans le Sac” (the forerunner of “La Fourberies de Scapin”); “Le grand Benet de Fils,” who afterwards flourished as “Le Médecin malgré Lui;” “Le grand Benet de fils,” who appears to have blossomed hereafter into Thomas Diafoirus, in the “Malade Imaginaire.” There were also “Le Docteur Amoureux,” “Le Maître d’École,” and “La Jalousie de Barbouillé.” All these farces perished. Boileau, notwithstanding his love for classical correctness, lamented their loss; as he said, there was always something spirited and animating in the slightest of Molière’s works.b / a Charles Coypeau d’Assoucy (1605–77) was a crony of Cyrano de Bergerac. Pézenas was where the provincial estates met. From this point to the end of the paragraph is taken from Taschereau’s citation (pp. 26–7) of Aventures du Sieur d’Assoucy (1677). b The Pedantic Doctor; Gorgibus in his cloak, forerunner of The Deceptions of Scapin (1671); Benet Senior’s Son; Physician in spite of himself (1666); Benet Senior’s Son (repeated); The Imaginary Invalid (1673); The Doctor in Love; The School Master; Barbouillé’s Jealousy. Mary Shelley appears to have confused Molière’s two major satiric dramas on the medical profession, corrected herself but left the error uncancelled and unnoticed at proof stage. (In The Imaginary Invalid the doctor, Diafoirus, has a son, but there is no father-son relationship in Physician in spite of himself.) Taschereau, p. 31, cites Boileau’s comment.

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These theatrical amusements delighted the prince of Conti; and their author became such a favourite, that he offered him the place of his secretary, which Molière declined. We are told that the prince, with all his kindness of intention, was of such a tyrannical temper, that his late secretary had died in consequence of ill treatment, having been knocked down by the prince with the fire-tongs, and killed by the blow.a We do not wonder, therefore, at Molière’s refusing the glittering bait. And in addition to the independence of his spirit, he loved his art, and no doubt felt the workings of that genius which hereafter gave such splendid tokens of its existence, and which is ever obnoxious to the trammels of servitude. He continued for some time in Languedoc and Provence, and formed a friendship at Avignon with Mignard,b which lasted to the end of their lives, and to which we owe the spirited portrait of Molière, which represents to the life the eager, impassioned, earnest and honest physiognomy of this great man. As Paris became tranquil Molière turned his eyes thitherward, desirous of establishing his company in the metropolis. He went first to Grenoble and then to Rouen,c where, after some negotiation and delay, and several journeys to Paris, he obtained the protection of monsieur, the king’s brother; was presented by him to the king and queen-mother, and finally obtained permission to establish himself in the capital.* The rival theatre was at the Hôtel de Bourgogne; here Corneille’s tragedies were represented by the best tragic actors of the time. The first appearance of Molière’s company before Louis XIV. and his mother, Anne of Austria, took place at the Louvre. “Nicomede”d was the play selected; success attended the attempt, and the actresses in particular met with great applause. Yet even then Molière felt that his company could not compete / with its rival in tragedy: when the curtain fell, therefore, he stepped forward, and, after thanking the audience for their kind reception, asked the king’s leave to represent a little divertisement which had acquired a reputation in the provinces: the king assented; and the performers went on, to act “Le Docteur Amoureux” one those farces, several of which he had brought out in Languedoc, conceived in the Italian taste, full of buffoonery and bustle. The king was amused, and the piece succeeded; and hence arose the fash* Molière’s company then consisted of, in actors, the two brothers, Bejart, Du Parc, De Brie, De Croisal: in actresses, of the sisters Bejart, Du Parc, De Brie, and Hervè. Du Croisy and La Grange, two first-rate actors, were soon afterwards added. a

From Scott, p. 146, and Taschereau, pp. 28–9. Avignon in Provence was an enclave ruled by the Pope; Pierre Mignard, painter (1612– 95); his portrait of Molière is still widely reproduced. c Rouen and Grenoble were provincial capitals respectively of the Dauphiné in the southeast and of Normandy in the north; Monsieur is the honorary title given to the king’s brother, here Gaston d’Orléans (1608–60). Asterisk editorially inserted at the end of the paragraph. d Corneille’s Nicomède (1651) is not mentioned in ‘Corneille’, but its nobly disdainful hero offers a strong acting part. It is generally numbered among Corneille’s successes. b

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ion of adding a short farce after a long serious play. The success also secured the establishment of his company; they acted at first at the Theâtre du Petit Bourbon, and afterwards, when that theatre was taken down to give place to the new building of the colonnade of the Louvre, the king gave him that of the Palais Royal, and his company assumed the name of Comediens de Monsieur.a Parisian society opened a new field for Molière’s talents; subjects for ridicule multiplied around him. The follies which appeared most ludicrous were so nursed and fostered by the high-born and wealthy, that he almost feared to attack them. But they were too tempting. In addition to the amusement to be derived from exhibiting in its true colours an affectation the most laughable, he was urged by the hope of vanquishing by the arms of wit, a system of folly, which had taken deep root even with some of the cleverest men in France; – we allude to the coterie of the Hôtel de Rambouillet; and to the farce of the “Précieuses Ridicules,” which entered the very sanctum, and caused irremediable disorder and flight to all the darling follies of the clique. The society of the Hôtel de Rambouillet had a language and conduct all its own; these were embodied in the endless novels of mademoiselle Scuderi.b Gallantry and love were the watchwords, and metaphysical disquisitions were the labours of the set. But these were not allowed to subsist in homely phrase or a natural manner. The euphuismc of our Elizabethian coxcombs was tame and tropeless in comparison with the high flights of the heroes and heroines of the Hôtel de Rambouillet. / All was done by rule; all adapted to a system. The lover had a regular map laid out, and he entered on his amorous journey, knowing exactly the stoppages he must make, and the course he must pass through on his way to the city of Tenderness, towards which he was bound. There was the village of Billets galans; the hamlet of Billets doux; the castle of Petits Soins; and the villa of Jolis Vers.d After possessing himself of these, he still had to fear being forced to embark on the sea of Dislike, or the lake of Indifference; but if, on the contrary, he pushed off on the river of Inclination, he floated happily down to his bourne. Their language was a jargon, which, as Sir Walter Scott observes, in his “Essay on Molière,” resembled a highlander’s horse, hard to catch, and not worth catching.e They gave enigmatic names to the commonest things, which to call by their proper appellations, was, as Molière terms it, du dernier bourgeois.f When an a

Mary Shelley’s account follows Voltaire, Molière, p. 30, or Taschereau, p. 35, closely. The town house or Hôtel owned by the marquise de Rambouillet was the centre of the literary circle of the Précieuses ridiculed in The Affected Young Ladies (1659); see also ‘Sévigné’, p. 99, note b. Madeleine de Scudéry (1608–1701) wrote lengthy, historical prose romances, notably Artamène, ou le Grand Cyrus (1649–53), containing the ‘map of tenderness’ described below. c Elaborate and poetic vocabulary, pioneered by Lyly’s romance Euphues (1580), published in the reign (1558–1603) of Queen Elizabeth I. The unusual form ‘Elizabethian’ is also found in Coleridge. d Gentlemanly notes; love letters; lavish attentions; pretty verses. e The preceding paragraph abbreviates and follows Scott, pp. 147–8, closely. f ‘utterly bourgeois’. b

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“innocent accomplice of a falsehood” was mentioned, a Précieuse (they themselves adopted and gloried in this name; Molière only added ridicules, to turn the blow a little aside from the centre of the target at which he aimed) could, without a blush, understand that a night-cap was the subject of conversation; water with them was too vulgar unless dignified as celestial humidity; a thief could be mentioned when designated as an inconvenient hero; and a lover won his mistress’s applause when he complained of her disdainful smile, as “a sauce of pride.” Purity of feeling however was the soul of the system. Authors and poets were admitted as admirers, but they never got beyond the villa of Jolis Vers. When Voiture, who had glorified Julie d’Angennes his life-long, ventured to kiss her hand, he was thrown from the fortifications of the castle of Petit Soins, and soused into the lake of Indifference: even her noble admirer, the duke Montauzier, was forced to paddle on the river of Inclination, for fourteen years*, before he was admitted * For him surely was written Miss Lamb’s pretty song– “High born Helen Round your dwelling These twenty years I’ve paced in vain. Haughty Beauty, Your lover’s duty Has been his pleasure and his pain.” Vide Poet. Works of Charles Lamb.a Molière in the farce in question gives a diverting account of a Précieuse courtship: “Il faut qu’un amant, pour être agréable, sache débiter les beaux sentiments, pousser le doux, le tendre, et le passionné, et que sa recherche soit dans les formes. Premièrement, il doit voir au temple, ou à la promenade, ou dans quelque cérémonie publique, la personne dont il devient amoureux, ou bien être conduit fatalement chez elle par un parent ou un ami, et sortir de là tout rêveur ou mélancholique. Il cache, un temps, sa passion à l’object aimé, et cependant lui rends plusieurs visites où l’on ne manque jamais de mettre sur le tapis une question galante qui exerce les esprits de l’assemblée. Le jour de la déclaration arrive, qui se doit faire ordinairement dans une allée de quelque jardin, tandis que la compagnie s’est un peu éloignée: et cette déclaration est suivie d’un prompte courroux, qui parait à notre rougeur, et qui, pour un temps, bannit l’amant de notre présence. Ensuite il trouve moyen de nous appaiser, de nous accoutumer insensiblement au discours de sa passion, et de tirer de nous cet aveu qui fait tant de peine. Après cela viennent les avantures, les rivaux qui se jettent à traverse d’une inclination établie, les persécutions des pères, les jalousies conçues sous des fausses apparences, les plaintes, les désespoirs, les enlèvemens, et ce qui s’ensuit.”b a ‘Helen’ by Mary Lamb (1764–1847), sister of Charles Lamb and a friend, though not an intimate, of Mary Shelley; she could have encountered the verses in The Poetical Works of Charles Lamb. A New Edition (London: Moxon, 1836), John Woodvil, a Tragedy (1802), The Works of Charles Lamb (1818) and 'Blakesmore in Hampshire', London Magazine (Sept. 1824). In this last, Lamb, writing as 'Elia', claims that the verses allude to his falling in love with an old portrait of a girl dressed in pastoral costume. b ‘A lover, to be agreeable, must understand how to utter fine sentiments, to breathe soft, tender and passionate vows; his courtship must be according to the rules. In the first place, he should behold the fair one of whom he becomes enamoured either at a place of worship, or when out walking, or at some public ceremony; or else he should be introduced to her by a relative or a friend, as if by chance, and when he leaves her he should appear in a pensive and melancholy mood. For some time he should conceal his passion from the object of his love, but pay her sev-

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to the city / of Tenderness, and allowed to make her his wife.a Their style of life was as eccentric as their talk. The lady rose in the morning, dressed herself with elegance, and then went to bed. The French bed, placed in an alcove, had a passage round it, called the ruelle; to be at the top of the ruelle was the post of honour; and Voiture, under the title of Alcovist, long held this envied post, beside the pillow of his adored Julie, while he never was allowed to touch her little finger. The folly had its accompanying good. The respect which the women exacted, and the virtue they preserved, exalted them, and in spite of their high-flown sentiments, and metaphysical conceits, wits did not disdain to “put a soul into the body of” nonsense. Rochefoucault, Menage, madame de Sévigné, madame Des Houilleres, Balzac, Vaugelas, and others, frequented the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and lent the aid of their talents to dignify their galimathias.b But it was too much for the honest comic poet to bear. He perceived the whole of society infected – nobles and prelates, ladies and poets, marquisses and lacqueys, all wandered about the Pays de Tendre, lost in a very labyrinth of inextricable nonsense. They assumed fictitious names*, they promulgated * When Fléchierc delivered a funeral oration on the death of madame de Montauzier, he spoke of her mother by her assumed name of Athénice. “You remember, my brothers,” he exclaimed, “those cabinets, which we still regard with so much veneration; where the mind was purified and where virtue was revered under the name of the incomparable Athénice; where persons of quality or talent assembled, and composed a select court – numerous without confusion, modest without constraint, learned without pride, refined without affectation.” La Bruyère describes this society in somewhat different terms: “Not long ago we witnessed a circle of persons of either sex, drawn together by conversation and the cultivation of talent. They left the art of speaking intelligibly to the vulgar. One remark, enveloped in mysterious phrase, brought on another yet more obscure; and they went on exaggerating eral visits, in every one of which he ought to introduce some gallant subject to exercise the wits of all the company. When the day comes to make his declaration–which generally should be contrived in some shady garden-walk while the company is at a distance–it should be quickly followed by anger, which is shown by our blushing, and which, for a while, banishes the lover from our presence. He finds afterwards means to pacify us, to accustom us gradually to hear from him depict his passion, and to draw from us that confession which causes so much pain. After that come the adventures, the rivals who thwart mutual inclination, the persecutions of fathers, the jealousies arising without any foundation, complaints, despair, running away with, and its consequences.’ (The Affected Young Ladies, I. iv, in Molière Works, vol. I, pp. 224–5) a Vincent Voiture (1597–1648), poet and founder member of the Académie Française; Julie d’Angennes, eldest daughter of the marquise de Rambouillet, married Charles de Sainte-Maure (1616–90), later duc de Montausier. b Giles Ménage (1613–92), a lawyer and abbé ubiquitous in literary circles; Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde (1638–94), known as Des Houllières, poet, salonière, and recipient of a prize from the Académie Française; Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac (1594–1654), prose writer and critic; Claude Faire de Vaugelas (1585–1650), lexicographer and linguistic theorist; galimathias is tedious nonsense. This paragraph follows Scott, p. 150. c Esprit Fléchier (1632–1710), salonier in his youth, later Bishop of Lavaur, then of Nîmes. He became famous for funeral orations (including that of Julie d’Angennes) characterised by the elegance and wit admired by the précieuses. Quoted by Taschereau, p. 38.

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fictitious / sentiments; they admired each other, according as they best succeeded in being as unnatural as possible. Molière stripped the scene and personages of their gilding in a moment. His fair Précieuses were the daughters of a bourgeois named Gorgibus, who quitted their homely names of Cathos and Madelon, for Aminte and Polixene, dismissed their admirers for proposing to marry them, scolded their father for not possessing le bel air des choses, and are taken in by two valets whom they believe to be nobles, who easily imitate the foppery and sentimentalism, which these young ladies so much admire.*a The success of the piece was complete – from that moment the Hôtel de Rambouillet talked sense. Menage says: “I was at the first representation of the ‘Précieuses Ridicules’ of Molière, at the Petit Bourbon, mademoiselle de Rambouillet, madame de Grignan, M. Chapelain, and others, the select society of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, were there. The piece was acted with general applause; and for my own part I was so delighted that I saw at once the effect that it would produce. Leaving the theatre, I took M. Chapelain by the hand, and said We have been used to approve all the follies so well and wittily satirised in this piece; but believe / me, as St. Remy said to king Clovis – ‘We must burn what we have adored, and adore what we have burnt.’b It happened as I predicted, and we gave up this bombastic nonsense from the time of the first representation.” A better victory could not have been gained by comic poet: to it may be said to have been added another. While the Précieuses yielded to the blow, unsophisticated minds enjoyed the wit: in the midst of the piece, an old man cried out suddenly from the pit, “Courage, Molière, this is true comedy!”c The author himself felt that he had been inspired by the spirit of comic drama. That this consisted in a true picture of till they spoke in absolute enigmas, which were most applauded. By talking of delicacy, sentiment, and finesse of expression, they managed neither to make themselves understood, nor to understand. There was need of neither good sense, memory, nor cleverness for these conversations. Wit was all in all – not true wit, but that which consists in conceits and extravagant fancies.”d * It has been frequently asserted this piece was written while the author was in the country; his preface favours this notion, in which he says that he only ridicules les fausses Précieuses, that name being then held in esteem. Contemporary notices, however, make it apparent that this piece came out first in Paris; and it was impossible that he could have so well seized the peculiar tone of these sentimental pedants any where except in their very birth-place.

a

Mary Shelley draws selectively on Scott, pp. 150–1. Julie d’Angennes’s sister, Angélique-Clarisse d’Angennes, first wife of the comte de Grignan, later third husband of Mme de Sévigné’s daughter; Jean Chapelain (1595–1673), founder member of the Académie Française, and literary advisor first to Cardinal Richelieu, then Colbert, Louis XIV’s minister; the Merovingian King Clovis (466–511) was converted to Christianity by St Rémy. Mary Shelley follows Grimarest, p. 48. c Grimarest, p. 48. d Jean de La Bruyère (1645–96), moralist known for his Les Caractères (1688–94), which took the form of aphorism and sometimes very brief sketches, not continuous argument; quoted by Taschereau, p. 41. b

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the follies of society, idealised and grouped by the fancy, but in every part in accordance with nature. He became aware, that he had but to examine the impression made on himself, and to embody the conceptions they suggested to his mind. As he went on writing, he in each new piece made great and manifest improvement. “Sganarelle” was his next effort: it is, perhaps, not in his best taste; it is like a tale of the Italian novelists – that the husband’s misfortune had existence in his fancy only is the author’s best excuse.a Success ought to have taught Molière to abide by comedy, and to become aware that a quick sense of the ridiculous, and a happy art in the scenic representation of it, was the bent of his genius. But a desire to succeed in a more elevated and tragic style still pursued him. He brought out “Don Garcie de Navarre,” a very poor play, unsuccessful in its début, and afterwards so despised by the author as not to be comprised in his edition of his works. He quickly dissipated this cloud, however, by bringing out “L’ École des Maris,” one of his best comedies.b The splendours of the reign of Louis XIV. were now beginning to shine out in all their brilliancy. The first attempt, however, at a fête – superior in magnificence, originality, and beauty to any thing the world had yet seen – was made, not by the king himself. In an evil hour for himself, Fouquet, the minister of finances, got leave to entertain royalty at his villa, or rather palace / of Vaux. Blinded by prosperity, this unfortunate man thought to delight the king by the splendor of his entertainment; he awoke indeed a desire to do the like in Louis’s mind, but he gave the final blow to his own fortunes, already undermined. Fouquet had admired mademoiselle de la Vallière; he had expressed his admiration, and sought return with the insolence of command rather than the solicitations of tenderness: he was rejected with disdain. His mortification made him suspect another more successful lover: he discovered the hidden and mutual passion of the king and the beautiful girl; and, with the most unworthy meanness, he threatened her with divulging the secret; and added the insolence of an epigram on her personal appearance. La Vallière informed her royal lover of the discovery which Fouquet had made – and his fall was resolved on.c The minister had lavished wealth, taste, and talent on his fête. Le Brun painted the scenes; Le Nôtre arranged the architectural decorations;d La Fontaine wrote a

Sganarelle, ou Le Cocu Imaginaire (1660) (Sganarelle, or the husband who believed he was deceived); the Italian novelists were the ‘Novelieri’, i.e. writers of short tales such as those found in the Cento Novelle Antiche (‘The Novellino’) and the Decameron, many of which hinge on cuckoldry. See Note to ‘The Italian Novelists’ (vol. 4). b Don Garcia of Navarre, or the Jealous Prince; The School for Husbands (both 1661). c Nicolas Fouquet (1615–80), protégé of Cardinal Mazarin, who made him Superintendent of Finances in 1653; he hoped to succeed the Cardinal on his death in 1661 as First Minister to Louis XIV, but the latter used the opportunity to disgrace Fouquet, to show he would be his own First Minister. Louise-Françoise de la Baume le Blanc de la Vallière (1644–1710), mistress of Louis XIV, 1661–74; cf. ‘La Fontaine’ and ‘The Convent of Chaillot’ (vol. 4). d Charles Lebrun (1619–90), decorative painter and leading artistic theorist; André Le Nôtre (1613–1700), doyen of garden design.

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verses for the occasion; Molière not only repeated his “École des Maris,” but brought out a new species of entertainment: a ballet was prepared, of the most magnificent description; but, as the principal dancers had to vary their characters and dresses in the different scenes, that the stage might not be left empty and the audience get weary with waiting, he composed a light sketch, called “Les Facheux” (our unclassical word bore is the only translation), in which a lover, who has an assignation with his mistress, is perpetually interrupted by a series of intruders, who each call his attention to some subject that fills their minds, and is at once indifferent and annoying to him. A novel sort of amusement added therefore charms to luxury and feasting; but the very perfection of the scene awoke angry feelings in Louis’s mind: he saw a portrait of La Vallière in the minister’s cabinet, and was roused to jealous rage: disdaining to express this feeling, he pretended another cause of displeasure, saying that Fouquet must have been guilty of peculation, to afford so vast an expenditure. He would have caused / him to be arrested on the instant, had not his mother stopped him, by exclaiming, “What, in the midst of an entertainment which he gives you!”a Louis accordingly delayed his revenge. A glittering veil was drawn over the reality. With courtly ease he concealed his resentment by smiles; and, while meditating the ruin of the master and giver of the feast, entered with an apparently unembarrassed mind on the enjoyment of the scene. He was particularly pleased with “Les Facheux;” but, while he was expressing his approbation to Molière, he saw in the crowd Grand Veneur, or great huntsman to the king, a Nimrod devoted to the chase; and he said, pointing to him, “You have omitted one bore.”b On this Molière went to work; he called on M. de Soyecourt, slily engaged him in one of his too ready narrations of a chase; and, on the following evening, the lover had added to his other bores a courtier, who insists on relating the history of a long hunting-match in which he was engaged. English followers of the field find ample scope for ridicule in this scene, which in their eyes contrasts the rules of French sport most ludicrously with their more manly mode of running down the game. Another more praiseworthy effort to please and flatter the king in this piece was the introducing an allusion to Louis’s efforts to abolish the practice of duelling. The success of Molière and his talent naturally led to his favor among the great. The great Condé delighted in his society; and with the delicacy of a noble mind told him, that, as he feared to trespass on his time inopportunely if he sent for him; he begged Molière when at leisure to bestow an hour on him to send him word, and he would gladly receive him. Molière obeyed; and the great Condé at a Cited from Scott, p. 155; the preceding two paragraphs are based selectively on pp. 154–6 or Taschereau, pp. 58–61. b As cited in Grimarest, p. 52 and Scott, p. 156. Nimrod was the legendary hunter of the Old Testament. The climax of the long hunting story told by one Dorante is that a country squire takes out a pistol and shoots the deer, which was about to elude the hounds. The French courtier, however, is as outraged as any English sportsman. (Les Fâcheux (1661) II. vi.)

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such times dismissed his other visitors to receive the poet, with whom he said he never conversed without learning something new.a Unfortunately this example was not followed by all. Many little-minded persons regarded with disdain a man stigmatised with the name of actor, while others / presumed insolently on their rank. The king generously took his part on these occasions. The anecdotes indeed which displays Louis’s sympathy for Molière are among the most agreeable that we have of that monarch, and are far more deserving of record than the puerilities which Racine has commemorated. When brutally assaulted by a duke, the king reproved the noble severely. Madame Campan tells a story still more to this monarch’s honour. Molière continued to exercise his functions of royal valet de chambre, but was the butt of many impertinences on account of his being an actor. Louis heard that the other officers of his chamber refused to eat with him, which caused Molière to abstain from sitting at their table. The king, resolved to put an end to these insults, said one morning, “I am told you have short commons here, Molière, and that the officers of my chamber think you unworthy of sharing their meals. You are probably hungry, I always get up with a good appetite; sit at that table where they have placed my en cas de nuit” (refreshment, prepared for the king in case he should be hungry in the night, and called an en cas.) The king cut up a fowl; made Molière sit down, gave him a wing, and took one himself, just at the moment when the doors were thrown open, and the most distinguished persons court entered, “You see me,” said the king, “employed in giving Molière his breakfast, as my people do not find him good enough company for themselves.” From this time Molière did not need to put himself forward, he received invitations on all sides. Not less delicate was the attention paid him by the poet Bellocq. It was one of the functions of Molière’s place, to make the king’s bed; the other valets drew back, averse to sharing the task with an actor; Bellocq stept forward, saying, “Permit me, M. Molière, to assist you in making the king’s bed.”b It was however at court only that Molière met these rebuffs; elsewhere his genius caused him to be admired and courted, while his excellent character secured him the affection of many friends. He brought / forward Racine; and they continued intimate till Racine offended him by not only transferring a tragedy to the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, but seducing the best actress of his company to that of the rival stage. With Boileau he continued on friendly terms all his life. His old schoolfellow, “the joyous Chapelle,” was his constant associate; though he was too turbulent and careless for the sensitive and orderly habits of the comedian.c

a

Based on Scott, p. 200 and Taschereau, p. 158. Mary Shelley takes the account from Taschereau, pp. 91–2, who quotes from Mme de Campan’s Mémoires (1822). Although not a contemporary of Molière, Jeanne Louise Henriette Genest de Campan (1752–1822), Reader to the daughters of Louis XV and a favourite of Marie Antoinette, acquired anecdotes from the reign of Louis XIV through hearsay. c Scott, p. 199. b

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Molière indeed was destined never to find a home after his own heart. Madeleine Bejart had a sister* much younger than herself, to whom Molière became passionately attached. She was beautiful, sprightly, clever, an admirable actress, fond of admiration and pleasure. Molière is said to describe her in “Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” as more piquante than beautiful – fascinating and graceful – witty and elegant; she charmed in her very caprices.a Another author speaks of her acting; and remarks on the judgment she displays / both in dialogue and by-play: “She never looks about,” he says, “nor do her eyes wander to the boxes; she is aware that the theatre is full, but she speaks and acts as if she only saw those with whom she is acting. She is elegant and rich in her attire without affectation: she studies her dress, but forgets it the moment she appears on the stage; and if she ever touches her hair or her ornaments, this bye-play conceals a judicious and inartificial satire, and she thus enters more entirely into ridicule of the women she personates: but with all these advantages, she would not please so much but for her sweet-toned voice. She is aware of this, and changes it according to the character she fills.”b With these attractions, young and lovely, and an * It is well known that even during his life-time the calumny was spread abroad, that Molière married his own natural daughter. The great difference of age between the sisters, Madeleine and Armande Bejart gave to those who were ignorant of their true relationship some foundation for a report, which sprung from a former intimacy between Molière and the elder sister. He always disdained to contradict the falsehood; and it has generally been assumed by biographers, while they acquitted him of the alleged crime, that his wife was the daughter of Madeleine. We owe the discovery of this falsehood to the pains which M. Beffara took to discover the certificate of Molière’s marriage; which is as follows: – “Jean Baptiste Poquelin, son of sieur Jean Poquelin, and of the late Marie Cressé, on the one side: and Armande Gresinde Bejart, daughter of the late Joseph Bejart and of Marie Hervée, on the other: both of this parish, opposite the Palais Royal, affianced and married together, by permission of M. Comtes, deacon of Notre-Dame, and grand vicar of Monseigneur the cardinal de Retz, archbishop of Paris; in presence of the said Jean Poquelin, father of the bridegroom, and of André Boudet, brother-inlaw of the bridegroom; the said Marie Hervée, mother of the bride, and Louis Bejart and Madeleine Bejart, brother and sister of the said bride.” This certificate is signed by J. B. Poquelin, J. Poquelin, Boudet, Marie Hervée, Armande Gresinde Bejart, Louis Bejart, and Bejart (Madeleine). Madeleine’s daughter, by the noble Modena, who was the cause of this calumny, was older than the wife of Molière; her baptismal register names her the daughter of Madeleine Bejart et Messire Esprit de Raymond, noble of Modena, and chamberlain to Monsieur, brother of the king, born 11th July, 1638; her name was Françoise, and she is mentioned as illegitimate in her baptismal register. It is singular that in his “Essay on Molière,” Sir Walter Scott slurs over the complete refutation which this certificate brings with it of the calumny in question, and speaks of the relationship of Molière and his wife as a doubtful point. This is neither just nor generous, but Sir Walter seems to insinuate that as Molière’s life was not entirely exempt from the stain of illicit love, a little more or less was of no account.c a Based on Taschereau, pp. 66–7, who quotes from Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme (1670) (The Cit turned Gentleman), III. ix. b Based on sources quoted in Taschereau, p. 361. c The issue is discussed by Scott, p. 203, whereas Taschereau, p. 361, quoting the marriage register from Beffara, argues that Armande was a sister of Madeleine Béjart.

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actress, madame (or as she was called according to the fashion of the times, which only accorded the madame to women of rank, mademoiselle) Molière, fancying herself elevated to a high sphere when she married, giddy and coquettish, disappointed the hopes of her husband, whose heart was set on domestic happiness, and the interchange of affectionate sentiments in the privacy of home. Yet the gentleness of his nature made him find a thousand excuses for her: – “I am unhappy,” he said, “but I deserve it: I ought to have remembered that my habits are too severe for domestic life: I thought that my wife ought to regulate her manners and practices by my wishes; but I feel that had she done so, she in her situation would be more unhappy than I am. She is gay and witty, and open to the pleasures of admiration. This annoys me in spite of myself. I find fault – I complain. Yet this woman is a hundred times more reasonable than I am, and wishes to enjoy life; she goes her own way, and secure in her innocence, she disdains the precautions I entreat her to observe. I take this neglect for contempt; I wish to be assured of her kindness by the open expression of it, and that a more regular conduct should give me ease of mind. But my wife, always equable and lively, who would be / unsuspected by any other than myself, has no pity for my sorrows; and, occupied by the desire of general admiration, she laughs at my anxieties.”a His friends tried to remonstrate in vain. “There is but one sort of love,” he said, “and those who are more easily satisfied do not know what true love is.”b The consequence of these dissensions was in the sequel a sort of separation; full of disappointment and regret for Molière, but to which his young wife easily reconciled herself. Her conduct disgraced her; but she had not sufficient feeling either to shrink from public censure or the consciousness of rendering her husband unhappy. To these domestic discomforts were added his task of manager; the difficulty of keeping rival actresses in good humour, the labour of pleasing a capricious public. The latter task, as well as that of amusing his sovereign, was by far the easiest; as in doing so he followed the natural bent of his genius. He had begun the “Tartuffe.” He brought out “L’École des Femmes,” one of his gayest and wittiest comedies. It is known in England, through the adaptation of Wycherly; and called “The Country Girl.” Unfortunately, in his days, the decorum of the English stage was less strict than the French; and what in Molière’s play was fair and light raillery, Wycherly mingled with a plot of a licentious and disagreeable nature. The part, however, of the Country Girl herself, personated by Mrs. Jordan, animated by her bewitching naïveté, and graced by her frank, joyous, silver-toned voice, was an especial favourite with the public in the days of our fathers.c In Paris, the critics a

Cited in Grimarest, pp. 81–2. Taken from a 1688 pamphlet La Fameuse comédienne, cited by Taschereau, p. 132. William Wycherly (1641–1715), English dramatist, author of the ribald The Country Wife, loosely inspired by Molière’s The School for Wives (1662). It was adapted by the actor-manager David Garrick in more genteel form as The Country Girl. The performance of Dorothy Jordan, leading comic actress of the English stage (c. 1775–1815), made her a star. As a schoolboy P. B. Shelley saw her in the part at the theatre in Richmond, c. 1802–9 (Thomas Medwin, Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, rev. edn (1913), p. 39). b c

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were not so well pleased; truth of nature they called vulgarity, familiarity of expression was a sin against the language. Molière deigned so far to notice his censurers as to write the “Critique de l’École des Femmes,”a in which he easily throws additional ridicule on those who attacked him. The “Impromptu de Versailles” was written in the same spirit, at the command of the king. The war of words thus carried on, and replied to, grew more and more bitter: / personal ridicule was exchanged by his enemies for calumny. Monfleuri, the actor, was malicious enough to present a petition to the king, in which he accused Molière of marrying his own daughter. Molière never deigned to reply to his accusation; and the king showed his contempt by, soon after, standing godfather to Molière’s eldest child, of whom the duchess of Orleans was godmother.b In those days, as in those of our Elizabeth, the king and courtiers took parts in the ballets.* These comédie-ballets were of singular framework; comedies, in three acts, broad almost to farce, were interspersed with dances: to this custom, to the three act pieces that thus came into vogue, we owe some of the best of Molière’s plays; when, emancipated from the necessity of verse and five acts, he could give full play to his sense of the ridiculous, and talent for comic situation; and when, unshackled by rhyme, he threw the whole force of his dry comic humour into the dialogue, and by a single word, a single expression, stamp and immortalise a folly, holding it up for ever to the ridicule it deserved. This seizing as it were on the bared inner kernel of some fashionable vanity, and giving it its true and undisguised name and definition, often shocked ears polite. They called that “vulgar,” which was only stripping selfishness or ignorance of its cloak, and bringing home to the hearts of the lowly-born the fact, that the follies of the great are akin to their own: the people laughed to find the courtier of the same flesh and blood; but the courtier drew up, and said, that it was vulgar to present him en dishabillec to the commonalty. “Let them rail,” said Boileau, to the poet, whose genius he so fully appreciated, “let them exclaim against you because your scenes are agreeable to the vulgar. If you pleased less how much better pleased would your censurers be!”d “Le / Mariage Forcé” was the first of these comédies ballets. The king danced * The king often danced in these ballets, till struck by some lines in the “Britannicus” of Racine, in allusion to Nero’s public exhibitions of himself, he entirely gave up the practice; and soon after the appearing in them fell into such discredit, that, when Lulli took a part in that appended to the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” the secretaries of the king refused to receive him among them on this account, and the king was obliged to interpose to bring them to reason. e a

The School for Wives Criticised (1663). This account follows Scott, p. 203. Zacharie Jacob Montfleury (1600–67); Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orléans (1644–71), sister of Charles II of England; she was the first wife of Philippe d’Orléans (1640–1701), brother of Louis XIV. c In loose, negligent dress, not dressed for going out or receiving formal visits. d Based on Boileau’s words in Scott, p. 158. e Based on Taschereau, pp. 93–4; Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632–87), Italian-born composer and dancer, was Molière’s collaborator on their comedy-ballets. b

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as an Egyptian in the interludes while in the more intellectual part of the performance Molière delighted the audience as “Sganarelle” – the unfortunate man, who with such rough courtesy is obliged to take a lady for better or for worse; a plot, founded on the last English adventure of the count de Grammont,a who, when leaving this country, was followed by the brothers of la belle Hamilton, who, with their hands on the pummels of their swords, asked him if he had not forgotten something left behind. “True,” said the count, “I forgot to marry your sister;” and instantly went back to repair his lapse of memory, by making her countess de Grammont. The dialogue of this play is exceedingly amusing; the metaphysical or learned pedants, whom Sganarelle consults, are admirable and witty specimens of advisers, who will only give counsel in their own way, in language understood only by themselves. The “Amants Magnifiques”b followed; it was written in the course of a few days: it is now considered the most feeble of Molière’s plays; but it suited the occasion, and by a number of delicate and witty impersonations of the manners of the times, lost to us now, it became the greatest ornament of a succession of festivals; which under the name of “Plaisirs de l’Ile enchantée,” were got up in honour of mademoiselle de Vallière; and, being prepared by various men of talent, gave the impress of ideal magnificence to the pleasures of Louis XIV. On this occasion Molière ventured to bring out the three first acts of the “Tartuffe,” hoping to gain the king’s favourable ear at such a moment. But it was ticklish ground; and Louis, while he declared that he appreciated the good intentions of the author, forbade its being acted, under the fear that it might bring real devotion into discredit. The “Tartuffe” was a favourite with Molière, who, degraded by the clergy on account of his profession, and aware that virtue and vice were neither inherent in priest nor actor according to the garb, was naturally very inimical to false devotion. / He still hoped to gain leave to represent his satire on hypocrites. He knew the king in his heart approved the scope of his play, and was pleased that his own wit should have been considered worthy of transfer to Molière’s scenes – Molière himself venturing to remind him of the incident, which occurred during a journey to Lorraine, when Molière accompanied the monarch as his valet. When travelling, Louis was accustomed to make his supper his best meal, to which, of course, he brought a good appetite: one afternoon he invited his former preceptor, Perefixe, bishop of Rhodez, to join him; but the prelate, with affected sanctity, declined, as he had dined, and never ate a second meal on a fast-day. The king saw a smile on a bystander’s face at this answer, and asked the cause. In reply, the courtier said, that it arose from his sense of the bishop’s self-denial, considering the dinner he enjoyed. The detail of the dinner followed, dish after dish in long succession; and the king, as each viand was named, exclaimed, le pauvre a

Based on Scott, p. 161, or Taschereau, pp. 94–5. The Magnificent Lovers (1670). This discussion follows Scott, p. 161, selectively but confuses Scott’s account of this play (performed during the festival, The Pleasures of the Enchanted Island) with Le mariage forcé (1664) (The Forced Marriage) which followed the partial performance of Le Tartuffe. The ‘Tartuffe’ or hypocrite is a priest, making his hypocrisy more culpable. b

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homme!a with such comic variety of voice and look, that Molière, who was present, felt the wit conveyed, and transferred it to his play, in which Orgon, in the simplicity of his heart, repeats this exclamation when the creature-comforts in which Tartuffe indulges are detailed to him. But though this compliment was not lost on the king, he did not yield; and Molière was obliged to content himself – after acting it at Raincy, the country-house of the prince of Condé – by reading it in society, and thus giving opportunity for it to awaken the most lively curiosity in Paris. There is a well-known print of his reading it to the celebrated Ninon de l’Enclos, whose talents and wonderful tact for seizing the ridiculous he appreciated highly; and to whom he partly owed the idea of the play, from an occurrence that befel her.*b Yet he was not consoled / by these private readings and the sort of applause he thus gained, and he grew more bitter against the devotees for their opposition: in his play on the subject of Don Juan, “Le Festin de Saint Pierre,” brought out soon after, he alludes bitterly to the interdiction laid on his favourite work. “All other vices,” he says, “are held up to public censure; but hypocrisy is privileged to place the hand on every one’s mouth, and to enjoy impunity.”c The hypocrites revenged themselves by calling his Festin blasphemous. The king, however, remained his firm friend, and tried to compensate for the hardship he suffered on this occasion by giving his name to his company, and granting him a pension in consequence. * The following is the story of Ninon de l’Enclos and the “Tartuffe”:– When Gourville,d the vicissitudes of whose life were many and great, was, in 1661, in danger of being hanged, and was indeed hanged in effigy, he left two caskets full of money, one with Ninon, the other with a priest of his acquaintance, who affected great devotion. On his return, Ninon restored him his casket, and the value of money being increased, he was richer than before. He offered this surplus to his friend; but she replied by threatening to throw the money out of window, if he said a word more on the subject. The priest acted in a different way: he said he had employed the sum deposited with him in pious works, having preferred the good of Gourville’s soul to pelf, which might have occasioned his perdition. This story Ninon used to tell with such clever mimicry of the false devotee, that Molière declared he owed his best inspiration to her. a Poor man!’ Mary Shelley is following Scott, pp. 170–1 or Taschereau, p. 70. The reference is to Tartuffe, I. iv, where Orgon, Tartuffe’s dupe, makes this exclamation four times on hearing of Tartuffe’s robust health. Péréfixe (1605–70) was bishop of Rodez. b Commonly referred to as a courtesan, Anne Lenclos (c. 1620–1705) had independent means. She practised the sexual freedoms normally the preserve of French aristocratic men. The print is referred to by William Hazlitt: ‘Moliere and that illustrious group that are collected round him (in the print of that subject) to hear him read his comedy of the Tartuffe, at the house of Ninon’ (‘Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen’, New Monthly Magazine (Jan. 1826)). c Cited by Taschereau, pp. 108–9, from Dom Juan, ou le festin de pierre (1665), V. ii. The subtitle (‘the stone feast’) is a famous mistranslation of the Spanish original (‘the stone guest’). Mary Shelley, in attempting to correct the error, falls into another. Scott’s The Feast of the Statue (p. 162) neatly combines the guest (the monumental statue of the man Dom Juan has killed) with the feast (to which Dom Juan invites the statue). d Jean Hérauld, sieur de Gourville (1625–1703), financier, administrator and diplomat. He was also secretary to La Rochefoucauld.

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It was the custom for the soldiers of the body guard of the king, and other privileged troops, to frequent the theatre without paying. These people filled the pit, to the great detriment of the profits of the actors. Molière, incited by his comrades, applied to the king, who issued an order to abrogate this privilege. The soldiers were furious; they went in crowds to the theatre, resolved to force an entrance; the unfortunate door-keeper was killed by a thousand sword-thrusts, and the rioters rushed into the house, resolved to revenge themselves on the actors, who trembled at the storm they had brought on themselves. The younger Bejart encountered their fury with a joke, that somewhat appeased them: he was dressed for the part of an old man; and came tottering forward, imploring them to spare the life of a poor old man, seventy-five years of age, who had only a few days of life left. Molière made them a speech; and peace was restored, with no greater injury than fear to the actors – except to one, who in his terror tried to get through a hole in the wall to escape, and / stuck so fast that he could neither get out nor in, till, peace being restored, the hole was enlarged. The king was ready to punish the soldiers as mutineers, but Molière was too prudent to wish to make enemies; when the companies were assembled, and put under arms, that the ringleaders might be punished, he addressed them in a speech, in which he declared that he did not wish to make them pay, but that the order was levelled against those who assumed their name and claimed their privilege: and that, in truth, a gratuitous entrance to the theatre was a right beneath their notice; and, by touching their pride, he brought them for a time to submit to the new order.a In holding up follies or vices to ridicule Molière made enemies; and by attacking whole bodies of men, dangerous ones; yet, how much did the public owe to the spirit and wit with which he exposed the delusions to which they were often the victims. He first attacked the faculty, as it is called in “L’Amour Médecin,”b in which he brings forward four of the physicians in ordinary to the king, empirics of the first order, under Greek names, invented by Boileau for the occasion: nor can we wonder, when we read the mémoires and letters of the times, at the contempt in which Molière held the medicinal art. One specific came into fashion after the other; quack succeeded to quack; and the more ignorant the greater was the pretension, the greater also the number of dupes. Reading these, and turning to the pages of Molière, we see in a minute that he by no means exaggerated, while he with his happy art seized exactly on the most ridiculous traits. It has been said that the “Misanthrope,” now considered by the French as Molière’s chef-d’œuvre, was coldly received at first – a tradition contradicted by the register of the theatre; it went through twenty-one consecutive representations, and excited great interest in Paris.c Still in this he raises his voice against the false taste of the age; and this with so little exaggeration, that the pit applauded the sonnet introduced in ridicule of the / prevailing poetry, and were a b c

This follows Grimarest, p. 77–8 selectively. Love’s the Best Physician (1665); paragraph follows Scott, p. 163–5 selectively. The registers of the play’s performance are cited by Taschereau, p. 167.

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not a little astonished when Alceste proves that it possesses no merit whatever. The audience, seeing that ridicule of reigning fashions was the scope of the play, fancied that various persons were intended to be represented; and, among others, it was supposed that the duke de Montauzier, the husband of the Précieuse Julie d’Angennes, was portrayed in Alceste. It is said, that the duke went to see the play, and came back quite satisfied; saying, that the “Misanthrope” was a perfectly honest and excellent man, and that a great honour, which he should never forget, was done him by assimilating them together. There is indeed in Alceste a sensibility, joined to his sincerity and goodness of heart, that renders him very attractive; and thus, as is often the case when genius mirrors nature, the ridicule the author pretends to wish to throw on the victim recoils on the apparently triumphant personages: the time-serving Philinthe is quite contemptible; and every honest heart echoes the disgust Alceste feels for the deceits and selfishness of society. In truth, there is some cause to suspect that Molière found in his own sensitive and upright heart the homefelt traits of Alceste’s character, as that that of his wife furnished him with the coquetry of Célimène; and when, in the end, the Misanthrope resolves to hide from the world, one of the natures of the author poured itself forth; a nature, checked in real life by the necessities of his situation and the living excitement of his genius.a During the same year the “Médecin malgré Lui” was brought out; whose wit and comedy stamps it as one of his best: other minor pieces, by command, occupied his time, without increasing his fame. His mind was set on bringing out the “Tartuffe.” The king had yielded to the outcry against it; but in his heart he was very desirous of having it acted. On occasion of a piece being played, called “Scaramouche Hermite,”b which also delineated immorality cloaked by religion; the king said to the great Condé, “I should like to know why those who are so scandalised by Molière’s play, say nothing / against that of Scaramouche?” The prince replied, “The reason is, that Scaramouche makes game of heaven and religion, which these people care nothing for; but Molière satirises them themselves, and this they cannot bear.”*c Confident in the king’s support, and anxious to bring out his play, Molière entertained the hope of mollifying his opponents by concessions: he altered his piece, expunged the parts most disliked, and changed the name Tartuffe, already become odious to bigot ears, to the Imposteur. In this new * Preface to “Tartuffe.” a

The anecdote on the duc de Montausier follows Scott, p. 167, and Taschereau, p. 173; the interpretation of the character Alceste as a self-portrait of Molière was also advanced by Taschereau, p. 181. b Scaramouche the Friar, a cheeky farce, with scenes of a monk leaving a married woman’s bedroom (information from Taschereau, p. 189). c The anecdote and the quotation could be taken directly from Moliere’s preface, but they are also in Taschereau.

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shape his comedy was acted once; but, on the following day the first president, Lamoignon, forbade it. Molière dispatched two principal actors to the king, then in Flanders, to obtain permission; but Louis only promised that the play should be re-examined on his return.a Thus, once more, the piece was laid aside; and Molière forced to content himself with private readings, and the universal interest excited on the subject. Meanwhile he brought out “Amphitryon,” “L’Avare,” and “George Dandin” all of which rank among his best plays. The first has a more fanciful and playful spirit added to its comedy than any other of his productions, and displays more elegance and a more subtle wit. As a specimen of mingled wit and humour, let us take the scene between Sosia and Mercury, when the latter, assuming his name and appearance, attempts to deprive him of his identity by force of blows.b Sosia exclaims,– “N’importe. Je ne puis m’anéantir pour toi, Et souffrir un discours si loin de l’apparence. Être ce que je suis est-il en ta puissance? Et puis-je cesser d’être moi? S’avisa-t-on jamais d’une chose pareille? Et peut-on démentir cent indices pressants? Rêvé-je? Est-ce que je sommeille? Ai-je l’esprit troublé par des transports puissants? Ne sens-je bien que je veille? Ne suis-je pas dans mon bon sens? Mon maître Amphitryon ne m’a-t-il pas commis À venir en ces lieux vers Alcmène sa femme? Ne lui dois-je pas faire, en lui vantant sa flamme, Un récit de ses faits contre notre ennemi? Ne suis-je pas du port arrivé tout à l’heure? Ne tiens-je pas une lanterne en main? Ne te trouvé-je pas devant notre demeure? / Ne t’y parlé-je pas d’un esprit tout humain? Ne te tiens-tu pas fort de ma poltronnerie, Pour m’empêcher d’entrer chez nous? N’as-tu pas sur mon dos exercé ta furie? Ne m’as tu pas roué de coups? Ah, tout cela n’est que trop véritable; Et, plût au ciel, le fût-il moins! Cesse donc d’insulter au sort d’un misérable; Et laisse à mon devoir s’acquitter de ses soins. a The preceding account follows Taschereau, pp. 198–9; as Premier Président (First President) of the Paris Parlement, Guillaume de Lamoignan (1617–77) was in a position to regulate plays. b In Amphitryon (1668), Alcmena is left for a time by her husband Amphitryon, who is replaced by the god Jupiter. Amphitryon’s servant, Sosia, is impersonated by Mercury, messenger of the gods. On returning, the real husband and servant have difficulty re-establishing their identities. Mary Shelley’s interest is likely to have been especially engaged by the theme of doubles.

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MERCURE . Arrête, ou sur ton dos le moindre pas attire Un assommant éclat de mon juste courroux. Tout ce que tu viens de dire, Est à moi, hormis les coups. SOSIE . Ce matin du vaisseau, plein de frayeur en l’âme, Cette lanterne sait comme je suis parti. Amphitryon, du camp, vers Alcmène sa femme, M’a-t-il pas envoyé? MERCURE . Vous avez menti. C’est moi qu’Amphitryon députe vers Alcmène, Et qui du port Persique arrivé de ce pas; Moi qui viens annoncer la valeur de son bras, Qui nous fait remporter une victoire pleine, Et de nos ennemis a mis le chef à bas. C’est moi qui suis Sosie enfin, de certitude, Fils de Dave, honnête berger; Frère d’Arpage, mort en pays étranger; Mari de Cléanthis la prude, Dont l’humeur me fait enrager; Qui dans Thèbes ai reçu mille coups d’étrivière; Sans en avoir jamais dit rien; Et jadis en public fus marqué par derrière Pour être trop homme de bien. SOSIE (bas, à part). Il a raison. A moins d’être Sosie, On ne peut pas savoir tout ce qu’il dit; Et, dans l’etonnement dont mon âme est saisie, Je commence, à mon tour, à le croire un petit. En effet, maintenant que je le considère, Je vois qu’il à de moi taille, mine, action. Faisons-lui quelque question, Afin d’éclaircir ce mystère. (Haut.) Parmi tout le butin fait sur nos ennemis, Qu’est-ce qu’Amphitryon obtient pour son partage? MERCURE . Cinq fort gros diamants en nœud proprement mis, Dont leur chef se paroit comme d’un rare ouvrage. SOSIE A qui destine-t-il un si riche présent?

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MERCURE . A sa femme, et sur elle il le veut voir paroître. SOSIE Mais où, pour l’apporter, est-il mis à présent? MERCURE . Dans un coffret scellé des armes de mon maître. / SOSIE (à part). Il ne ment pas d’un mot à chaque repartie, Et de moi je commence à douter tout de bon. Près de moi par la force, il est déjà Sosie, Il pourroit bien encore l’être par la raison; Pourtant quand je me tâte et que je me rappelle, Il me resemble que je suis moi. Où puis-je rencontrer quelque clarté fidèle, Pour démêler ce que je voi? Ce que j’ai tait tout seul, et que n’a vu personne, À moins d’être moi-même, on ne le peut savoir: Par cette question il faut que je étonne, C’est de quoi le confondre, et nous allons le voir. (Haut.) Lorsqu’on étoit aux mains, que fis-tu dans nos tentes, Où tu courus seul te fourrer? D’un jambon—

MERCURE .

SOSIE (bas, à part). L’y voilà! MERCURE . Que j’allai déterrer, Je coupai bravement deux tranches succulentes, Dont je sus fort bien me bourrer. Et, joignant à cela d’un vin que l’on ménage, Et dont, avant le goût, les yeux se contentoient, Je pris un peu de courage, Pour nos gens qui se battoient. SOSIE Cette preuve sans pareille En sa faveur conclut bien, Et l’on n’y peut dire rien, S’il n’étoit dans la bouteille.”a

a No matter. I cannot annihilate myself for you, and stand a speech so very improbable. Is it in your power to be what I am? And can I cease to be myself? Did anyone ever hear of such a

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And again, when Sosia tries to explain to Amphitryon how another himself prevented him from entering his house:– “Faut-il le répéter vingt fois de même sorte? Moi vous dis-je, ce moi, plus robuste que moi, Ce moi qui s’est de force emparé de la porte, Ce moi qui m’a fait filer doux; Ce moi qui le seul moi veut être, Ce moi de moi-même jaloux, Ce moi vaillant, dont le courroux

thing? And can one give the lie to a hundred convincing proofs? Do I dream? Am I asleep? Do I not plainly feel I am awake? Am I not in my right senses? Has not my master, Amphitryon, charged me to come hither to Alcmena his wife? Am I not to extol his love for her, and to give an account of his deeds against our enemies? Have I not just come from the harbour? Have I not a lantern in my hand? Have I not found you in front of our dwelling? Did I not talk to you in a perfectly kind manner? Do you not take an advantage of my cowardice, to hinder me from entering our house? Have you not spent your rage upon my back? Have you not belaboured me with blows? Ah! All this is but too real; and would to Heaven, it were less so! Cease, therefore, to insult a wretch’s lot; and leave me to acquit myself of the calls of duty. MERCURY: Stop, or the least step brings down upon your back a thundering outbreak of my just wrath. All that you have mentioned just now is mine, except the blows. SOSIA: This lantern knows how, my heart full of fear, I departed this morning from the vessel. Has not Amphitryon sent me to Alcmena, his wife, from the camp? MERCURY: You have told a lie. It was I whom Amphitryon deputed to Alcmena, and who, at this moment, arrives from the Persian Port; I, who come to announce the valour of his arm which gained us complete victory, and slew the chief of our enemies. In short, it is I who assuredly am Sosia, son of Davus, an honest shepherd; brother to Harpage who died in a foreign country; husband to that prude Cleanthis, whose temper drives me mad; who has received a thousand lashes at Thebes, without ever saying aught about it; and who was formerly publicly marked on the back, for being too honest a man. SOSIA: [quietly aside] He is right. Unless one be Sosia, one cannot know all he says; and, amidst the astonishment which seizes upon me, I begin, in my turn, to believe him a little. In fact, now that I look at him, I perceive that he has my figure, my face, my gestures. Let me ask him some question, in order to clear up the mystery. [Aloud] What did Amphitryon obtain for his share of all the plunder taken from our enemies? MERCURY: Five very large diamonds neatly set in a cluster, with which their chief used to adorn himself as a rare piece of workmanship. SOSIA: For whom does he intend such a rich present? MERCURY: For his wife; and he wishes her to wear them. SOSIA: But where is it placed at present, until it shall be brought? MERCURY: In a casket sealed with the arms of my master. SOSIA: He does not tell a single lie in any of his answers; and I begin really to be in doubt about myself. With me he is already, by sheer force, Sosia; and he might perhaps also be he by reason. And yet, when I touch myself and recollect, it seems to me that I am myself. By that question I must astonish him; and that is enough to puzzle him, and we shall see. [Aloud] When they were fighting, what did you do in our tents; whither you ran alone to hide yourself? MERCURY: From off a ham … SOSIA: [Quietly aside] That is it! MERCURY: Which I unearthed, I bravely cut two juicy slices, with which I stuffed myself nicely. And adding thereto a wine of which they are very chary, and the sight of which pleased me even before I tasted it, I imbibed some courage for our people who were fighting. SOSIA: [Softly aside] This matchless proof concludes well in his favour; and unless he were in the bottle, nothing is to be said against it. (Amphitryon, I. ii. in Molière Works, vol. IV, pp. 253–6). Schlegel praised this speech on confused identity too.

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Au moi poltron s’est fait connoître, Enfin ce moi qui suis chez nous Ce moi qui s’est montré mon maître; Ce moi qui m’a roué de coups.”a

And his conclusive decision with regard to his master:– “Je ne me trompois pas, messieurs, ce mot termine, Toute l’irrésolution: Le véritable Amphitryon Est l’Amphitryon où l’on dine.”b /

The “Avare” has certainly faults, which a great German critic has pointed out*; but these do not interfere with the admirable spirit of the dialogue, and the humorous display of the miser’s foibles.c “George Dandin” was considered by his friends as a more dangerous experiment. There were so many George Dandins in the world. One in particular was pointed out to him as being at the same time an influential person, who, offended by his play, might cause its ill success. Molière took the prudent part of offering to read his comedy to him, previously to its being acted. The man felt himself very highly honoured: he assembled his friends; the play was read, and applauded; and in the sequel supported by this very person when it appeared on the stage.d Poor George Dandin! there is an ingenuousness and directness in him that inspires us with respect, in spite of the ridiculous situations in which he is placed: and while Molière represents to the life the annoyances to arise to a bourgeois in allying himself to nobility, he makes the nobles so very contemptible, either by their stupidity or vice, that not by one word in the play can a rank-struck spirit be discerned. As, for instance, which cuts the most ridiculous figure in the following comic dialogue? The nobles, we think. George Dandin comes with a complaint to the father and mother of his wife, with regard to her ill-conduct. His father-in-law, M. de Sotenville (the very name is bien trouvé, – sot en ville,)e asks– * Schlegel. a ‘Must I repeat the same thing twenty times to you? I, I tell you, this I stronger than I; this I who, by force, took possession of the door; this I who made me decamp; this I who wishes to be the only I; this I jealous of myself; this valiant I, whose anger showed itself to this cowardly I; in short, this I who is at home; this I who has shown himself my master; this I who has racked me with blows’ (Amphitryon, II. i. in Molière Works, vol. IV, p. 205). b ‘I was not mistaken, gentlemen; this word puts an end to all irresolution; the real Amphitryon is the Amphitryon who gives dinners.’ (Amphitryon, III. v. in Molière Works, vol. IV, p. 292). c L’Avare (1668) (The Miser); Schlegel (II, pp. 48–51) criticised The Miser for over-complicated plotting, and for substituting exaggerated farce for refined characterisation. d George Dandin, ou Le Mari Confondu (1668) (George Dandin, or the Baffled Husband); the anecdote is in Taschereau, p. 225. e Well-invented; sot en ville translates literally as ‘fool in town’.

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“Qu’est-ce, mon gendre? vous paroissez troublé. G EORGE D ANDIN . Aussi en ai-je du sujet; et — M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Mon dieu! notre gendre, que vous avez peu de civilité, de ne pas saluer les gens quand vous les approchez! GEORGE DANDIN. Ma foi! ma belle-mère, c’est que j’ai d’autres choses en tête; et — M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Encore! est-il possible, notre gendre, que vous sachiez si peu votre monde, et qu’il n’y ait pas moyen de vous instruire de la manière qu’il faut vivre parmi les personnes de qualité? GEORGE DANDIN. Comment? / M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Ne vous déférez-vous jamais, avec moi, de la familiarité de ce mot de bellemère, et ne sauriez-vous vous accoutumer à me dire Madame? GEORGE DANDIN. Parbleu! si vous m’appelez votre gendre, il me semble que je puis vous appeler belle-mère? M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Il y a fort à dire, et les choses ne sont pas égales. Apprenez, s’il vous plaît, que ce n’est pas à vous à vous servir de ce mot-là avec une personne de ma condition; que, tout notre gendre que vous soyez, il y a grande différence de vous à nous, et que vous devez vous connoître. M ONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE . C’en est assez, m’amour: laissons cela. M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Mon dieu! Monsieur de Sotenville, vous avez des indulgences qui n’appartiennent qu à vous, et vous ne savez pas vous faire rendre par les gens ce qui vous est dû. M ONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE . Corbleu! pardonnez-moi; on ne peut point me faire des leçons là-dessus; et j’ai su montrer en ma vie, par vingt actions de vigeur que je ne suis point homme à démordre jamais d’une partie de mes prétentions: mais il suffit de lui avoir donné un petit avertissement. Sachons un peu, mon gendre, ce que vous avez dans l’esprit. GEORGE DANDIN. Puisqu’il faut donc parler catégoriquement, je vous dirai, Monsieur de Sotenville, que j’ai bien de — 28

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M ONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE . Doucement, mon gendre. Apprenez qu’il ne’st pas respectueux d’appeler les gens par leur nom, et qu’à ceux qui sont au-dessus de nous, il faut dire Monsieur, tout court. GEORGE DANDIN . Hé bien ! Monsieur tout court, et non plus Monsieur de Sotenville, j’ai à vous dire que ma femme me donne — M ONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE . Tout beau! Apprenez aussi que vous ne devez pas dire ma femme, quand vous parlez de notre fille. GEORGE DANDIN . J’enrage! Comment, ma femme n’est pas ma femme? M ADAME DE SOTENVILLE . Oui, notre gendre, elle est votre femme; mais il ne vous est pas permis de l’appeler ainsi; et c’est tout ce que vous pourriez faire si vous aviez épousé une de vos pareilles. GEORGE DANDIN . Ah! George Dandin, où t’es-tu fourré?”a

a

What is the matter, my son-in-law? You seem quite upset. GEORGE DANDIN: So I have cause to be, and … MADAME DE SOTENVILLE: Good heavens! son-in-law, how unpolite you are, not to bow to people when you approach them! GEORGE DANDIN: Upon my word, mother-in-law, it is because I have other matters to think of; and … MADAME DE SOTENVILLE: Again! Is it possible, son-in-law, that you know fashion so little, and is there no teaching you how to behave among people of quality? GEORGE DANDIN: What do you mean? MADAME DE SOTENVILLE: Will you never divest yourself, with me, of the familiarity of that word, mother-in-law, and can you not accustom yourself to call me Madam? GEORGE DANDIN: Zounds! If you call me son-in-law, it seems to me I can call you my mother-in-law. MADAME DE SOTENVILLE: That remains to be seen, and the case is not the same. Please to understand that it is not for you to use that word with a person of my rank; that, although you may be our son-in-law, there is a great difference between us, and that you ought to know your place. M. DE SOTENVILLE: That is enough, my love; let us drop that. MADAME DE SOTENVILLE: Good heavens! M. de Sotenville, you are more indulgent than anyone else, and you do not know how to make people give you your due. M. DE SOTENVILLE: Egad! I beg your pardon! I do not require any lessons upon that subject; and during my life, I have shown by a score of energetic actions, that I am not a man ever to abate a tittle of my pretensions; but a hint is quite sufficient for him. Let us know a little, son-in-law, what you have got on your mind. GEORGE DANDIN: Since I am to speak categorically, I shall tell you, M. de Sotenville, that I have cause to … M. DE SOTENVILLE: Gently, son-in-law. Let me tell you that it is not respectful to address people by their names, and that we must only say “Sir,” to those above us. GEORGE DANDIN: Well then, only say Sir, and no longer M. de Sotenville, I must tell you that my wife gives me … M. DE SOTENVILLE: Softly! Let me also tell you that you ought not to say my wife when you speak of our daughter. GEORGE DANDIN: I have no patience! What! Is not my wife my wife? M. DE SOTENVILLE: Yes, son-in law, she is your wife; but you must not call her so. You could not do more, if you had married one of your equals. GEORGE DANDIN: Ah! George Dandin, what a hole you have got yourself into! (George Dandin, I. iv. in Molière Works, vol. IV, pp. 353–5)

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But we must leave off. Sir Walter Scott says that, as often as he opened the volume of Molière’s works during the composition of his article on that author, he found it impossible to lay it out of his hand until he had completed a scene, however little to his immediate purpose of consulting it;a and thus we could prolong / and multiply extracts to the amusement of ourselves and the reader; but we restrain ourselves, and, returning to the subject that caused this quotation, we must say, that we differ entirely from Rousseau and other critics who adopt his opinions; and even Schlegel, who accuses the author of being guilty of currying favour with rank in this comedy, and making honest mediocrity ridiculous.b If genius was to adapt its works to the rules of philosophers, instead of following the realities of life, we should never read in books of honesty duped, and vice triumphant: whether we should be the gainers by this change is a question. It may be added, also, that Molière did not represent, in “George Dandin,” honesty ill-used, so much as folly punished; and, at any rate, where vice is on one side and ridicule on the other, we must think that class worse used to whom the former is apportioned as properly belonging. In spite of philosophers, truth, such as it exists, is the butt at which all writers ought to aim. It is different, indeed, when a servile spirit paints greatness, virtue, and dignity on one side – poverty, ignorance, and folly, on the other. At length the time came when Molière was allowed to bring out the “Tartuffe” in its original shape, with its original name. Its success was unequalled: it went through forty-four consecutive representations. At a period when religious disputes between molinist and jansenistc ran high in France – when it was the fashion to be devout, and each family had a confessor and director of their consciences, to whom they looked up with reverence, and whose behests they obeyed – a play which showed up the hypocrisy of those who cloaked the worst designs, and brought discord and hatred into families, under the guise of piety, was doubtless a useful production; yet the “Tartuffe” is not an agreeable play. Borne away by his notion of the magnitude of the evil he attacked, and by his idea of the usefulness of the lesson, Molière attached himself greatly to it. The plot is admirably managed, the characters excellently contrasted, / its utility probably of the highest kind; but Molière, hampered by the necessity of giving as little umbrage as possible to true devotees, was forced by the spirit of the times to regard his subject a

Scott, p. 211. Taschereau quotes ( p. 221) from Rousseau’s Lettre à d’Alembert sur les spectacles (Letter to M. D’Alembert on the theatre) which criticised the play for sneering at a rich peasant, Dandin, for marrying above himself, but overlooking his wife’s unfaithfulness with an aristocratic lover. The point at issue was whether Molière was favouring the aristocracy by mocking Dandin’s pretensions. Schlegel (II, p. 60n.) writes ‘Whatever may be said in defence of the morality of the piece, the prerogatives of the higher classes are favoured in a very revolting manner in it, and it concludes with the shameless triumph of arrogance and depravity over plain honesty.’ c See ‘Pascal’ (p. 83) for disputes between Molinists and Jansenists. The first three acts of Tartuffe were performed in 1664 but it was not until 1669 that it was allowed to be played freely to the public. b

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more seriously than is quite accordant with comedy: there is something heavy in the conduct of the piece, and disgust is rather excited than amusement. The play is still popular; and, through the excellent acting of a living performer, it has enjoyed great popularity in these days in its English dress: still it is disagreeable; and the part foisted in on our stage, of the strolling methodist preacher, becomes, by its farce, the most amusing part in the play.*a Molière may now be considered as having risen to the height of his prosperity. Highly favoured by the king, the cabals formed against him, and the enemies that * There are some excellent observations on the moral of the “Tartuffe” in Sir Walter Scott’s article on Molière, published in the seventeenth vol. of his prose works, in answer to Bourdaloue’s violent philippic against this play. Scott argues with force and justice on the propriety of affixing the stigma of ridicule to the most hateful vice ever nurtured in the human heart – the assumption of the appearance of religion for worldly and wicked purposes; and he represents also the utility of the picture drawn to arrest in his course one in danger of incurring the sin of spiritual pride, by showing him that the fairest professions and strictest observances may be consistent with the foulest purposes. “The case of the ‘Tartuffe,’” Sir Walter Scott thus sums up in his argument, “is that of a vilely wicked man, rendering the profession of religion hateful by abusing it for the worst purposes: and if such characters occurred, as there is little reason to doubt, in the time and court of Louis XIV., we can see no reason against their being gibetted in effigy. The poet himself is at pains to show that he draws the true line of distinction between the hypocrite and the truly religious man. When the duped Orgon, astonished at the discovery of Tartuffe’s villainy, expresses himself doubtful of the existence of real worth, Cléante replies to him, with his usual sense and moderation: ‘Quoi! parce qu’un fripon vous dupe avec audace, Sous le pompeux éclat d’une austère grimace, Vous voulez que partout on soit fait comme lui, Et qu’aucun vrai dévot ne se trouve aujourd’hui? Laissez aux libertins ces sottes conséquences: Démêlez la vertu d’avec ses apparences; Ne hazardez jamais votre estime trop tôt Ne soyez pour cela dans le milieu qu’il faut. Gardez-vous, s’il se peut, d’honorer l’imposture, Mais au vrai zèle, aussi, n’allez pas faire injure; Et s’il vous faut tomber dans une extrémité, Péchez plutôt encor de cet autre côté.’”b a Referring to The Hypocrite (1769), adapted by Isaac Bickerstaffe (1735–?1812) from Tartuffe and from Colley Cibber’s The Non-Juror, an earlier adaptation of Tartuffe. The preacher, Mawworm, is a satire on Methodists (adherents to the church founded by John Wesley, often treated in the 18th century as religious maniacs). Mawworm was a famous part of Charles Mathews the Elder (1776–1835), the comedian, who played it at the Lyceum in the 1810–11 season. His acting was admired by Mary Shelley but he was not alive in 1838. b Scott, pp. 171–7, including quotation: ‘What! Because a scoundrel has outrageously deceived you, under the pompous show of outward austerity, will you needs have it that every one is like him, and that there is no really pious man to be found now-a-days? Leave these foolish deductions to free-thinkers; distinguish between real virtue and its counterfeit; never bestow your esteem too hastily, and keep in this the necessary middle course. Beware, if possible, of honouring imposture; but do not attack true piety also; and if you must fall into an extreme, rather offend again on the other side’ (Tartuffe, V. i. in Molière Works, IV, p. 192).

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his wit excited, were powerless to injure. He was the favorite of the best society in Paris; to have him to read a play, was giving to any assembly the stamp of fashion as well as wit and intellect. He numbered / among his chosen and dearest friends the wits of the age. Disappointment and vexation had followed him at home; and his wife’s misconduct and heartlessness having led him at last to separate from her, he endeavoured to secure to himself such peace as celibacy permitted. As much time as his avocations as actor and manager permitted he spent at his country house at Auteuil: here he reserved an apartment for his old schoolfellow, the gay, thoughtless Chapelle; here Boileau also had a house; and at one or the other the common friends of both assembled, and repasts were held where wit and gaiety reigned. Molière himself was too often the least animated of the party: he was apt to be silent and reserved in society*, more intent on observing and listening than in endeavouring to shine. There was a vein of melancholy in his character, which his domestic infelicity caused to increase. He loved order in his household, and was annoyed by want of neatness and regularity: in this respect the heedless Chapelle was ill suited to be his friend; and often Molière shut himself up in solitude. There are many anecdotes connected with this knot of friends: the famous supper, which Voltaire tries to bring into discredit, but which Louis Racine vouches for as being frequently related by Boileau himself, occurred at Molière’s house at Auteuil. Almost all the wits were there except Racine, who was excluded by his quarrel with Molière. There were Lulli, Jonsac, Boileau, Chapelle, the young actor Barron, and others.a Molière was indisposed – he had renounced animal food and wine, and was in no humour to join his friends, so went to bed, leaving them to the enjoyment of their / supper. No one was more ready to make the most of good cheer than Chapelle, whose too habitual inebriety was in vain combatted, and sometimes imitated by his associates. On this occasion they drank till their good spirits turned to maudlin sensibility. Chapelle, the reckless and the gay, began to descant on the emptiness of life – the vain nature of its pleasures – the ennui of its tedious hours: the other guests agreed with him. Why live on * Molière thus describes himself in one of his pieces. A Lady says: “I remember the evening when, impelled by the reputation he has acquired, and the works he has brought out, Celimene wished to see Damon. You know the man, and his indolence in keeping up conversation. She invited him as a wit; but he never appeared so stupid as in the midst of a dozen persons she had made it a favour to invite to meet him, who looked at him with all their eyes, fancying that he would be different from every body else. They fancied that he would amuse the company with bon mots, that every word he should say would be witty, each speech an impromptu, that he must ask to drink with a point; and they could make nothing of his silence.”b a Voltaire, Molière, p. xliv and LRR, pp. 269–70; the supper party is also recounted in Grimarest, pp. 83–6, and Taschereau, p. 154. Barron was the pseudonym of Michel Boyron (1652– 1729), actor and playwright, virtually adopted by Molière when he was 11. b From scene ii of Critique de l’École des Femmes.

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then, to endure disappointment after disappointment? how much more heroic to die at once! The party had arrived at a pitch of excitement that rendered them ready to adopt any ridiculous or senseless idea; they all agreed that life was contemptible, death desirable: Why then not die? the act would be heroic; and, dying all together, they would obtain the praise that ancient heroes acquired by selfimmolation. They all rose to walk down to the river, and throw themselves in. The young Barron, an actor and protégé of Molière, had more of his senses about him: he ran to awake Molière, who, hearing that they had already left the house, and were proceeding towards the river, hurried after them: already the stream was in sight. When he came up, they hailed him as a companion in their heroic act, and he agreed to join them: “But not to-night:” he said “so great a deed should not be shrouded in darkness; it deserves daylight to illustrate it: let us wait till morning.” His friends considered this new argument as conclusive: they returned to the house; and, going to bed, rose on the morrow sober, and content to live. Among such friends – wild, gay, and witty – Molière might easily have his attention directed to farcical and amusing subjects. Some say that “Monsieur Porceaugnac” was founded on the adventure of a poor rustic, who fled from pursuing doctors through the streets of Paris: it is one of the most ridiculous as well as lively of his smaller pieces; but so excellent is the comic dialogue, that Diderot well remarks, that the critic would be much mistaken who should think that there were more men capable / of writing “Monsieur Porceaugnac” than of composing the “Misanthrope.” This piece has of course been adapted to the English stage; and an Irishman is burdened with all the follies, blunders, and discomfitures of the French provincial; with this difference, that the “brave Irishman” breaks through all the evils spread to catch him, and, triumphing over his rival, carries off the lady.a The “Bourgeois Gentilhomme” deserves higher praise; and M. Jourdain, qualifying himself for nobility, has been the type of a series of characters, imitating, but never surpassing, the illustrious original. This play was brought out at Chambord,b before the king. Louis listened to it in silence; and no voice dared applaud: as absence of praise denoted censure to the courtiers, so none of them could be amused; they ridiculed the very idea of the piece, and pronounced the author’s vein worn out. They scouted the fanciful nonsense of the ballet, in which the Bourgeois is created Mamamouchi by the agents of the grand signor, and invested with a fantastic order of knighthood.c The truth is, that Molière nowhere displayed a truer sense of fanciful comedy than in varying and animating with laughable doggrel and incidents the ballets that accompanied his comedies; the very nonsense of the choruses, being in accordance with the dresses and scenes, becomes wit. The courtiers found this on other occasions, but now their faces a This account, including Diderot’s remark, follows Scott, p. 181; Diderot was directly cited by Taschereau, p. 246. Squire Trelooby (1704) by William Congreve and Sir John Vanbrugh is probably the adaptation of Monsieur de Pourceaugnac (1669) referred to. b One of the Royal palaces, in the Loire valley. c Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, IV. v.

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elongated as Louis looked grave: the king was mute; they fancied by sarcasm to echo a voice they could not hear. Molière was mortified; while the royal listener probably was not at all alive to the damning consequences of his hesitation. On the second representation, the reverse of the medal was presented. “I did not speak of your play the first day,” said Louis, “for I fancied I was carried away by the admirable acting; but indeed, Molière, you never have written any thing that diverted me so much: your piece is excellent.” And now the courtiers found the point of the dialogue, the wit of the situations, the admirable truth of the characters. They could remember / that M. Jourdain’s surprise at the discovery that he had been talking prose all his life, was a witty plagiarism from the count de Soissons’ own lips – they could even enjoy the fun of the unintelligible mummery of the dancing Turks; and one of the noblest among them, who had looked censure itself on the preceding evening, could exclaim in a smiling ecstasy of praise: “Molière is inimitable – he has reached a point of perfection to which none of the ancients ever attained.”a The “Fourberies de Scapin” followed – the play that could excite Boileau’s bile; so that not all his admiration of its author could prevent his exclaiming:– “Dans ce sac ridicule où Scapin s’envelope, Je ne reconnais plus l’auteur du Misanthrope.” Still the comedy of tricks and hustle is still comedy, and will amuse; and there crept into the dialogue also the true spirit of Molière; the humour of the father’s frequent question: “Que diable alla-t-il faire dans cette galère,” has rendered the expression a proverb.b The Countess d’ Escarbagnas is very amusing. The old dowager, teaching country bumpkins to behave like powdered gold-caned footmen; her disdain for her country neighbours, and glory in her title, are truly French, and give us an insight into the deep-seated prejudices that separated noble and ignoble, and Parisians from provincials, in that country before the revolution.c The “Femmes Savantes”d followed, and was an additional proof that his vein not only was not exhausted, but that it was richer and purer than ever; and that while human nature displayed follies, he could put into the framework of comedy, pictures, that by the grouping and the vivid colouring showed him to be master of his art. The pedantic spirit that had succeeded to the sentimentality of les a The preceding discussion follows Scott, pp. 183–4; Eugène-Maurice de Savoie-Carignan (1635–73) was the third comte de Soissons. b Boileau said of The Deceptions of Scapin, ‘In the ridiculous cloak with which Scapin envelops himself I no longer recognise the author of The Misanthrope’ (Boileau, L’Art Poétique, canto III, also cited by Taschereau, p. 324). The proverb is applied to a case where someone is in difficulties, usually financial, through his own fault: ‘Why did he get himself involved in that business?’ (literally, ‘What the devil was he going to do in that galley?’); citation from Scott, p. 185. c La comtesse d’Escarbagnas (1671). The revolution is the French Revolution of 1789. This paragraph follows Scott, p. 186. d The Learned Ladies (1672).

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Précieuses, the authors of society, whose impromptus and sonnets were smiled on in place of the exiled Platonists of the ruelle, lent a rich harvest. “Les Femmes Savantes” echoed the conversations of the / select coteries of female pretension. The same spirit of pedantry existed some five and twenty years ago, when the blues reigned; and there was many a “Bustling Botherby to show ’em That charming passage in the last new poem.”a That day is over: whether the present taste for mingled politics and inanity is to be preferred is a question; but we may imagine how far posterity will prefer it, when we compare the many great names of those days with the “small and far between” of the present. Bluism and pedantry may be the poppies of a wheatfield, but they show the prodigality of the Ceres which produces both.b We are tempted, as a last extract, to quote portions of the scene in which the learned ladies receive their favourite, Trissotin, with enthusiasm, and he recites his poetry for their delight. “PHILAMINTE Servez-nous promptement votre aimable repas. TRISSOTIN Pour cette grande faim qu’à mes yeux on expose, Un plat seul de huit vers me semble peu de chose; Et je pense qu’ ici je ne ferai pas mal De joindre à l’épigramme, ou bien au madrigal, Le ragoût d’un sonnet qui, chez une princesse, Est passé pour avoir quelque délicatesse. Il est de sel attique assaisonné partout, Et vous le trouverez, je crois, d’assez bon goût. ARMANDE Ah! je n’en doute point. PHILAMINTE Donnons vite audience. BÉLISE (interrompant Trissotin chaque fois qu’il se dispose à lire). Je sens d’aise mon cœur tressaillir par avance. J’aime la poésie avec entêtement Et surtout quand les vers sont tournés galamment. a George Gordon Byron, 6th baron Byron (1788–1824), Beppo (1818), lxxii, ll. 7–8. A ‘Botherby’, the poem explains, is a mediocre ‘antique gentleman of rhyme’ who buzzes around female wits. Byron was referring to the minor man of letters William Sotheby, who, he claimed, annoyed him with impertinent criticisms of his work. b The goddess of the earth in Greek mythology. The quotation is probably adapted from two famous lines: ‘Like those of angels, short and far between’ (Robert Blair, The Grave (1743), l. 588) and ‘Like angel visits, few and far between’ (Thomas Campbell, The Pleasures of Hope (1799), pt ii, l. 378).

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PHILAMINTE Si nous parlons toujours, il ne pourra rien dire. TRISSOTIN

So—

BÉLISE . Silence, ma nièce. ARMANDE Ah! laissez-le done lire! TRISSOTIN Sonnet à la Princesse Uranie, sur sa fièvre. / Votre prudence est endormie, De traiter magnifiquement, Et de loger superbement, Votre plus cruelle ennemie. Ah! le joli début.

BÉLISE .

ARMANDE Qu’il a le tour galant! PHILAMINTE Lui seul des vers aisés possède le talent. ARMANDE A prudence endormie il faut rendre les armes. BÉLISE . Loger son ennemie est pour moi plein de charmes. PHILAMINTE J’aime superbement et magnifiquement: Ces deux adverbes joints font admirablement. BÉLISE . Prêtons l’oreille au reste. TRISSOTIN Faites-la sortir, quoi qu’on die, De votre riche appartement, Où cette ingrate insolemment Attaque votre belle vie. BÉLISE . Ah! tout doux, laissez-moi, de grace, respirer. ARMANDE Donnez-nous, s’il vous plait, le loisir d’admirer.

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PHILAMINTE On se sent, à ces vers, jusqu’au fond de l’âme Couler je ne sais quoi, qui fait que l’on se pâme. ARMANDE . ‘Faites-la sortir, quoi qu’on die, De votre riche appartement.’ Que riche appartement est là joliment dit! Et que la métaphore est mise avec esprit! PHILAMINTE ‘Faites-la sortir, quoi qu’on die.’ Ah! que ce quoi qu’on die est d’un goût admirable, C’est, à mon sentiment, un endroit impayable. ARMANDE De quoi qu’on die aussi mon cœur est amoureux. BÉLISE . Je suis de votre avis, quoi qu’on die est heureux. ARMANDE Je voudrois l’avoir fait. BÉLISE . Il vaut toute une pièce. PHILAMINTE Mais en comprend-on bien, comme moi, la finesse? Oh, oh! /

ARMANDE et BÉLISE .

PHILAMINTE ‘Faites-la sortir, quoi qu’on die.’ Que de la fièvre on prenne ici les intérêts; N’ayez ancun égard, moquez-vous des caquets: ‘Faites-la sortir, quoi qu’on die, Quoi qu’on die, quoi qu’on die.’ Ce quoi qu’on die en dit beaucoup plus qu’il ne semble. Je ne sais pas, pour moi, si chacun me ressemble; Mais j’entends là-dessous un million de mots. BÉLISE . Il est vrai qu’il dit plus de choses qu’il n’est gros. PHILAMINTE , à Trissotin. Mais quand vous avez fait ce charmant quoi qu’on die, Avez-vous compris, vous, toute son énergie? Songiez-vous bien vous-même à tout ce qu’il nous dit, Et pensiez-vous alors y mettre tant d’esprit?

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Hai! hai!”a

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TRISSOTIN

This scene proceeds a long time; and at length the pedant, Vadius, enters, and Trissotin presents him to the ladies. TRISSOTIN “Il a des vieux auteurs la pleine intelligence, Et sait du grec, madame, autant qu’homme de France. PHILAMINTE . Du grec! O ciel! du grec! il sait du grec, ma sœur. BÉLISE . Ah, my nièce, du grec! ARMANDE . Du grec! quelle douceur! a PHILAMINTE: Now promptly dish up your amiable repast. TRISSOTIN: For such great hunger as is shown me, a dish of only eight verses seems very little; and I think that I shall do no harm here in joining to the epigram, or to the madrigal, the relish of a sonnet, which a certain princess thought rather delicate. It is seasoned with attic salt throughout, and I believe you will find it of sufficiently good taste. ARMANDE: Ah! I do not doubt it. PHILAMINTE: Let us give ear immediately. BÉLISE: [Interrupting Trissotin each time he is ready to begin] I feel my heart beat with pleasure beforehand. I love poetry to distraction, and especially when the verses are gallantly turned. PHILAMINTE: If we are always speaking, he cannot say anything. TRISSOTIN: A Son… BÉLISE: [To Henriette] Silence, niece. TRISSOTIN: A Sonnet to the Princess Uranie, on her Ague. Your prudence surely is asleep, To treat and sumptuously keep, To lodge in state and luxury, Your most hard-hearted enemy. BÉLISE: Ah! What a charming beginning! ARMANDE: How prettily he turns things! PHILAMINTE: He alone possesses the talent for easy verses. ARMANDE: To prudence asleep we must yield up our arms. BÉLISE: To lodge an enemy is for me full of charms. PHILAMINTE: I like sumptuously and state and luxury, the joining of these last words does admirably. BÉLISE: Let us listen to the rest. TRISSOTIN: Your prudence surely is asleep, To treat and sumptuously to keep, To lodge in state and luxury, Your most hard-hearted enemy. ARMANDE: Prudence asleep! BÉLISE: To lodge an enemy! PHILAMINTE: Sumptuously, and state and luxury! TRISSOTIN: Whate’er be said, drive it away, From ’neath your roof’s splendid array, Expel the ungrateful wretch, who would Attack a life so fair, so good. BÉLISE: Ah! Gently; let me take breath, pray. ARMANDE: Give us leisure to admire, if you please. PHILAMINTE: One feels, at these verses, running at the bottom of one’s heart, a something, I do not know what, that makes one feel faint. ARMANDE: Whate’er be said, drive it away, From ’neath your roof’s splendid array, How elegantly is ’neath your roof’s splendid array expressed; and how wittily the metaphor is put! PHILAMINTE: Whate’er be said, drive it away! Ah! What an admirable taste is displayed in that drive it away. This, in my opinion, is an invaluable passage. ARMANDE: My heart is likewise smitten with whate’er be said. BÉLISE: I am of your opinion, whate’er be said is a happy expression. ARMANDE: I would like to have written it. BÉLISE: It is worth a whole piece. PHILAMINTE: But is the finesse of it really understood, as I do? ARMANDE & BÉLISE: Oh! Ah! PHILAMINTE: Whate’er be said, drive it away. Though people should take the ague’s part, do not pay any heed, laugh at the babbling. Whate’er be said, drive it away, whate’er be said, whate’er be said. This whate’er be said has more in it than it seems to have. As for me, I do not know, if everyone resembles me; but I perceive a million words beneath it. BÉLISE: It is true, it says more things than it appears to. PHILAMINTE, to TRISSOTIN: But when you wrote this charming whate’er be said, did you yourself comprehend all its energy? Did you yourself reflect upon all which it conveys to us? And did you at that time think of putting so much wit into it? TRISSOTIN: Hai! Hai! (III. ii., in Molière Works, vol. VI, pp. 156–8).

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PHILAMINTE . Quoi! monsieur sait du grec? Ah! permettez, de grace, Que, pour l’amour du grec, monsieur, on vous embrasse.”a

The pedants at first compliment each other extravagantly, and then quarrel extravagantly; and Vadius exclaims,– “Oui, oui, je te renvoie à l’auteur des Satires. TRISSOTIN . Je t’y renvoie aussi. VADIUS . J’ai le contentement Qu’on voit qu’il m’a traité plus honorablement. *

*

*

*

Ma plume t’apprendra quel homme je puis être. TRISSOTIN . Et la mienne saura te faire voir ton maître. VADIUS . Je te défie en vers, en prose, grec et latin. TRISSOTIN . Eh bien! nous nous verrons seul à seul chez Barbin.”b /

It must be remarked that, in the favourite of these learned ladies of the stage, Trissotin, the spectators perceived the Magnus Apollo of the real ones, l’abbé Cotin;c and, as the epigram Trissotin recites was really written by Cotin, there can be no doubt that Molière held up the literary productions of the man to ridicule – but it is false that he made him personally laughable. Cotin was a priest; and, when Molière made Trissotin a layman, who aspired to the hand of one of the personages, he might believe that he took all personal sting from his satire. The public fixed the name of Vadius on Menage: the latter was far too clever to allow that the cap fitted. “Is it to be borne that this man should thus make game of us?” said madame de Rambouillet to Menage, on their return from the first a

TRISSOTIN: He has a perfect knowledge of the old authors, and he knows Greek, Madam, as well as any man in France. PHILAMINTE: [To Bélise] Greek, O Heavens! Greek! He knows Greek, sister! BÉLISE: [To Armande] Ah! Niece, Greek! ARMANDE: Greek! how charming! PHILAMINTE: What! This gentleman knows Greek! Ah! Permit me, pray, that, for the love of Greek, Sir, I embrace you. (III. iv.; Molière Works, vol. VI, p. 164) b Yes, yes, I refer you to the author of the satires. TRISSOTIN: I refer you also to him … VADIUS: I have the satisfaction of people seeing that he has treated me more honourably … My pen shall teach you what sort of man I can be. TRISSOTIN: And mine will make you see your master. VADIUS: I defy you in verse, prose, Greek, and Latin. TRISSOTIN: Well! We shall see each other at Barbin’s. (III. iv.; Molière Works, vol. VI, p. 168, slightly adapted). Barbin was one of the leading booksellers of the day. c Magnus Apollo: oracle, here applied to the Abbé Charles Cotin (1604–82), Court Preacher, poet and academician. The story is cited in Taschereau, p. 284.

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1673. Ætat.

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representation of the play. “Madame,” said Menage, “the play is admirable; there is not a word to be said against it.” Molière’s career was drawing to a close; he was overworked, and did not take sufficient care of his health: he despised the medicinal art such as it then existed, and rejected its remedies. “What do you do with your doctor?” asked the king, when Molière applied for a canonicate for the son of M. de Mauvillain, the physician, whose patient he said “he had the honour to be.” “We converse together,” he replied; “he writes prescriptions which I do not take, and I recover.”a A weak chest and a perpetual cough was indeed best medicated by the sober regimen and milk diet to which he long adhered; and while he adhered to it his life seemed safe. Mutual friends had interfered with success in reconciling him and his wife; and the order of his simple table being altered by her presence, he yielded to her instigations in adopting a more generous diet: his cough became worse, in consequence. When he brought out the “Malade Imaginaire”b he was really ill; but such was his sense of duty towards his fellow comedians, that he would not be turned from his intention of acting the principal character. The / play was warmly received. Though more adverse to our taste and tone than almost any of Molière’s, it is impossible not to be highly amused. Sir Walter Scott well remarks, that the mixture of frugality and love of medicine in the “Malade Imaginaire” himself is truly comic: his credulity as to the efficacy of the draughts, and his resolution only to pay half-price for them – his anxious doubts of whether, in the exercise prescribed to him he is to walk across his room, or up and down – his annoyance at having taken one third less physic this month than he had done the last – and his expostulation at the cost, – “C’est se moquer, il faut vivre avec les malades – si vous en usez comme cela, on ne voudra plus être malade – mettez quatre francs, s’il vous plait, – is very comic;c as is also the sober pedantry of Thomas Diafoirus, and his long orations, when he addresses his intended bride as her mother, is in the most amusing spirit of comedy. Meanwhile, as the audience laughed, the poet and actor was dying. On the fourth night he was evidently worse; Barron and others tried to dissuade him from his task. “How can I?” he replied, “There are fifty poor workmen whose bread depends on the daily receipt. I should reproach myself if I deprived them of it.”d It was with great difficulty however that he went through the part; and in the last entrée of the ballet, as he pronounced the word juro,e he was seized by a vehement cough and convulsions, so violent that the spectators became aware that something was wrong; and the curtain falling soon after, he was carried home dying. His cough was so violent that a blood-vessel a

Voltaire, Molière, pp. 33–4. The Imaginary Invalid. Mary Shelley has omitted to supply Molière’s age in the marginal gloss, perhaps because of uncertainty as to whether he was fully 51 years old at the première. c Scott, pp 189–90. ‘Ah! This is too much of a joke; one should give and take with patients… if you behave like that, one would no longer care to be ill: be satisfied with four francs, if you please.’ (The Imaginary Invalid, I. i.; Molière Works, vol. VI, p. 237), slightly abbreviated. d Taschereau, pp. 290–1 (slightly abbreviated). e ‘I swear.’ b

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broke; and he, becoming aware of his situation, desired that a priest might be sent for. One after another was sent to, who, to the disgrace of their profession, refused the consolations of religion to a dying fellow-creature – to the greatest of their countrymen. It was long before one was found, willing to obey the summons; and, during this interval, he was suffocated by the blood that flowed from his lungs. He expired, attended only by a few friends, and by two sisters of charity, whom he was / accustomed to receive in his house each year, when they came to Paris to collect alms during Lent.a Dying thus, without the last ceremonies of the catholic religion, and, consequently, without having renounced his profession, Harley, archbishop of Paris, refused the rites of sepulture to the revered remains. Harley was a man of vehement, vindictive temper. His life had been so dissolute that he died the victim of his debaucheries – this was the very man to presume on his station, and to insult all France by staining her history with an act of intolerance.* Molière’s wife was with him at his death; and probably at the moment was truly grieved by his loss – at least she felt bitterly the clerical outrage. “What,” she cried, “refuse burial to one who deserves that altars should be erected to him!” She hastened to Versailles, accompanied by the curate of Auteuil, to throw herself at the king’s feet, and implore his interference. She conducted herself with considerable indiscretion, by speaking the truth to royal ears; telling the king, that if “her husband was a criminal, his crimes had been authorised by his majesty himself.” Louis might have forgiven the too great frankness of the unhappy widow – but her companion, the curate, rendered him altogether indisposed to give ear; when, instead of simply urging the request for which he came, he seized this opportunity of trying to exculpate himself from a charge of jansenism. The king, irritated by this malapropos, dismissed both supplicants abruptly; merely saying, that the affair depended on the archbishop of Paris. Nevertheless he at the same time gave private directions to Harley to take off / his interdiction. The curate of the parish, however, in * Chapelle’s Epigram on this insult to his friend’s remains deserves mention:– “Puisqu’à Paris on dénie La terre après le trépas, À ceux qui, pendant leur vie, Ont joué la comedie, Pourquoi ne jette-t-on pas Les bigots à la voirie? Ils sont dans le même cas.”b Boileau also alludes to the scandalous and impious treatment of his friend’s remains. a

The preceding account follows Taschereau, pp. 290–2 closely. Cited from Taschereau, p. 294. ‘Since, in Paris, the earth is denied after death to those who, during their lives, have acted on stage, why not throw bigots onto the rubbish heap? They are in the same position.’ Those denied Christian burial were indeed put on refuse heaps. Taschereau also notes Boileau’s comment in Epistle VII, l. 20. b

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a servile and insolent spirit, refused to attend the funeral; and it was agreed that the body should not be presented in church, but simply conveyed to the grave, accompanied by two ecclesiastics.a How deeply does one mourn the prejudice that caused the survivors to submit to this series of outrages; and the manners of the times that prevented their choosing some spot more holy than a parish church-yard, since it would be consecrated solely to Molière; and, disdaining clerical intolerance, bear him in triumph to the grave over which bigotry could have no control. How far such an act was impossible at that time, when religious disputes and persecutions raged highly, is demonstrated by the conduct of the mob on the day of his funeral. Excited by some low and bigotted priests, a crowd of the vilest populace assembled before Molière’s door, ready to insult the humble procession. The widow was alarmed – she was advised to throw a quantity of silver among the crowd: nearly a thousand francs, thus distributed, changed at once the intentions of the rioters; and they accompanied the funeral respectfully, and in silence. The body was carried, on the evening of the 21st of February, to the cemetery of St. Joseph, Rue Mont Martre, followed by two priests, and about a hundred persons, either friends or acquaintances of the deceased, each bearing a torch. No funeral chaunt or prayer honoured the interment; but it must have been difficult in the hearts of attached friends or upright men to suppress the indignation such a vain attempt at contumely naturally excited. Every one who knew Molière loved him. He was generous, charitable, and warm-hearted. His sense of duty towards his company induced him to remain an actor, when his leaving the stage would have opened the door to honours eagerly sought after and highly esteemed by the first men of the day. It was deliberated, to elect him a member of the French academy. The academicians felt that they should be honoured by such a member, / and wished him to give up acting low comedy; without which they fancied that the dignity of the academy would be degraded. Boileau tried to persuade his friend to renounce the stage, Molière refused: he said, he was attached to it by a point of honour. “What honour?” cried Boileau, “that of painting your face, and making a fool of yourself?”b Molière felt that by honour he was engaged to give all the support he could to a company whose existence (as it was afterwards proved) depended on his exertions: and besides, his point of honour might mean a steady adherence to the despised stage; so that the slur of his secession might not be added to the ignominy already heaped upon it. He had a delicacy of feeling that went beyond Boileau – that of shrinking from insulting his fellow actors by seceding from among them, and of choosing to show to the world that he thought it no dishonour to exercise his talent for its amusement. In his heart, indeed, he knew the annoyances attached to his calling; when a young man came to ask him to facilitate his going on the stage, a b

This paragraph and the next follows Taschereau, pp. 295–6. Cited by Taschereau, pp. 286–7, following LRR.

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and Molière, inquiring who he was, learnt that his father was an advocate in good practice, on which he represented forcibly the evils that attend the life of an actor. “I advise you,” he continued, “to adopt your father’s profession – ours will not suit you; it is the last resource of those who have nothing better, or who are too idle to work. Besides, you will deeply pain your relations. I always regret the sorrow I occasioned mine; and would not do so could I begin again. You think perhaps that we have our pleasures; but you deceive yourself. Apparently we are sought after by the great; it is true, we are the ministers of their amusement – but there is nothing so sad as being the slaves of their caprice. The rest of the world look on us as the refuse of mankind, and despise us accordingly.” Chapelle came in while this argument was going on; and, taking the opposite side, exclaimed: “Do you love pleasure? then be sure you will have more in six months as an actor than in six years at the bar.” But Molière’s / earnest and well-founded arguments were more powerful than the persuasions of his volatile friend.a In every point of view Molière’s disposition and actions demand our love and veneration. He was generous to a high degree – undeviating in his friendship; charitable to all in need. His sense of Barron’s talent and friendless position caused him to adopt him as a son; and he taught him the art in which both as a comic and tragic actor Barron afterwards excelled. One day the young man told him of a poor stroller who wanted some small sum to assist him in joining his company – Molière learnt that it was Mondorge, who had formerly been a comrade of his own; he asked Barron, how much he wished to give; the other replied, four pistoles. “Give him,” said Molière, “four pistoles from me – and here are twenty to give from yourself.”b His charities were on all sides very considerable; and his hand was never shut to the poor. Getting into a carriage one day, he gave a piece of money to a mendicant standing by; the man ran after the carriage, and stopt it, “You have made a mistake, sir,” he cried out, “You have given me a louis d’or.” “And here is another, to reward your honesty,” replied Molière; and, as the carriage drove off, he exclaimed, “Where will virtue next take shelter” (où la vertu va-t-elle se nicher!), showing that he generalised even this simple incident, and took it home to his mind as characteristic of human nature.c The biographer, Grimarest – who by no means favours him, and dilates on anecdotes till he turns them into romance – says, that he was very irritable, and that his love of order was so great that he was exceedingly discomposed by any want of neatness or exactitude in his domestic arrangements.d That ill-health and the various annoyances he suffered as manager of a theatre, may have tended to render him irritable, is possible; but there are many anecdotes that display sweetness of disposition and great gentleness of mind and manner. Boileau, who was an excellent mimic, a

This follows selectively Grimarest, pp. 106–7. Taschereau, pp. 99–100, also Scott, p. 195. c From Taschereau, pp. 100–1, also discussed by Scott, p. 195. Both stories are also in Voltaire, Molière, pp. 35–6. d Grimarest, p. 109. b

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amused Louis XIV. one day by taking off all the principal / actors – the king insisted that he should include Molière, who was present; and afterwards asked him, What he thought of the imitation? “We cannot judge of our own likeness,” replied Molière; “but if he has succeeded as well with me as with the others, it must needs be admirable.” One day La Fontaine having drawn on himself an unusual share of raillery by his abstraction and absence of mind, Molière felt that the joke was being carried too far – “Laissons-le,” he said, “nous n’effacerons jamais le bon-homme,” – the name bestowed on La Fontaine by his friendsa. We cannot help considering also in the same light, that of a heart true to the touch of a nature, which “makes the whole world kin,” his habit of reading his pieces, before they were acted, to his old housekeeper, La Forêt.b From the dullness or vivacity which her face expressed as he read, he judged whether the audience would yawn or applaud his scenes as acted. That she was a sensible old woman cannot be doubted; as when a play, by another author, was read to her as written by her master, she shook her head, and told Molière that he was cheating her. As a comic actor Molière had great merit: he played broad farcical parts; and a description of his style is handed down to us both by his enemies and friends. Montfleuri (the son of the actor), in his satire, says,– —“Il vient le nez au vent, Les pieds en parenthèse, et l’épaule en avant; Sa péruque, qui suit le côté qui avance, Plus pleine de lauriers qu’un jambon de Mayence; Les mains sur les côtés, d’un air peu négligé, La tête sur le dos, comme un mulèt chargé, Les yeux fort égarés, puis débitant ses roles, D’un hoquet perpétuel sépare les paroles.”c

No doubt, though a caricature, there is truth in this picture. We still see in his portraits the wig, thickly crowned with laurels; and theatrical historians have mentioned the sort of catching of the breath – exaggerated in the verses above quoted into a hoquet, or hiccough, – which he had acquired by his endeavour to moderate the rapidity of his articulation. The newspapers of the day, / in giving an account of him when he died, describe him as “actor from head to foot: he seemed to have many voices – for all spoke in him; and by a step, a smile, a trick a ‘Leave him alone; we will never get rid of the fellow.’ Probably from Bret, pp. 62–3 and Taschereau, p. 144. b Bret, p. 59, and Taschereau, pp. 159–60; the quote is from Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, III. iii. 175. c Antoine Montfleury (1639–85), playwright and admirer of Molière, was the author of L’Impromptu de l’ Hôtel de Condé; Taschereau, p. 85 cites the passage from which Mary Shelley extracts these lines: ‘He comes along with his nose sniffing the wind, his feet all over the place, his shoulder stuck out in front; his wig, at the angle of his sideways progress, more full of bay leaves than a ham from Mayence, his hands at his side, with rather a negligent air, his head looking backwards, like an over-loaded mule, his eyes looking round distractedly, then concentrating on his part, with a constant hiccough separating his words.’

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of the eye, or a motion of the head, he said more in a moment than words could express in an hour.” “He was,” we find written in another newspaper, “neither too fat nor too thin; he was rather above the middle height, and carried himself well – he walked gravely, with a very serious manner; his nose was thick; his mouth large, his complexion dark; his eyebrows black and strongly marked, and the way in which he moved them gave great comic expression to his countenance.”a He acted well also, because, in addition to his genius, his heart was in all he did; and he wrote well from the same cause. He had that enthusiasm for his art which marks the man of genius. He did not begin to write till thirty-four – but the style of his productions, founded on a knowledge of mankind and of life, necessitates a longer apprenticeship than any other. When he did write it was with facility and speed. The whole of his comedies – each rising in excellence – were composed during the space of fourteen years; and Boileau addresses him as– “Rare et fameux esprit, dont la fertile veine Ignore en écrivant le travail et la peine.”b

But although when having conceived the project of a play his labour was light, his life, like that of all great authors, was spent in study – the study of mankind. Boileau called him the contemplator.c He was silent and abstracted in company – he listened, and felt; and carried away a knowledge that displayed itself afterwards in his conception of character, in his perception of the ridiculous, in his portraitures of the human heart. Perhaps nothing proves more the original and innate bent of genius than the fact, that Molière was a comic writer. His sense of the ridiculous being intuitive, forced him to a species of composition, which, by choice, he would have exchanged for tragic and pathetic dramas: but he could only idealise in one view of life; / his imagination was tame when it tried to soar to the sublime, or to touch by tenderness. Of course he has not escaped criticism even in the pieces in which his genius is most displayed. Voltaire says that his farce is too broad, and his serious pieces want interest; and that he almost always failed in the dénouement of his plots.d The latter portion of this remark is truer than the former; though there is foundation for the whole. Voltaire, like Boileau, was bitten by the then Gallic mania for classical (i.e. in modern literature, imitative instead of original) productions. Boileau too often considers that Molière sacrificed good taste to the multitude when he made his audience laugh.e Boileau’s poetry is arid, with all its wit; and he had no feeling for humour: his very sarcasms, full of point and epigram as they are, turn entirely on manner; he seldom praises or blames the higher portions of composition. Schlegel, in his a

Translated from sources cited in Taschereau, p. 86. From Boileau’s Satire II, ll. 1–2: ‘Rare and famous spirit, whose fertile creativity knows nothing of the labour and pain of writing.’ c Taschereau, p. 141. d A paraphrase of Voltaire, Molière, pp. lxxxvii–lxxxviii. e Mary Shelley makes the Romantic distinction between originality, and plays based on classical models. She probably refers to Boileau’s L’Art Poétique, canto III. b

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bigotted dislike for all things French, by no means does Molière justice*; and many of his criticisms are quite false. As, for instance, that on the “Avare;” where he says, that no miser at once hides a treasure and lends money on usury. Any one who consults the history of our celebrated English misers of the last century will find that they, without exception, united the characters of misers and moneylenders.a It has been mentioned that Molière did not succeed in the serious, the sentimental, the fanciful. Voltaire mentions his little one-act piece of “L’Amour Peintre” as the only one of the sort that has grace and spirit. This slight sketch is evidently the groundwork of the “Barber of Seville;” it contains the same characters and the same situations in a more contracted space.b Similar to our Shakespeare, Molière held up a faithful mirror to nature; and there is scarcely a trait or a speech in any of his pieces that does not charm the reader as the echo of reality. It is a question, how far Molière individualised / general observations, or placed copies of real persons in his canvass. All writers of fiction must ground their pictures on their knowledge of life; and comic writers (comedy deriving so much of its excellence from slight but individual traits) are led more entirely into plagiarisms from nature. Sir Walter Scott is an instance of this, and could point out the original of almost all his comic characters. This may be carried too far; and the question is, to what extent Molière sinned against good taste and good feeling in holding up well-known persons to public ridicule. We have mentioned the story of his having paid M. de Soyecourt a visit, for the purpose of transferring his conversation to the stage, for the amusement of the king on the following day. This was hardly fair; while, on the other hand, he had full right to the count de Soissons’ naïve annunciation of the discovery that he had been speaking prose all his life, and putting it into M. Jourdain’s mouth; and also to the anecdote we have related concerning Louis XIV. and the bishop of Rhodes, * He does less justice to his personal character even than to his works. No one can read the biographies of Molière without admiring the honourable, generous, and kindly nature of the man; Schlegel slurs over these qualities, and endeavours to stamp him as a mere court buffoon.c a ‘Molière has accumulated as it were all kinds of avarice in one person; and yet the miser who buried his treasures and he who lends on pledge can hardly be the same’ (Schlegel, II, p. 49). Mary Shelley’s wording suggests a reference to Extraordinary Lives of Sir Harvey and John Elwes, two celebrated misers of the last century, the latter of whom died with a million of money [etc.] (London: Hodgson, c. 1823), apparently an abridgement of a longer memoir by Edward Topham (1790). John Elwes (1714–89) combined lending money for speculative ventures with a penurious way of life (see DNB); possibly also referring to The Three Misers. The strange and unaccountable life of D. Dancer […] J. Taylor, the Southwark usurer […] J. Overs etc. (London, 1801). b The comment on Love the Painter is in Voltaire, Molière, p. lxvii. The Barber of Seville is either the play by P.-A. Caron de Beaumarchais (1775) or the opera by G. Rossini (1816) based on it, more probably the former. c Schlegel gives very little biographical information, emphasising that Molière wrote to please the king and excelled in acting the buffoon in his farces.

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which he introduced into the “Tartuffe.” Nor was it his fault that the name of Tartuffe became fixed on the bishop of Autun, as several allusions in madame de Sévigné’s letters testify.a There is, however, a difference to be drawn between the cap fitting after it is made, and its being made to fit. And in Trissotin, in the “Femmes Savantes,” where the works of the abbé Cotin were held up to ridicule, we are apt to think that he went beyond good taste in his personality. The effect was melancholy. Cotin had long suffered from Boileau’s attacks; but this last public one from Molière completely overwhelmed him, and he fell into a state of melancholy that soon after caused death. “Sad effect,” writes Voltaire, “of a liberty more dangerous than useful; and which does not so much inspire good taste as it flatters the malice of men. Good poems are the best satires that can be levelled against bad poets; and Molière and Boileau need not, in addition, have had recourse to insult.”b Molière died on the 17th of February, 1673, aged / fifty-one. His friends deeply mourned his loss, and many epitaphs were written in his honour. By degrees France became aware of the honour the country received from having given birth to such a man. The academicians of the eighteenth century endeavoured to atone for the folly of their predecessors. The bust of Molière was placed in their hall, with an appropriate inscription by Saurin:– “Rien ne manque à sa gloire, il manquait à la nôtre.”c

In 1769, his eulogy was made the subject of a prize. It was gained by Chamfort; and, on the day of its public recital, two Poquelins were hunted out from their obscurity, and an honourable place assigned them among the audience; and there they sat, living epigrams on the bigotry which in former days expunged Molière’s name from their genealogical tree.d His remains, unhonoured at first, were destined to several mutations during the revolution. A stone is at present erected to their honour, in the cemetery of Père la Chaise; but it may be considered a cenotaph, as there is every reason to doubt the identity of the remains placed beneath.e His troop of comedians did not long survive him. The theatre had been shut on his death, and not reopened till a fortnight after; when his widow, in contempt of decency, filled a part. She became manager; but was speedily deserted by the best actors, and soon after the use of the theatre was transferred to Lulli. Madame Molière applied to the king, and obtained the use of another; but within a few a Sévigné (1974), vol. I, pp. 488–9. Gabriel de Roquette, Bishop of Autun in Burgundy, eastern France, is otherwise referred to with affection and respect, e.g. vol. III, p. 577. b Voltaire, Molière, p. lxxxv. Taschereau disputes this view (p. 286), but here Mary Shelley ignores his judgement. c Cited in Taschereau, p. 316. Bernard-Joseph Saurin (1706–81), dramatist, wrote ‘His glory lacked nothing, it is ours which is found wanting.’ d Sébastien-Roch Nicolas, known as Chamfort (1740–94), dramatist and essayist; Mary Shelley follows Taschereau, p. 318. e From Taschereau, pp. 318–20, selectively.

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years this company no longer existed: amalgamated at first with that of the Marais, and soon after with that of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, there remained only one company of actors in France, called the king’s troop. Molière’s widow soon after married Guerin, an actor;a her career was not reputable: frivolity and misconduct long deprived her of the public esteem. She continued to act till the 14th October, 1694, when she retired from the stage with / a pension of 1000 livres. From this time she partly redeemed past errors by leading a perfectly respectable life till she died, 30th November, 1700. Of Molière’s three children one only survived, a daughter. She was placed in a convent by her mother; but, resisting her wish to take the veil, she returned home. A grown up daughter interfered with madame Guerin’s arrangements; and Molière’s orphan child was unhappy and neglected. Unable to induce her mother to make any arrangement for her marriage, she allowed herself to be carried off by M. Claude Rachel, sieur de Montalant, a widower with four children, and forty-nine years of age. Her mother was soon reconciled; and they all together went to live at Argenton. Madame de Montalant died in 1723, at the age of fifty-seven. She had no children; and not only does the posterity of Molière no longer exist, but even the many descendants of his numerous brothers and sisters have left no trace – and the family of Poquelin is extinct.b /

a b

Guérin d’Estriché. These details follow Taschereau, pp. 312–15.

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[The following is not by Mary Shelley.]

LA FONTAINE. 1621–1695. T HE life of this celebrated fabulist is marked by fewer incidents than the generality even of literary lives. Unambitious, indolent, “simple,” it has been said, “as the heroes of his own fables,” and subject to the most whimsical lapses of thought and memory, his habitual state was a sort of abstracted ruminating quietism, roused from which, he amused by his singularities, or delighted by his inspirations. He lived almost a stranger to the literary disputes of his time. Personal resentment or dislike was a feeling too uncongenial, and an effort too fatiguing, for him to sustain, beyond the excitement of the moment, even on two occasions when he was wantonly ill used. His designation of “bon homme,” first applied to him by Boileau and Racine, then by the public, and since by posterity, paints him very happily. The particulars recorded of him are what would naturally be expected – traits of character rather than events. Jean de la Fontaine was born on the 8th day of July, 1621, at Château Thierry. Some of his biographers have maintained his pretensions to nobility with a silly zeal. His father, Jean de la Fontaine, was master or keeper of the royal domains in his district, which appears to have been an honourable charge. The youth of the poet gave no promise of his future success. He was remarkable only for his dulness, and a certain easy tractable good nature. His teachers pronounced him a well disposed but hopeless dunce; but his father, a very zealous and still more undiscerning admirer of poetry, resolved that he should cultivate the muses, – and poor La Fontaine laboured with all the complaisance of filial duty. His efforts were vain. He could / not produce a rhyme, – he who afterwards rhymed with so much felicity and abundance, – and who alone, of all the poets of his country, before and since his time, has, by the disposition of his rhymes and the structure of his verses, completely vanquished the monotony of French versification. The father did not abandon his cherished hopes until he beheld his son arrived at the age of nineteen, when, disappointed of making him a poet, he took the more feasible resolution of making him a priest. With no other fruits of education than such a stock of Latin as a dull boy could have acquired under a village school-master, La Fontaine, now in his twentieth year, entered the religious order 49

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of the “oratoire,” – in passive complaisance with the wishes of his father, and the example of his brother, a respectable ecclesiastic, who was affectionately attached to the poet, and who subsequently made over to him his share of their paternal inheritance. It may be set down among the instances of La Fontaine’s characteristic simplicity, that he did not perceive his utter inaptitude for such a life. He renounced the cloister and returned to society after eighteen months. “The wonder is not,” says the abbe Olivet, “that La Fontaine threw off the fetters of a monastic life, but that he ever assumed them;” to which it may be added, as a second wonder, that after living, as he did, in ease and freedom, without system or control, he was able to bear them so long. It seems to have been his destiny in early life to have conditions chosen for him by others, and adopted by himself, with a curious opposition to his habits and character. Upon his return to the paternal roof, his father proposed to him the transfer of his charge, and a marriage with Marie d’Hericart, the daughter of a friend of his family. La Fontaine accepted both, with the same unthinking docility. The duties of his mastership of the royal domains were light and few, and his wife had talents and beauty; but he neglected alike his official and domestic obligations, with an innocent / unconsciousness of both which disarmed censure and silenced complaint. It would appear that his father now thought once more of seeing him a poet, hopeless as this appeared to everybody else, and to none more than to La Fontaine. His perseverance was strangely rewarded at last. An accident, or an incident so described, called forth the latent fire at the age of twenty-two. The best company of the neighbourhood, and more particularly those who had any pretensions to literature, visited the father of La Fontaine. Among them an officer of the garrison at Château Thierry, a great admirer and reciter of verse, brought with him the poems of Malherbe, and read before young La Fontaine the ode on the assassination of Henry IV. beginning– “Que direz vous races futures.”

Between the lyric spirit of the poet, and the energy of the declaimer, La Fontaine’s dormant faculty was suddenly excited. For some days he could think of nothing but the odes of Malherbe. He read them, recited them, spoke of them, with an unconscious and comic disregard of time, place, and persons. He commenced immediately writing odes in imitation of his great idol; and the happy father, on beholding his first essay, wept for joy. But if La Fontaine had written nothing else, or if he had always adhered to the same model, he would have left only the proofs of his own mediocrity, and of his father’s want of taste. The choice of Malherbe was as unhappy a mistake of his peculiar genius as his previous destination had been of his character. That poet’s forced thoughts and lofty diction are directly opposed to the simple graces of expression and imagination which characterise La Fontaine. He fortunately discovered his mistake, and the secret of his strength, chiefly through the advice of a judicious friend. This was a man of 50

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cultivated mind, named Pintrel, translator of the letters of Seneca. His name and his translation would doubtless have sunk into ohlivion, / were they not thus associated with the early studies of La Fontaine, who, ever grateful to the memory of his guide and friend, republished the forgotten translation. La Fontaine’s modern reading was hitherto confined to Malherbe, – his education, to just as much or as little Latin as was requisite for his admission to a religious order. Pintrel recommended to him the abandonment of Malherbe and verse-making for a time, and the studious perusal of Virgil, Horace, Terence, Livy, and Quintilian. He adopted this judicious counsel, and improved at the same time his knowledge of the Latin language and his taste. Horace, he long afterwards declared, in a letter to the learned Huet, bishop of Avranches, saved him from being spoiled by Malherbe. It is a curious fact that, as La Fontaine became more conversant with those antique and eternal models of true beauty, he disrelished the French literature of his own time. He went back from the age of Louis XIV. to that of Francis I., preferring the simple and undisciplined manner of the one to the civilised, fastidious, and artificial system of the other. The mere English reader will understand the nature and the justice of this preference, by imagining an English writer, of the reign of Charles II., discarding the wits of that reign for the redundant and unadulterated literature of Elizabeth or Henry VIII.; and they who understand the ancient classics in their spirit and genius, not in external forms, will not be surprised by their producing this effect. The true antique is simple and indulgent, as well as elegant, noble, and governed by rules. It should not be forgotten, or lost sight of, however, that at this period the French literature of the age of Louis XIV. had not yet reached its distinctive character and excellence. The Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins, with their conceits and mannerisms, had not yet been banished by the force of satire, and the example of better taste in Boileau and Moliere. Boileau had not yet written / his satires and art of poetry; Moliere had not yet dissected, and exposed on the stage, the verses of an admired court poet of the day.* La Fontaine’s favourite French writers, from the commencement to the end of his literary career, were Rabelais and Clement Marot; the one for his humour, invention, and happy manner of narrating, in his episodical and most eccentric tales, – the other for his gaiety and naiveté, – and both for the archaic simplicity of their diction. He also read with delight Ariosto, Boccacio, and Machiavelli, – the last named not only in his lighter, but more serious works. Being asked why he preferred the writers of Italy to those of his own nation, he replied, in that tone * Moliere, says Cailhava, in his “Art de la Comedie,” indignant at the false taste of the court and the public, puts into the mouth of a courtier, in his “Misanthrope,” a sonnet of Cotin, the most fashionable poet of the day, and a member of the academy. Bad taste was so accredited with the public, that the audience, on the first night of performance, applauded this nonsense to the echo, in perfect good faith. Moliere expected and only waited this effect to “pulverise” the sonnet and its admirers by the relentless and excellent criticism which he puts into the mouth of his misanthrope, Alceste.

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of simplicity, bordering on silliness, which obtained him the name of “bon homme,” that “they diverted him more.” This avowed predilection for the great writers of Italy, at a time when they were not appreciated in France, when Boileau had the impertinence to speak lightly of “Messire Arioste,” proves not only the instinctive correctness of his taste, but the independence of his judgment. Wholly ignorant of the Greek language in his youth, he was too indolent to acquire it at a later period. Translations, and the help of a friend, named Maucroix, who aided him in his studies, like Pintrel, supplied this defect, – as far as it could be supplied. La Fontaine, in return, associated Maucroix, a good scholar, an indifferent poet, and a true friend, with his own immortality, in his letters and minor poems. It may be observed, that, when he resorts to the Greek writers, he seizes their spirit with a justness which would imply a knowledge of their language. This is ascribed to his early intimacy / with Racine, who was the most accomplished Greek scholar of his country, and explained as well as translated several portions of the Greek classics for the use of his friend. La Fontaine chiefly delighted in Plutarch and Plato. His partiality to the former may be easily conceived. The lives of Plutarch were calculated to charm his indolence and his imagination. There is something not quite so obvious in his choice of Plato. But the attentive reader will discover, in his fables and tales, traits of observation and ethical philosophy the most profound, as well as ingenious, – worthy of Plato, or of Machiavelli, – yet so happily disposed, and so simply expressed, as to appear perfectly in their place. The abbe Olivet mentions his having seen a copy of Plato once possessed by La Fontaine, and noted by him in such a manner as to betray the source of many of his maxims and observations. It is curious and instructive to observe one who has been regarded as essentially the poet of nature – one supposed never to have meditated or read – thus storing his mind with knowledge from the best sources, and forming his taste after the best models. His verses even, indolent as he was, and easy and careless as they seem, were slowly and laboriously produced. He has declared this in his letters and prefaces, and it is attested by some who knew him. The fact cannot be too strongly impressed. Mistaken or misrepresented instances of uncultivated genius, and of composition without labour or length of time, too frequently stimulate ignorant and pretending mediocrity to teaze the press and the public with commonplaces, without value as without number. La Fontaine continued some years at Château Thierry, obscure and indolent, – neglecting his charge, his family, and his fortune, – reading his favourite authors, writing verse, and translating Terence. The preface to his poem of “Adonis,” and its being composed in heroic verse, for which he had an early predilection, would imply that it was written during this period. Most of his other earlier verses have been lost through his neglect / of the manuscripts; but, judging by some early pieces given in his posthumous works, their disappearance is scarcely to be regretted.

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The monotony of his rural life was broken only by a visit to Paris, or some village adventure. The following affair is truly curious, as illustrating the character of the man: – Some self-called friends, either in jest or malice, intimated to him that the frequent visits of an old military officer, named Poignan, at his house, compromised the reputation of madame La Fontaine, and that her husband was bound in honour to challenge him. La Fontaine, the most negligent of husbands, and the most easy and credulous of mankind, listened implicitly to their counsel, made an extraordinary effort to rise at five in the morning, girded on his sword, sallied forth, and found Poignan in bed. “My dear friend,” said the old captain, “what brings you out so early? Has any misfortune happened? Is your house on fire?” “Rise, and follow me,” said the poet. The captain repeated and reiterated his entreaties for some explanation, but in vain. He was obliged to leave his bed, arm himself, and follow La Fontaine, without the remotest idea of his purpose. After they had gone some short distance, La Fontaine stopped, drew his sword, and desired his companion to draw and defend himself. The latter, having no alternative, drew in his own defence; and, with his superior address as a military man, disarmed the poet at the first pass. He now obtained an explanation. “They have told me,” said La Fontaine, “that I ought to fight you, because you go to my house to see my wife.” “My dear friend,” replied the captain, who was past the age of gallantry, and, having neither family nor occupations, sought, in his visits, only an escape from ennui, “you have been abused, and I slandered: but, to set your mind quite at ease, I will never again cross your threshold, grievous as the privation is to me.” “No, my friend,” rejoined the poet, “I have satisfied them by / fighting you, as they advised me, and henceforth you shall come to my house more frequently than ever.” This anecdote is scarce reconcilable with the maxims of one who reduced the question of conjugal fidelity to the following dilemma: – “Quand on ne le scait pas, ce n’est rien – quand on le scait c’est peu de choses.” But it has passed without question in every biographical notice of him. La Fontaine, according to some accounts, was an unfaithful as well as negligent husband. But his rural gallantries, besides the uncertain evidence of them, are too frivolous to be noticed here. Opinions and representations are divided as respects madame La Fontaine. According to some, her talents and beauty were marred by an imperious temper, and she was the very original of “Madame Honesta,” in the tale of Belphegor, who was “D’une orgueil extreme; A et d’autant plus, que de quelque vertu Un tel orgueil paraissait revetu.”

La Fontaine, they add, accordingly, like the husband in Belphegor, took occasion to absent himself as often and as long as he could. Others, again, assert that the lady was gentle as she was beautiful, and that her husband bore testimony to her good qualities of temper expressly, as well as to her taste, by submitting to her his poetical labours. It may be said, that the neglect and absences of such a 53

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husband as La Fontaine form no presumption against the conjugal temper of his wife. Some anecdotes related of his negligence and distractions startle belief. Despatched by his father to Paris, on business the most important and most urgent, he met a friend, dined with him, went to the play with him, supped with him, took up his lodging for the night in his house, and returned to Château Thierry next day. “Well, you have arranged every thing satisfactorily?” said the father. La Fontaine opened wide his eyes in astonishment. He had wholly forgotten the matter till that moment! Going to Paris on another occasion, with papers, / upon which depended his private fortune and his public charge, he was overtaken by the postman. “Monsieur,” said the latter, “has dropped some papers on the way.” “No, no,” replied the poet. But the other, knowing with whom he had to do, or having discovered from the papers to whom they belonged, requested him to examine his saddle-bags; upon which he remembered, for the first time, that he even had papers to lose. In his reveries and distractions, he was unconscious not only of the lapse of time but of the inclemency of the weather. He loved reading and musing in the open air. The duchess of Bouillon left him one morning, with a Livy in his hand, pacing up and down between two rows of trees. On her return in the evening she found him still pacing and reading in the same place. What made this the more extraordinary was a heavy fall of rain in the interim, and La Fontaine having all the time had his head uncovered. He probably owed, and the world owes it, to his acquaintance with the duchess of Bouillon, that he did not pass his life idly and obscurely at Château Thierry. This lady was one of the celebrated Mancinis, nieces of Cardinal Mazarin. She inherited her uncle’s ambition, sagacity, and love of intrigue: she shared with her sisters wit, gaiety, and the graces; and, with her family, a taste for literature. Whilst living in court disgrace at Château Thierry, some verses of La Fontaine happened to meet her eye. She immediately had the poet introduced to her, and soon became his friend. She had, it is said, the merit of discerning not only his genius but its peculiar bent. La Fontaine had yet written neither tales nor fables. She advised him to devote himself to simple and playful narrations in verse. His first tales in point of time, and some of the first in point of merit, are said to have been composed by him according to her suggestions, both of the matter and the manner. He is supposed indebted to her for that grace and delicacy of perception and expression which he combined with so much of simplicity and nature. He / lived in her intimate society, and that alone must have been a great advantage to him. The conversation of a woman who knew the world, loved poetry, and judged of both with discernment, must have been the best school for one so simple and inexperienced, yet so ingenious and inspired, as La Fontaine. It may appear strange that La Fontaine, a simple bourgeois, and village poet, was thus familiarly treated by a woman of the highest rank. His charge even placed him in the relation of a servant to the duke of Bouillon, her husband, who held some superior and sinecure charge of the royal domains. But, strongly as the gradations of birth and title were marked in France, it will be found that sense, 54

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wit, and genius conferred privilege, or, like love and death, levelled all degrees. Voiture, the son of a vintner, was the companion of princes, the lover of princesses, and would never have been reminded of his birth, had he not had the weakness to be ashamed of it; and even then only in pleasantries, which he well deserved for his weakness and vanity. A court lady, provoked by his conceit, one evening, whilst “playing at proverbs,” as it was called, said to him, “Come, that won’t do; give us a fresh tap – (percez nous en d’un autre).” The duchess of Bouillon, on the expiration or remission of her exile, took La Fontaine with her to Paris. He now became known to the persons most distinguished in the capital for rank and genius in the circles of his patroness, and of her sister, the celebrated duchess of Mazarin, so well known for her wit, graces, gallantries, and conjugal disputes. Both sisters continued the friends of La Fontaine through life, and exercised great influence over his writings. Their characters may be illustrated, in passing, by a single anecdote. It is related in the memoirs of the duchess of Mazarin, – written by herself, or under her immediate direction. Their breaches of court discipline subjected them frequently to mitigated imprisonments, – sometimes at their own seats, sometimes in a convent, where the / offence demanded a more serious lesson of penance and reform. Having been on one occasion consigned to the same convent they amused themselves by putting ink into the holy water. The nuns, who on their way to matins and vespers dipped their fingers in the font, and crossed their foreheads with the sacred lymph, on meeting in the chapel, beheld upon each other’s brows, with surprise and terror, the dark signs of reprobation. La Fontaine doubtless owed that finesse of expression which sometimes palliates, if it does not redeem, the freedom of his pleasantries, to his intercourse with two persons so witty, accomplished, and unconstrained. Soon after his arrival in Paris he formed that union of friendship between him, Moliere, Boileau, and Racine, which death only interrupted. These celebrated men appreciated his genius, before it yet received the stamp of public admiration, and always regarded him with affection. Boileau and Racine, indeed, amused themselves with his simplicity, and treated him sometimes with a certain air of protection. The conversation happening to turn one evening, at a supper party where they were, upon the dramatic probability of what are called stage whispers or “asides,” La Fontaine said it was absurd to suppose that what was heard by the whole audience could escape a person on the stage. A discussion ensued, as it commonly happened when any question of art or literature was started, even in the highest circles, – so different from modern fashionable life. “Don’t you think La Fontaine a great rogue?” said Boileau, to his nearest neighbour, aside, but loud enough to be heard, and laughed at by everybody except La Fontaine, who was thinking of something else. The argument, as well as the laugh, was immediately turned against him; but most illogically, for the fact proved not the reasonableness of “asides;” it was evidence only of La Fontaine’s distractions. “Let them 55

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laugh,” said Moliere, “le bon homme will take a flight beyond them – (le bon homme ira plus loin / qu’eux).” This prediction has been verified; La Fontaine’s reputation has been uniformly spreading and rising, in spite of the disposition, even in France, during and since the latter half of the last century, to detract from the age of Louis XIV. It is worth remarking, with reference to this anecdote, that, of all the poets of that age, he and Molière alone have maintained their pre-eminence undisputed through every change of taste and time. La Fontaine now passed his life in the coteries of the duchesses of Bouillon and Mazarin, Boileau and Racine, without giving a thought to his home or family. Boileau and Racine, both strictly religious moralists, were scandalised by his complete separation from his wife, and pointed out to him its indecency. Simple and docile, as usual, he admitted the justice of their remonstrance; said the impropriety of his conduct had never occurred to him; and, to make amends, he said he should go and see his wife without delay. He set out for Château Thierry the next morning, and came back the succeeding day. His friends made their inquiries respecting madame La Fontaine. “I did not see her,” said he. “How,” said they, “not see her? was she from home?” “Yes; she was gone to prayers; and the servant, not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house till she returned.” In this extremity the poor poet, shut out of his own house, went to that of a friend, where he dined, supped, and slept; and from which he started for Paris next morning, without seeing his wife, or making his house a second visit. The most imperative of all motives, however, the want of money, sometimes sent him to Château Thierry, for the purpose of selling part of his estate, to provide for his expenses at Paris. His improvident practice, of consuming the principal after the interest was gone, “mangant son fonds aprez son revenu,” as he himself expressed it, together with his wife’s want of economy – for in this at least they perfectly agreed, – would / have soon left him destitute, if he had not become known to the celebrated and unfortunate Foucquet. That prodigal financier and magnificent patron, upon being made acquainted with the genius, character, and wants of La Fontaine, settled on him a liberal pension, to be paid quarterly, on the condition of a quarterly quittance in verse; and this condition he religiously fulfilled. His pension, or rather his gratitude, dictated to him some of the most beautiful of his smaller pieces. He celebrated and ministered to the fêtes and gallantries, and sang the groves, gardens, and fountains, of Vaux, – that princely residence, which Foucquet adorned with all that wealth, prodigality, and the arts could produce; and which, it has been supposed, contributed not a little to his ruin, by provoking the jealous or envious pride of Louis XIV. Though La Fontaine’s acknowledgments are grateful, they are not servile. Whatever appears exaggerated at the present day fell far short of the tone of his contemporaries, and is moreover nobly borne out by his fidelity in his patron’s memorable disgrace. Foucquet provoked, not only the displeasure, but the personal jealousy and vengeance of Louis XIV., by rivalling him in princely magnificence at Vaux; and 56

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in gallantry, it has been said, by making pretensions to the royal mistress La Valliere*; yet had La Fontaine not only the generosity to adhere to him, but the courage, for such it was, to solicit his pardon of Louis XIV., in an elegy full of touching pathos and philosophy. Alluding to the fickleness of fortune and court favour, he says:– “On n’y connait que trop les jeux de la fortune, Ses trompeuses faveurs, ses appas inconstans, Mais on ne les connait que quand il n’est plus temps.”

To move Louis he brings before him the example of Henry IV.– “Du magnanime Henri qu’il contemple la vie, Des qu’il put se venger, il en perdit l’envie.” /

Louis, however, alike insensible to justice, mercy, and poetry, changed, by a mockery of commutation, the minister’s sentence of banishment into solitary confinement for life. Colbert, the enemy and successor of Foucquet, could not forgive the crime of fidelity to a fallen patron in a poet, and took away La Fontaine’s pension. La Fontaine, it has been observed, was in his twenty-third year before he gave the least indication of the poetic faculty. He had passed his fortieth before his genius and reputation attained their full height and splendour. A small volume, entitled “Contes et Merveilles en vers,” published with his name, in 1664, determined his place as a poet, established his supremacy over all fabulists, modern and ancient, and formed an epoch in French literature. His fortune did not improve with his fame. It is true that his celebrity made him known to the prince of Condé and the duke and abbé de Villars, by whom, as well as by the duchesses of Bouillon and Mazarin, he was occasionally and liberally supplied; but his want of all order and economy rendered their liberality unavailing, because it was irregular and occasional. He joined in the universal pæan of the day to Louis XIV. His tale of “Psyche and Cupid” is disfigured by episodic descriptions of the magnificence of Versailles, with a due seasoning of compliment to the great king; but he continued unpatronised, even after the death of Colbert, whose injustice to La Fontaine is a stain upon his otherwise illustrious memory. The neglect, or, it may be termed, the exception of him by Louis, who was so munificent to other men of genius, has been accounted for.† That monarch admired and rewarded only those talents which ministered to his pride or his pleasures – to the splendours of his court or government. He had a taste only for the grand, the gorgeous, and the adulatory. Boileau owed the royal favour to two indifferent odes much more than to his / satires, epistles, art of poetry, and Lutrin; and Moliere, to those court ballets in which Louis danced, rather than to his dramatic chefs d’ œuvre. Louis XIV. had the same * Vie de La Fontaine, par Walknaer. † Champfort – Eloge de La Fontaine.

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distaste for La Fontaine as a poet and Teniers as a painter; and, from the same principle, – he could not admire humble subjects, treated in a true and simple, however charming, style. He would not condescend to understand the language of “Jean Lapin” and “Maître Corbeau.” La Fontaine offered him incense in his way; but it was not of the kind acceptable to the idol; and he continued neglected, even when, in an evil hour, he sang the revocation of the edict of Nantes. La Fontaine was also in bad odour with the intriguing devotees of the court; and Louis, a weak bigot, with all his arrogance and pride, may have been indisposed towards him on this account, from their suggestions or his own. The loss of his pension thus remained unsupplied; and he continued once more carelessly spending “son fonds aprez son revenu,” when he came under the notice of the most accomplished, enlightened, and amiable princess of her time – Henrietta of England, daughter of Charles I., most unworthily married to the duke of Orleans, brother of Louis XIV. She attached him to her suite, as one of the gentlemen of her household, with a salary to receive, and no service, beyond some volunteer verses, to perform. But La Fontaine had not long enjoyed her patronage when the princess died; under suspicion of poison, regretted by all France, her husband excepted; and La Fontaine was once more in distress – if that to which he was wholly insensible can be so termed. He seems to have derived from nature the happy or unhappy insensibility to the accidents of life, which some ancient philosophers attained only through the severest exercise of reason and discipline. It appears to have been his fortune to be indebted to the discernment and kindness of women. Among the persons uniting high rank to a taste for literature, with / whom he became acquainted at Paris, was madame de la Sabliere. This accomplished and kind-hearted woman, perceiving La Fontaine’s utter inability to regulate the economy of the simplest household, relieved him of all care at once by giving him an apartment in her house. Here he passed twenty (the happiest) years of his life, relieved from all anxiety, – his wants supplied, and his humour indulged, with the utmost attention and kindness. Some of his pieces are dedicated to his benefactress, and he has celebrated her name in verse, but with reserve and delicacy. Madame de la Sabliere had the good taste to control the poet’s expression of his feelings in their particular relation to each other. He composed during this period the most popular of his tales, “Joconde,” and dedicated it to madame de la Sabliere. It is the most justly admired of all his tales; and, being imitated from Ariosto, placed him in a state of rivalry with the great Italian poet. An officer in the household of the duke of Orleans, named Bouillon, gave at the same time a rival version, and persons were found courtly or tasteless enough to prefer it to La Fontaine’s. The question was even made the subject of a wager; and the arbiter appealed to declined giving an opinion. Boileau did indignant justice to genius and his friend, and Bouillon’s “Joconde” was no more heard of. “La Fontaine,” says Boileau, “imitated Ariosto as Virgil imitated Homer, and Tasso Virgil; Bouillon like a trembling valet, who dared not put one foot before 58

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the other without his master’s leave.” He even insinuates that La Fontaine had treated the subject in a manner superior to Ariosto himself. There is, it is true, in La Fontaine’s manner, a simplicity, and ease, and graceful levity, somewhat more suitable to the matter and to a mere fabulist. But those who are acquainted with the Italian poet will consider any deficiency of these minor graces in him much more than redeemed by his superior richness, and variety of invention, and vigour of imagination. / The society of madame de la Sabliere comprised princes, nobles, poets, and philosophers. She cultivated science as well as literature, – but in secret. Bernier, who also had an apartment in her house, gave La Fontaine some notions in natural philosophy. It was under this influence, whilst his head was filled with physical science, that he wrote his poem on Jesuits’ bark (Le Quinquina) – a dull production, on a barren subject; which, however, was not then quite so uninviting as it may appear now. Bark had just performed what were deemed marvellous cures on Louis XIV. and Colbert, and it was sold by the Jesuits at its weight in gold. Colbert had the littleness to be unjust to La Fontaine; but the poet had the magnanimity to be just to the minister. He alludes to him in this poem in a tone of manly, independent, and merited praise. La Fontaine added considerably to the number of his fables and tales, and wrote several dramatic pieces, whilst he lived under the roof of madame de la Sabliere. His dramas, chiefly operas and light comedies, with an attempt or two at tragedy, are below mediocrity. He wanted the dramatic instinct. There are scenes of easy graceful dialogue, but strung together without art or interest. Some were written by him in partnership with the comedian Champmèlè, husband of the celebrated actress of that name, who played in the tragedies and figures in the life of Racine, and in the letters of madame de Sévigné. It is told of him that, whilst sitting in the pit, during the first performance of one of his own operas, he fell asleep! But this is too much, even for La Fontaine; and it should not be forgotten, that an opera was the cause of the only satire he ever wrote, and of one of the only two quarrels he ever had. The celebrated Lulli obtained his easy promise to write him an opera on the story of Daphne, teased him until it was completed, and then capriciously adopted the “Proserpine” of Quinault. La Fontaine, now an old man, or, as he called himself, “un enfant à barbe grise,” a child with a grey beard, knew, for the first / time, what it was to feel personal resentment, and wrote the satire entitled “Le Florentin.” It is merely a narrative of the affair between him and Lulli, in the manner of his tales. But he was soon and easily reconciled; and he complained afterwards that the little gall in him was stirred by others on the occasion. The only symptom of literary ambition ever shown by La Fontaine was his desire to become a member of the French academy. A vacancy having occurred in 1683, he became a candidate. The devotees at court opposed and denounced him as a mere writer of frivolous and licentious tales, fit only to rank with Clement Marot and Rabelais, and unworthy of a place in that grave and learned body. Yet 59

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was he elected the successor of the great Colbert, whose death had caused the vacancy, and in opposition to Boileau, by a majority of sixteen to seven. Louis XIV. never interfered in the elections; but his sanction was necessary before the elected candidate could be received. He withheld his approbation for several months, from his dislike of La Fontaine, and his pique at the rejection of Boileau, then his chief eulogist and historiographer. So anxious was La Fontaine during the interval, that he solicited the interest of the royal mistress, madame de Montespan, through her sister, madame de Thiars, and addressed a supplicatory ballad to Louis XIV. Another vacancy soon occurred; Boileau was elected; and a deputation of the academy waited on Louis to acquaint him. His reply was, “Your choice of M. Boileau will be universally approved, and you may now receive La Fontaine. He has promised to be good – (il a promisé d’être sage”). He certainly wrote fewer tales henceforth; but it is doubtful whether this did not proceed more from indolence than the promise of reformation. The private sittings of the academy, also, “diverted” him, as he expressed it, during those hours which he before consumed in diverting himself with writing verse. His becoming a member of the academy led to his second / and last quarrel, and in a manner truly worthy of La Fontaine. This authentic fact goes a great way in establishing the credit of other anecdotes deemed untrue or exaggerated from their improbability. The French academy was at this time engaged in its great undertaking of a dictionary which should fix the French language. The abbe Furetiere, then a popular writer, and one of “the forty,” announced a dictionary of the French language in his own name. He was immediately charged with pirating the common stock. A ferment was excited in the academy, and throughout the republic of letters in France. Furetiere, publicly arraigned, defended himself with keen and virulent personalities, and, after several discussions, was expelled. La Fontaine was one of the minority in his favour, and meant to give him his vote; but unluckily, in one of his usual distractions, dropped his ball, by mistake, in the rejecting compartment of the balloting-box. Furetiere would not pardon the blunder, and attacked him bitterly. After an exchange of epigrams, which did credit to neither, La Fontaine thought of the affair no more; but was never reconciled. Furetiere, in his vengeance, revealed the secrets of the learned assembly. If his account may be relied on, the process by which the academy proposed its famous dictionary was truly laughable. “He only is right,” says Furetiere, “who talks loudest: one makes a long speech upon some trifle; another echoes the nonsense of his predecessor; sometimes three or four talk at the same time. When five or six are in close committee, one reads, another delivers his opinion, two are chatting together, a fifth looks over some dictionary which may happen to be on the table, and the sixth is sleeping.” The treachery of the disclosure was condemned, but its truth generally admitted; and the private sittings of the academy were the theme of public ridicule and amusement, like the consultations of physicians, so pleasantly treated by Molière.

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Whatever excuse there may have been for Furetiere’s / bitterness against his adversaries and the academy, there was none for his attack on La Fontaine. The blunder was provoking, but committed most innocently. La Fontaine’s character placed his good faith beyond all doubt. His singularities were so well known that his mistakes and eccentricities were chartered in society, and excused even by Louis XIV. Having been introduced to the royal presence to present one of his works, he searched, and searched in vain, for the votive volume, and then frankly told the king that he had forgotten it! “Let it be another time, M. de la Fontaine,” said the monarch, with a graciousness and good humour which did him honour, and dismissing the poet with a purse of gold. This misadventure did not quicken his attention even for the moment: he left his purse of gold behind him in the carriage. The stories of his careless apathy, and absences of mind, are numberless. Meeting, at a large dinner party, a young man with whose conversation he seemed pleased, somebody asked his opinion of him. “He is a young man of sense and promise,” said La Fontaine. “Why, it is your own son,” said the questioner. “Ah! I am very glad of it,” rejoined the father, with the utmost indifference. He had forgotten that he even had a son; who fortunately had been taken charge of and educated by others. La Fontaine treated religion with the same indifference as all other subjects, however serious. Racine took him one day to an extraordinary service, on one of the festivals of the Roman-catholic church. Knowing that the service would be long, and apprehending the effect upon La Fontaine, he gave him a small bible to read, as a preventative against sleeping, or some other indecorum. The book happening to open before him at the lesser prophets, his attention soon became wholly absorbed by the prayer of the Jews in Baruch. It took the same possession of his imagination in his advanced age as the ode of Malherbe in his youth. His first question to everybody was, “Have you read Baruch? Do you / know he was a man of genius?” This was his common expression for some time to all whom he met, without distinction of persons, from a buffoon to a bishop. It was one of his singularities, that, when anything took his fancy, he could think of nothing else for the time; and he introduced his favourite topic, or favourite author, in a manner at once unseasonable and comic. One day, whilst in company with the abbe Boileau, his head full of Rabelais, whom he had just been reading, he abruptly asked the grave ecclesiastic which he thought had more wit, Rabelais or St. Austin. Some were shocked, others laughed; and the abbe, when recovered from his surprise, replied, “M. de la Fontaine, you have put on your stocking the wrong side out,” which was really the fact. Wishing to testify his respect for the celebrated Arnaud, he proposed dedicating to him one of the least scrupulous of his tales, in which a monk is made to cite scripture in a manner far from edifying. Boileau and Racine had the utmost difficulty in making him comprehend that such an offering would be an outrage to the respected and rigid Jansenist. He was nearly as absent as the man who forgot in the evening that he 61

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had been married in the morning. It occurred to him one day to go and dine with a friend. On his knocking at the door, a servant in mourning informed him that his friend had been buried ten days before, and reminded him that he had himself assisted at the funeral. The humour and fancy which abound in his tales, and his reputation among the men of genius of his time, made him an object of curiosity. He was sought and shown in company as “a lion,” if one may use that ephemeral term. A farmer-general invited a large party “to meet the celebrated La Fontaine.” They came prepared to hear him talk like “Joconde,” or tell such stories as “The Matron of Ephesus.” Poor La Fontaine eat, drank, never opened his mouth for any other purpose, and soon rose, to attend, he said, a / meeting of the academy. “The distance is short: you will be too early,” said the host. “I’ll take the longest way,” replied La Fontaine. Madame de la Sabliere at one time discharged her whole establishment whilst La Fontaine was residing in her house. “What!” said somebody, have you kept none?” “None,” replied the lady, “except mes trois bêtes*, – my cat, my dog, and La Fontaine.” Such was her idea of his thoughtless and more than childish simplicity. It will hardly cause surprise that such a man never had a study or a library. He read and wrote when and where he felt disposed; and never thought of being provided with any other books than those he was immediately using. After twenty years of unwearied kindness, he was deprived of the society and care of his benefactress, and soon after of the home which he had enjoyed in her house. The circumstances present one of the most curious views of French manners and character at the time. Madame de la Sabliere, a married woman, with an independent fortune, lived on terms of civility with her husband, who scarcely merited even this, and maintained with the anacreontic poet, La Fare, that ambiguous but recognised relation of tender friendship, into which no one looked beyond its decorous exterior, and which created neither scandal nor surprise. La Fare, after an attachment of some years, deserted his “friend” for the gaming table and the actress Champmèlè, who turned so many heads in her day. This desertion so preyed upon the mind of madame de la Sabliere that she sought refuge in devotion and a convent. Her husband, a rhyming marquis, who passed his life in writing madrigals upon his frivolous amours, was deserted about the same time by a mistress, and took it so to heart that he poisoned himself – at the romantic age of sixty-five! This event had such an effect upon madame de la Sabliere, joined with her own private sorrows, that she did not long survive him, / and La Fontaine was once more thrown helpless and homeless upon the world. The duchess of Bouillon was at this time in England with her sister, the duchess of Mazarin, who had taken up her residence there to avoid breathing the same air with her husband, when tormenting him had ceased to be an amusement to * The term “bête” as used here, and familiarly in French conversation is untranslatable into English.

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her. The poet St. Evremond, her friend, had, also, been long established in England. Learning the melancholy state in which La Fontaine was left by the death of madame de la Sabliere, the three invited him over to England, with an assurance of being well provided for. Some English persons of distinction, who had known La Fontaine at Paris, and admired his genius, among them lords Godolphin and Danby, and lady Hervey, joined in the invitation. La Fontaine, now infirm and old, and at all times the most indolent of men, could not bring himself to make the effort. He, however, rather hesitated than declined. An opportune present of fifty louis from the duke of Burgundy, or rather in his name, for he was then but a child, decided his refusal. Notwithstanding this temporary supply, he would soon have been destitute, if he had not become indebted once more for a home and its comforts to the friendship of a woman. Madame d’Hervart, the wife of a rich financier, who had known him at the house of madame de la Sabliere, offered him a similar asylum, in her own. Whilst on her way to make the proposal she met him in the street, and said, without preface or form, “La Fontaine, come and live in my house.” “I was just going, madam,” said the poet, with as much indifference as if his doing so was the simplest thing in the world; and this relation of kindness and confidence subsisted without change to his death. The protection and proofs of friendship which La Fontaine received from the sex reflect honour upon the memory of his benefactresses. But his is by no means a single instance. An interesting volume might be written upon the obligations which unprotected talents, literature, and / the arts are under to the discerning taste and generosity of Frenchwomen. La Fontaine’s health had been declining for some time; but whether from his having no immediate apprehension of death, or from his habitual indolence, he manifested no sense of the truths and duties of religion. The idea of his dying impenitent agitated the court and the sorbonne. It was arranged that father Poujet, a person of note as a controversialist and director of consciences, should make him a visit, under pretence of mere civility. The abbe Niceron, in his memoirs of men of letters, describes this interview. The wily confessor, after conversing some time on ordinary topics, introduced that of religion with an adroitness wholly superfluous with so simple a soul as La Fontaine. They spoke of the Bible. “La Fontaine,” says Niceron, “who was never irreligious in principle, said to him, with his usual naiveté, ‘I have been lately reading the New Testament: it is a good book – yes, upon my faith! a very good book; but there is one article to which I cannot subscribe – the eternity of punishment. I do not comprehend how this can be consistent with the goodness of God.’ Father Poujet,” continues Niceron, “discussed the subject with him fully; and, after ten or twelve visits and discussions, succeeded in convincing La Fontaine of all the truths of religion.” His state soon became so alarming that he was called upon to make a general confession, preparatory to his receiving the sacrament. Certain reparations and expiations were to be previously made; and father Poujet, with all his logic and adroitness, had some difficulty in obtaining them. The first sacrifice required of 63

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him was, that he should abandon the proceeds of an edition of his tales, then publishing under his direction in Holland; the publication of them in France having been prohibited since 1677. He readily consented for himself; but wished to make over the profits to the poor, as more consonant with humanity, and more grateful in the eyes of God, than yielding them to a griping rogue / of a Dutch publisher. The priest convinced him that “the wages of sin” could not with propriety be applied to the service of God and of charity. He gave up the point; and such was the satisfaction caused by his conversion at court, that a sum, equal to what he should have received for his tales, was sent to him in the name of the young duke of Burgundy, “who thought it unreasonable that La Fontaine should be the poorer for having done his duty.” According to some accounts, this would appear to be the same donation of fifty louis already mentioned; and it is most probable. The devotees of the court were much more likely to reward the conversion than relieve the distress of La Fontaine, at a time when the tone was given by père la Chaise and madame de Maintenon. He was next required to consign to the flames, with his own hands, a manuscript opera, which he intended to have performed. The sacrifice was not consented to without some qualms of authorship, even by La Fontaine. The last condition was the hardest of all, – that he should ask pardon of God and the church, publicly, for having scandalised both in the publication of his tales. La Fontaine, with all his indolence and simplicity, and enfeebled as he was by sickness and age, resisted the demand of a public reparation, in spite of all the arguments and artifices of the confessor. It was agreed between them to appeal to the sorbonne. A deputation of three doctors accordingly waited on La Fontaine, and took part, as might be anticipated, with the confessor. They argued and disputed, but the poet still held out against making satisfaction publicly. An old nurse, who attended him, seeing the pitiless zeal with which they fatigued and teased the poor poet, said to them. “Don’t torment him, my reverend fathers; it is not ill-will in him, but stupidity, poor soul; and God Almighty will not have the heart to damn him for it.” They, however, did persevere, and gained their point. A deputation from the academy was called in to witness La Fontaine’s public reparation, / given as follows by Niceron: – “It is but too public and notorious that I have had the misfortune to compose a book of infamous tales. In composing it I had no idea of the work being so pernicious as it proves to be. My eyes have been opened, and I confess that it is an abominable book: I am most sorry that I ever wrote and published it; and I ask pardon of God and the church for having done so. I wish the work had never proceeded from my pen, and it were in my power wholly to suppress it. I promise solemnly, in the presence of my God, whom, though unworthy, I am going to receive, that I will never contribute to the impression or circulation of it: and I renounce, now and for ever, all profit from an edition which I unfortunately consented should be given in Holland.” There appears no reasonable doubt of a public reparation of some sort having been made by La Fontaine; but that above cited differs so entirely from his turn 64

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of thought and style as to suggest a suspicion of its having been fabricated or dictated to him. The report of his death was circulated with that of his conversion; and Liniere, a satirical poet of the day, wrote the following epigram upon him and Pelisson, who had died shortly before:– “Je ne jugerai de ma vie D’un homme avant qu’il soit eteint,– Pelisson est mort en impie, Et La Fontaine comme un saint.”

There was, however, nothing very surprising either in Pelisson dying like a sinner, or La Fontaine like a saint. The former, from being a huguenot, became a convert, and a maker of converts, a pensioned abbe, a courtier, an author of “Prayers at Mass,” “Amatory Verses to Olympia,” “a Treatise on the Eucharist;” there was nothing extraordinary or inconsistent in such a man dying, as he did, “unsacramented.” It was equally within the range of probability that La Fontaine, never an infidel, always tractable and simple, and now beset on his bed of sickness by learned and skilful disputants, should make so devout and edifying an end. / It should not be omitted that his conversion made the fortune of father Poujet: he immediately became a fashionable confessor, or spiritual director, and obtained church preferment. The epigrammatist was mistaken in La Fontaine’s death. He lived about two years more, in the house of madame d’Hervart; and, in spite of his vow, is supposed to have written some more tales; among them the tale entitled “La Clochette.” This relapse is said to be alluded to in the prologue cited by Moreri:– “O combien l’homme est inconstant, divers, Foible, leger, tenant mal sa parole: J’aurais jurè-meme, en assez beaux vers, De renoncer à tout conte frivole, Et quand jurè – c’est ce qui me confond– Depuis deux jours j’ai fait cette promesse,– Puis fiez vous à rimeur qui repond D’un seul moment,” &c.

His mind, however, seems to have been deeply tinged with devotion, from his illness, in 1693, to his death, in 1695. He began to translate the church hymns; and read, at the first meeting of the academy which he attended after his illness, a translation of the “Dies Iræ,” with more advantage to his reputation as a catholic than as a poet. His talent seems now to have given way to age, infirmity, and the penances which he appears to have imposed upon himself. Lulli, who died a few years before, did public penance, like La Fontaine, but with an after-thought worthy of the cunning Florentine. He burned, at the request of his confessor, the music of a new unperformed opera. A prince having asked him, a few days after, how he could be so silly as to destroy charming music at the desire of a drivelling jansenist, he replied, “Hush, hush, monseigneur; I 65

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knew what I did; I have another copy.” He, however, had a relapse, did penance in sackcloth and ashes, and died, with a halter round his neck, singing the hymn, “Sinner, thou must die,” with tears of remorse and agony. La Fontaine died in 1695, and in the seventy-fourth year of his age. Upon undressing his body, after death, / it was found that he mortified himself in a shirt of sackcloth. The apartment in which he lived and died, at the house of madame d’Hervart, was visited as an interesting object for several years after. The chief fault of La Fontaine is that he had but one tone. Madame de Sévigné, who judged men of genius with the presumption of a court lady dictating to her coterie, pronounces him wretched when he is anything but a fabulist. “I should like,” said she, in one of her letters, “to attempt a fable, for the express purpose of showing La Fontaine the misery of forcing one’s talent out of its sphere; and what bad music is produced by the foolish wish to sing in every tone.” La Fontaine had one tone in which he was pre-eminent; but sang in more than one without producing bad music. The poem of “Adonis” has great beauty. It should be regarded, he says, only as an idyl; and it will, undoubtedly, be found one of the most beautiful of that class. But it had the further merit of being the first accomplished specimen of heroic verse in France; for Boileau had not yet given his “Lutrin.” The mythological tale of “Psyche and Cupid,” in which prose and verse alternate and relieve each other, continues to be read, notwithstanding the modern unpopularity of the divinities of the Pantheon. He is indebted to Apuleius, but only for the fable and main incident: the episodes, description, and manner of narrating (“manière de conter,” as he calls it), are his own. The celebrated and forgotten romance of “Astrea” was one of the books which La Fontaine read with pleasure; and he is said to have derived from it that tone of pastoral sentiment and imagery which is one of the charms of “Psyche” and of some of his other pieces. It is probable, however, that he is under lighter obligations both to Apuleius and the “Astrea” than to the duchess of Bouillon, to whom he dedicated his tale. Living at the time in her intimate society, it was composed by him, under her inspiration, in that style of gaiety, tenderness, gallantry, and refinement, which he has combined with / so much of simplicity and fancy. The faults of this mythological, or, according to some, allegorical tale, as it is treated by La Fontaine, are its description of Versailles, some fatiguing digressions, and a certain indolent voluptuary languor. The result is, occasionally, that most fatal of all wants – the want of interest. La Fontaine’s dramatic pieces have a manifest affinity to his genius, but none whatever to the genius of the drama. Some of his elegies, compliments, anacreontics, and other lesser pieces, are worthy of him; others so indifferent as to render their genuineness doubtful. His poem on St. Malch was approved by the lyric poet Rousseau; and this is its highest distinction. His poem on Jesuit’s Bark is universally condemned. It is only in his fables and tales that one is to look for the supremacy of La Fontaine. As a fabulist he has surpassed all who preceded him, and has never been 66

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approached by his successors. It is charged upon him that he invented nothing; that he but translated, imitated, or versified Æsop, Phædrus, Petronius, Rabelais, Boccaccio, Ariosto, Machiavelli, the hundred novels of Cinthio, the Heptameron of the queen of Navarre, &c.; but it is justly replied, that this proceeded only from his humble estimate of himself, joined with his indolence. “His considering himself,” says Fontenelle, “inferior to Æsop and Phædrus was only another instance of his anomalous stupidity.” “It is untrue,” says La Harpe, “that La Fontaine invented nothing; he invented his style.” The question could not be placed in a happier and truer light. La Fontaine, from humility and indolence, took the materials which others had supplied to his hand; but by his manner of using them, by the magic of his original and unrivalled style, made them his own. So complete is his mastery over them, and so entirely is the merit his, that the palpable difference, in the original, between the genuine tales of Æsop and the forgeries of the Greek monk Planudes, vanish beneath his touch. France has produced a host of writers of fables and / apologues since his time, but none worthy of being named with him. England has produced much fewer fabulists, yet is justly proud of Gay. He had a striking resemblance to La Fontaine in personal character. Pope’s verse, in the epitaph on him, “In wit a man, simplicity a child,”

would seem to have been expressly written for La Fontaine. As poets or fabulists they differ widely and essentially. Gay’s fables are the nearest in merit; but, instead of resemblance, they present the opposition of wit, satire, and party spirit, in a neat and pointed style, to La Fontaine’s universal and ingenious moral, picturesque simplicity, and easy graceful negligence. An anonymous volume of English fables, imitated from La Fontaine, appeared in 1820. It is attributed to a practised and distinguished writer both in prose and verse*; and might pass for a most successful version, if the original were not directly and unluckily contrasted with it in the opposite page. The reader will be more informed by comparing a short extract from each than by pages of dissertation. “He! bon jour, monsieur du Corbeau: Que vous êtes joli! que vous me semblez beau! Sans mentir, si votre ramage, Se rapporte à votre plumage, Vous êtes le phœnix des hotes de ces bois.” “When thus he began: ‘Ah! sir Ralph, a good morning: How charming you look! how tasteful your dress! Those bright glossy plumes, your fine person adorning, Produce an effect which I cannot express. Colours glaring and gaudy were never my choice; * Mr. Croker.

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When I view them disgust is my only sensation; If you join to that plumage a mellow-toned voice, You’re the phœnix, I vow, of the feathered creation.’”

This citation is made, not to censure the English version, but to prove the unattainable charm of La Fontaine’s manner, – that manner or style which he invented; his close adherence to truth and nature; the art with which he veils the wildest improbabilities under a probable, consistent, or humorous air; his power of combining levity of tone with depth of observation, / and the utmost simplicity with the utmost finesse. It is known that La Fontaine observed the characters, habits, attitudes, and expression of the brute creation with a view to his fables. Whilst he endows his brute heroes with speech and thought, one never loses the image of their kind; – whilst the flatterer gulls his dupe, and even when he concludes with giving him the moral by way of compensation, one never loses sight of the fox and raven: but under the touch of the translator, and indeed of all other fabulists but La Fontaine, they receive the human form with the human attributes. La Fontaine’s fables are reputed perfect in every sense, poetical and moral. Two faults are imputed to his tales; the one venial and even questionable, the other most serious, and past all doubt. His narration, it is said, is sometimes careless and diffuse. This has offended the fastidious technical taste of some of his countrymen; but to others his easy, indolent, copious, rambling effusion is an additional charm. The second fault of his tales, their licentiousness, is unpardonable. He imbibed it, most probably, from the perusal and imitation of Rabelais, Clement Marot, Boccaccio, and Ariosto, and confounded it with their gaiety. But, in adopting the freedom of their pleasantries, he has discarded their grossness. His indecorous allusions are conveyed with infinite finesse and ingenuity of expression, and he must be acquitted of all intention to corrupt – of the consciousness even of a corrupting tendency. No inference unfavourable to him is to be drawn from their condemnation and prohibition at the request of the sorbonne. The sin of his tales, and that which he was called on to expiate, was not their immorality, but the liberties which, like his models, he took occasionally with monks, nuns, and confessors. It is but justice to him to state his own vindication. He urged the example of the ancients; and the necessity of a certain tone of gaiety and freedom in familiar tales, without which they would want their essential grace / and charm. “He who would reduce,” says he, “Ariosto and Boccaccio to the modesty of Virgil would assuredly not be thanked for his pains – (ne ferait assurement rien qui vaille”). An enervating tender melancholy is, he says, much more injurious. His only object, he protests, was to procure the reader a passing smile; and, for his part, he could not comprehend how the reading of his tales should have a bad effect upon others when the composition had none upon him.” But can it be true, or possible, that this enchanting fabulist was not merely subject to absences and musings, but the dullest of mortals in conversation; – his 68

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thoughts and expressions alike clumsy and confused? Two, the most positive testimonies, will suffice, out of many. The daughter of Racine, who had seen him frequently at her father’s table, described him as “slovenly, stupid, and talking of nothing but Plato.” La Bruyère obviously meant the following character for him: – “A man appears – clumsy, heavy, stupid. He cannot talk, or even tell what he has just seen. If he sits down to write, he produces the model of tales. He endows with speech brutes, trees, stones, – all to which nature has denied speech; and all is levity, elegance, beauty, nature, in his works.”* These testimonies, though so positive, are far from conclusive. The lady had no taste for Plato, and La Bruyère’s style of portraiture, always overcharged, seems particularly so in this instance, where his object was contrast and effect. La Fontaine may have fallen into reveries and solecisms in the company of his friends; he may have been silent and dull at the table of a financier, where he was among strangers to be stared at; but his society would not have been sought and prized, not only by the Molières, Boileaus, and Racines, but by the Condés, Contis, and / Villars, and in the distinguished circles of mesdames de Bouillon, Mazarin, and La Sabliere were the charm of his writings wholly wanting in his conversation. His writings would have been admired, and their author neglected, as in the case of Corneille, were his conversation equally common-place and uninteresting. La Fontaine probably was dull to those who neither understood nor were understood by him. He was La Fontaine, the charming fabulist, only when the subjects and the society interested him; and those around him could, by mutual intelligence, bring his genius into play. Goldsmith, in the same manner, was depreciated by persons who did not understand him. Topham Beauclerk, a man of wit and fashion about town, thought his conversation absurd and dull; but Edmund Burke found in it the poet and observer of mankind. The admiration of Horace and Varus, and the society of Mæcenas and Augustus, did not protect Virgil’s simplicity of character from being sneered at by the court satirists and petits-maîtres of his time. The wellknown description of him by Horace is not without resemblance to La Fontaine’s character. La Fontaine was buried in the cemetery of St. Joseph, at Paris, by the side of Moliere, who had died many years before. Boileau and Racine survived him. His best epitaph is the following, written by himself: it records his character with equal fidelity and humour. “Jean s’en alla comme il était venu, Mangant son fonds aprez son revenu, Croyant le bien chose peu nécessaire. Quant à son temps bien le sçut depenser, * Un homme parait – grossier, lourd, stupide. Il ne sçait pas parler, ni reconter ce qu’il vient de voir. S’il se met à écrire, c’est le modèle des beaux contes. Il fait parler les animaux, les arbres, les pierres, – tout ce qui ne parle pas. Ce n’est que légèreté, que élégance, que beau naturel, dans ses ouvrages.

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Deux parts en fit dont il soluoit passer– L’une à dormir, et l’autre à ne rien faire.” /

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PASCAL. 1623–1662. B AYLE commences his life of Pascal, by declaring him to be one of the sublimest geniuses that the world ever produced; and every word we read confirms this judgment.a He was as singular as he was great. He is, perhaps, the only instance of a man born with a natural genius for the exact sciences, who applied the subtlety and acuteness of his understanding to religious subjects, combining with close logical reasoning the utmost elegance and purity of style, and crowning all with so severe an adherence to what he considered the duties of a christian as materially shortened his days. His life reads as one miracle: our admiration is perpetually excited, – may we own it? – our pity also. It is hard to say whether this be a just feeling. When we read of the simplicity and singleness of his character, of his sublime powers of self-denial, of his charity, his humility, and his patience, we feel that he as nearly approached his divine Master, as any man on record has ever done. But when we reflect on divine goodness, on the mission of the Redeemer, on the blessings with which God has gifted us – we cannot believe that we are sent here for the mere purpose of mortifying all our natural inclinations, or of spending our whole thoughts in preparation for a future life, except as virtue and piety are preparations. Man was born to be happy through the affections – to enjoy the beauty and harmony of the visible creation – to find delight in the exercise of his faculties, and the fulfilment of his social duties; and when to this is added a spirit of pious resignation, and a wish to be acceptable to God – we may rest satisfied: this state of mind not being so / easy to attain, and not exaggerate our duties, till life becomes the prison and burden that Pascal represents it to be. Still it is with reverence that we venture to criticise a virtue that transcends the common nature of man. Pascal stands an example of the catholic principles of morality, and shows the extent to which self-denial can be carried by an upholder of that faith. Added to this, is the interest we take in the history of one who, from his birth, gave token of talents of a very uncommon order. The wonders recorded of his childhood are too well authenticated to admit of a doubt, while certainly they are not exceeded by any other prodigy, the achievements of whose premature genius have been handed down.

a

Pierre Bayle, Dictionnaire historique et critique (Rotterdam, 1697), vol. II, pt ii, p. 734.

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1626. Ætat. 3.

1631. Ætat. 9.

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The family of Pascal was of Auvergne: it had been ennobled by Louis XI. in 1478, in the person of a maître des requétes; and, since that epoch, various members of it had filled distinguished situations in Auvergne, and were respected for their virtues as much as for their birth. Etienne Pascal was first president to the court of aids of Clermont-Ferrand.a He married a lady named Antoinette Bégon; of the four children born to him by her, three survived – two were daughters: the son, Blaise, was born at Clermont on the 19th of June, 1623. Etienne was left a widower while his children were yet infants; and from that time he devoted himself to their education. The extraordinary and premature talents of Blaise soon displayed themselves. From the moment he could speak, his repartees excited admiration, and still more, his eager questionings on the causes of all things, which displayed acuteness as well as curiosity. His excellent father, perceiving these early marks of talent, was eager to dedicate his whole time to his education, so that he resolved to be his only master in the learned languages and the sciences. He accordingly gave up his public situation to his brother, and removed to Paris. His daughters shared his paternal cares; he taught them Latin, and caused them to apply themselves to the / acquirement of knowledge; believing that, by inciting them to bestow their attention early on subjects worthy their inquiry, he should develope their talents, and give them habits of intellectual industry, which he considered equally desirable in woman as man. With all this, he had no idea of making a prodigy of his son, or developing his talents prematurely. On the contrary, it was his maxim to keep the boy above his work; and he did not teach him Latin till he was twelve years old. But, while he refrained from exercising his memory by the routine of lessons, he enlarged his mind by conversation; and taught him the meaning and aim of grammar before he placed a grammar in his hands. This was a safe proceeding with a boy of Pascal’s eminent capacity – it had probably rendered one less gifted indolent and forgetful.b The world at this time, awakening from a long state of barbarism, was seized by a sort of idolatry and hunger for knowledge, and learning was the fashion of the day. Men of talent devoted their whole lives to science, with an abnegation of every other pursuit unknown in the present age, and were honoured by the great and followed by their disciples with a reverence merited by their enthusiasm and diligence, as well as by the benefits they conferred on their fellow creatures, in enlarging their sphere of knowledge, and bringing from the chaos of ignorance, truth, or the image of truth, to the light of day. Descartes was one of the most celebrated of the Frenchmen of genius of that time. He was not content with being the most eminent mathematician of his age, but he combined a system of philosophy, which, though false, obtained vogue, and secured to him a greater temporary reputation than if he had merely enounced truths, independent of the a

The province of Auvergne is in south central France; Clermont-Ferrand is its capital. A maître de requêtes (master of petitions) is a legal functionary of the crown, the lowest to confer noble status. The Court of Aids dealt with cases involving consumption taxes or aides. b This paragraph blends Discours, pp. ii–iii, with Périer, p. 572.

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magic of a theory.a The war of his partisans and their antagonists spread his fame: geometry and mathematics obtained more attention than they had ever done; and discoveries were made that excited the ambition of every fresh student to penetrate further than his predecessors / into the secrets of the system of the universe. Etienne Pascal found men in Paris, with whom he allied himself in friendship, deeply versed in physics and mathematics, and he also applied himself to these sciences. He associated with Roberval, Carcavi,b Le Pailleur, and other scientific men of high reputation – they met at each other’s house, and discussed the objects of their labours; they detailed their new observations and discoveries; they read the letters received from other learned men, either foreigners, or residing in the provinces: the ambition of their lives was centred in the progress of science; and the enthusiasm and eagerness with which they prosecuted their researches gave an interest to their conversations that awoke to intensity the curiosity of Pascal’s almost infant son. Adding youthful fervour to abilities already competent to the formation of scientific combinations and accuracy, the young Blaise desired to make discoveries himself in causes and effects. A common phenomenon in sound obtained his earliest attention. He observed that a plate, if struck by a knife, gave forth a ringing sound, which he stilled by putting his hand on the plate. At the age of twelve he wrote a little treatise to account for this phenomenon, which was argued with acuteness and precision. His father wished, however, to turn his mind from the pursuits of science, considering the study of languages as better suited to his age; and he resolved that the boy should no longer be present at the philosophical meetings. Blaise was in despair: to console him, he was told that he should be taught geometry when he had acquired Latin and Greek: he asked, eagerly, what geometry was? His father informed him, generally, that it was the science which teaches the method of making exact figures, and of finding out the proportions between them. He commanded him at the same time neither to speak nor think on the subject more. But Blaise was too inquiring and too earnest to submit to this rule. He spent every moment of leisure in meditation upon the properties of mathematical figures. He drew triangles and / circles with charcoal on the walls of his playroom, giving them such names as occurred to him as proper, and thus began to teach himself geometry, seeking to discover, without previous instruction, all the combinations of lines and curves, making definitions and axioms for himself, and then proceeding to demonstration: and thus, alone and untaught, he compared the properties of figures and the relative position of lines with mathematical precision.c a René Descartes (1596–1650) advocated rigorous philosophical scepticism, followed by strict logic and clear reasoning, based on mathematical procedures. Critics contrasted his deductive approach with the empiricism of English philosophers such as Francis Bacon or Isaac Newton. By his ‘false’ philosophy Mary Shelley may be referring to his physical theory of the universe, which proposed that space was filled with rarefied matter moving in vortices. b Gilles Personne de Roberval (1602–75), mathematician and physicist; Pierre de Carcavi (c. 1600–84), mathematician with a wide circle of scientific correspondents. c This paragraph blends Discours, p. iv, with Périer, pp. 573–5.

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One day his father came by chance into the room, and found his son busy drawing triangles, parallelograms, and circles: the boy was so intent on his work that he did not hear his father enter; and the latter observed him for some time in silence: when at last he spoke, Blaise felt a sort of terror at being discovered at this forbidden occupation, which equalled his father’s wonder at perceiving the objects of his attention. But the surprise of the latter increased, when, asking him what he was about, Blaise explained in language invented by himself, but which showed that he was employed in solving the thirty-second proposition of Euclid.a His father asked him, how he came to think of such a question: Blaise replied, that it arose from another he had proposed to himself; and so going back step by step as to the figures that had excited his inquiry, he showed that he had established a chain of propositions deduced from axioms and definitions of his own adoption, which conducted him to the proposition in question (that the three angles of every possible triangle are equal to two right angles). The father was struck almost with fear at this exhibition of inborn genius; and, without speaking to the boy, hurried off to his intimate friend M. le Pailleur; but when he reached his house he was unable to utter a single word, and he stood with tears in his eyes, till his friend, fancying some misfortune had occurred, questioned him anxiously, and at length the happy parent found tongue to declare that he wept for joy, not sorrow. M. le Pailleur was not less astonished / when the circumstances narrated were explained to him, and of course advised the father to give every facility for the acquirement of knowledge to one so richly gifted by nature. Euclid, accordingly, was put into the boy’s hands as an amusement for his leisure hours. Blaise went through it by himself, and understood it without any explanation from others.* From this time he was allowed to be present at all the scientific meetings, and was behind none of the learned men present in bringing new discoveries and solutions, and in enouncing satisfactory explanations of any doubtful and knotty point. Truth was the passion of his soul; and, added to this, was a love of the positive, and a perception of it, which in the exact sciences led to the most useful results. At the age of sixteen he wrote an “Essay on Conic Sections,” which was regarded as a work that would bestow reputation on an accomplished mathematician; so that Descartes, when he saw it, was inclined rather to believe that Pascal, the father, had written it himself, and passed it off as his son’s, than that a mere child should have shown himself capable of such strength and accuracy of reasoning. The happy father, however, was innocent of any such deceit; and the boy, proceeding to investigate yet more deeply the science of numbers and proportions, soon gave proof that he was fully capable of having written the work in question. * La Vie de M. Pascal, écrite par Madame Perier, sa sœur. a Euclid (fl. c. 295 BC ), author of the Elements, the foundation text of all geometry. The rest of this paragraph follows Discours, p. v.

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Etienne Pascal was rewarded for all his self-devotion by the genius of his son. His daughters also profited by his care, and became distinguished at once by their mental accomplishments and their personal beauty. A disaster that occurred, which at first disturbed the happiness of the family, tended in the end to establish it, and to bring into greater notice the talents and virtues of the individuals of which it was composed. The finances of the government being at a low ebb, through mismanagement and long wars, the minister, cardinal de Richelieu, sought to improve them by diminishing / the rate of interest towards the public creditor. Of course this act excited considerable discontent among holders of public stock; riots ensued, and some men, in consequence, were imprisoned in the Bastile. Among these was a friend of Etienne Pascal, who openly and warmly defended him, while he cast considerable blame on several government functionaries, and in particular the chancellor Seguier.a This imprudence endangered his own liberty; he heard that he was threatened with arrest, and to avoid it left Paris, and for several months hid himself in Auvergne. He had many friends however among noble patrons of learning, and the duchess d’Aiguillon,b in particular, interested herself in his favour. Richelieu, as is well known, was very fond of theatrical representations, and a tragi-comedy by Scuderi, was got up for his amusement. Jaqueline Pascal, then only fourteen years old, was selected to fill one of the parts: she at first refused, saying that the cardinal gave them too little pleasure for her to try to contribute to his; but the duchess saw hopes for the father’s recal in the daughter’s exertions, and persuaded Jaqueline to undertake the part. She acted charmingly, and at the end of the piece approached the cardinal, and recited some verses written for the occasion, asserting the innocence of her father, and entreating the cessation of his exile. The cardinal delighted, took her in his arms, and kissing her again and again, said, “Yes, my child, I grant your request; write to your father, that he may safely return.” The duchess followed up the impression by an eulogium on Pascal, and by introducing Blaise; “He is but sixteen,” she said, “but he is already a great mathematician.” Jaqueline saw that the cardinal was favourably inclined; and with ready tact, added, that she had another request to prefer. “Ask what you will, my child,” said the minister, “I can refuse you nothing.” She begged that her father, on his return, might be permitted personally to thank the cardinal. This also was granted; and the family reaped the benefit. The cardinal / received the exile graciously; and, two years after, named him intendantc of Normandy at Rouen. Etienne removed with his family, in consequence, to that city. He filled the situation for seven years, enjoying the highest reputation for a Pierre Seguier (1588–1672), lawyer and high official, Chancellor from 1635, protector of the Académie Française. b Marie-Madeleine de Vignerot, created duchesse d’Aiguillon in her own right in 1638 by her uncle, Cardinal Richelieu. c The crown’s administrative representation in a province, mainly concerned with tax and army recruitment.

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integrity and ability. About the same time, his daughter, Gilberte, formed an advantageous marriage with M. Perier, who had distinguished himself in a commission entrusted to him by the government in Normandy, and who afterwards bought the situation of counsellor to the court of aids of Clermont-Ferrand.a Blaise, meanwhile, was absorbed in scientific pursuits. To the acquisition of Latin and Greek was added the study of logic and physics; every moment of his time was occupied – and even during meals the work of study went on. Charmed with the progress his son made, and his apparent facility in learning, the father was blind to the ill-effects that such constant application had on his health: at the age of eighteen, Pascal began to droop; the indisposition he suffered was slight, and he did not permit it to interfere with his studies; but neglected, and indeed increased, it at last entirely disorganised his fragile being. From that hour he never passed a single day free from pain. Repose, taken at intervals, mitigated his sufferings; but when better he eagerly returned to study – and with study illness recurred. His application was of the most arduous and intense description. At the age of nineteen he invented his arithmetical machine, considered one of the most wonderful discoveries yet put into practice. A machine capable of automatic combinations of numbers has always been a desideratum; and Pascal’s was sufficiently well arranged to produce exact results – but it was very complex, expensive, and easily put out of order, and therefore of no general utility, though hailed by mathematicians as a most ingenious and successful invention. It cost him intense application, both for the mental combinations required, and the mechanical part of the execution: – his earnest and persevering study, / and the great efforts of attention to which he put his brain, increased his ill health so much that he was obliged for a time to suspend his labours. Soon after this, a question, involving very important consequences in physics, agitated the scientific world, and the position of the two Pascals was such, that their attention could not fail to be drawn to the consideration of it. The mechanical properties of the atmosphere had previously been inquired into by Galileo,b who recognised in it the quality of weight. This philosopher, however, notwithstanding the wonderful sagacity which his numerous physical discoveries evince, failed to perceive that the weight of the atmosphere, combined with its fluidity and elasticity, opposed a definite force to any agent by which the removal of the atmosphere from any space was attempted. This resistance to the production of a vacuum had long been recognised, and was in fact expressed, but not accounted for, by the phrase, “nature’s abhorrence of a vacuum.” Whatever meaning he may a Many official and legal positions could be purchased in 17th- and 18th-century France. The preceding two paragraphs, including the dialogue with Jacqueline Pascal and Richelieu, follow Discours, pp. v–vii. b Galileo Galilei (1564–1642), Pisan mathematician, one of the leaders of the 17th-century scientific revolution in physics and astronomy, who pioneered the mathematical understanding of the laws of motion.

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have attached to it, Galileo retained this phrase, but limited its application, in order to embrace the phenomenon, then well known, that suction-pumps would not raise water more than about thirty-five feet high; and although “nature’s abhorrence of a vacuum” raises the water thirty-five feet, to fill the space deserted by the air, which had been drawn out by the piston, yet above that height a vacuum still remained; which fact Galileo expressed by saying, that “thirty-five feet was the limit of nature’s abhorrence of a vacuum.” That Galileo should have missed a discovery as important as it was obvious, is the more remarkable from the circumstance of its having been actually suggested to him by one of his own pupils. A letter from Baliania to Galileo is extant, dated in 1630, in which the writer says that Galileo, in one of his letters to him, having taught him that air has sensible weight, and shown him how that weight might be measured, he argued from thence that the force necessary to produce a vacuum, / was nothing more than the force necessary to remove the weight of the mass of atmosphere which presses round every object, just as water would press on any thing at the bottom of the sea.* Torricelli,b the pupil of Galileo, next took up the problem. He argued, that if the weight of the atmosphere were the direct agent by which the column of water is sustained in a pump, the same agent must needs exert the same amount of force in sustaining a column of any other liquid; and, therefore, that if a heavier liquid were used, the column sustained would be less in height exactly in the same proportion as the weight of the liquid forming the column was greater. Mercury, the heaviest known liquid, appeared the fittest for this purpose. The experiment was eminently successful. The weight, bulk for bulk, of mercury was fourteen times greater than that of water; and it was found that, instead of a column of thirtyfive feet being supported, the column was only thirty inches, the latter being exactly the fourteenth part of thirty-five feet. Various ways of further testing the evident inferences to be drawn from this beautiful experiment, were so obvious, that it is impossible to suppose the illustrious philosopher to whom we are indebted for it, would not have pursued the inquiry further, had not death, almost immediately after this, prematurely * Life of Galileo, by Drinkwater, p. 90, 91.c a

Giovanni Battista Baliani (1582–1666), amateur physicist and correspondent of Galileo. Evangelista Torricelli (1608–47), mathematician and physicist. c John Elliot Drinkwater (1801–51), later known as John Elliot Drinkwater Bethune, legislator and educationalist; the Life was published in the series Lives of Eminent Persons for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (London: Baldwin & Cradock, 1833). It is referred to in Sir David Brewster’s ‘Galileo’ (Italian Lives II, omitted from this edn). Bethune later assisted Mary Shelley to obtain a grant from the Royal Literary Fund for David Booth, husband of her friend Isabella, née Baxter (MWSL, III, pp. 302–3). Exposition up to this point selectively follows Discours, pp. viii–xv, blended with Périer, pp. 576–7 on Pascal’s health, with some matter from Drinkwater. b

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removed him. The experiment became known, and excited much interest in every part of Europe; and Mersenne,a who had an extensive scientific correspondence, having received an account of Torricelli’s investigation, communicated the particulars to Pascal. Always reluctant to surrender long established maxims, the philosophers of that day rejected the solution of the problem given by Torricelli, and still clung to the maxim that “nature abhors a vacuum.” The sagacity of Pascal, however, could not be so enslaved by received notions; and he accordingly, assisted by M. Petit,b applied himself to the discovery of some experimental test, of a nature so unanswerable / as to set the question at rest. The result was the celebrated experiment on the Puy de Dôme, the first and most beautiful example of an “experimentum crucis” recorded in the history of physics. Pascal argued, that if the weight of the incumbent atmosphere were the real agent which sustained the mercury in Torricelli’s tube, as it was inferred to be by that philosopher, any thing which would diminish that weight, ought to diminish in the same proportion the height of the mercurial column. To test this, he first conceived the idea of producing over the surface of the mercury in the cistern in which the end of the tube was immersed, a partial vacuum, so as to diminish the pressure of the air upon it. But, apprehending that this experiment would hardly be sufficiently glaring to overcome the prejudices of the scientific world, he proposed to carry the tube containing the mercurial column upwards in the atmosphere, so as gradually to leave more and more of the incumbent weight below it, and to ascertain whether the diminution of the column would be equal to the weight of the air which it had surmounted. No sufficient height being attainable in Paris, the experiment was conducted, under Pascal’s direction, by his brother-in-law, M. Perier, at Clermont, on the Puy de Dôme, a hill of considerable height, near that place. The experiment was completely successful. The mercurial column gradually fell until the tube arrived at the summit, and as gradually rose again in descending. Bigotry and prejudice could not withstand the force of this, and immediately gave way. The maxim of nature’s abhorrence of a vacuum was henceforth expunged from the code of natural science; and, what was still more conducive to the advancement of all true science, philosophers were taught how much more potent agents of discovery, observation and experiment, guided by reason, are, than the vain speculations in which the ancients had indulged, and from the baneful influence of which scientific inquirers had not yet been emancipated. / Pascal had hardly escaped from boyhood at this time; his invention, his patience, the admirable system he pursued of causing all his opinions to be supported by facts and actual experiment, deserved the highest praise and honour. It a Marin Mersenne (1588–1648), mathematician and theologian, who combined the new scientific philosophy with orthodox Catholicism. His house was an important centre for scientists and philosophers. b Pierre Petit (1594/8–1677), government official, physicist and astronomer with many scientific associates.

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is mortifying to have to record that his discovery was disputed.a The jesuits accused him of plagiarism from the Italians; and Descartes declared, that he had first discovered the effects produced by the weight of the atmosphere, and suggested to Pascal the experiment made on the Puy de Dôme. Pascal treated these attacks with the contempt which his innocence taught him that they deserved; and published an account of his experiments without making the slightest allusion to them. Descartes was a man of eminent genius – his industry and penetration often led him to make the happiest conjectures; but, more intent on employing his bold and often fortunate imagination in the fabrication of ingenious theories than on applying himself with patience and perseverance to the discovering the secrets of nature, he sometimes threw out a happy idea, which he did not take the pains to establish as a truth and a law. The honour of invention is due to those who seize the scattered threads of knowledge which former discoverers have left, and weave it into a continuous and irrefragable web. Pascal followed up his experiments with the utmost hesitation and care, only deciding when decision became self-evident. Two Treatises, one “On the Equilibrium of Liquids,” another “On the Weight of the Atmosphere,” which he subsequently wrote, though they were not published till after his death, display his admirable powers of observation, and the patient zeal with which he followed up his discoveries. At the time that he wrote these treatises he was engaged on others, on geometrical subjects: he did not publish them; and some have been irrecoverably lost. Every subject then interesting to men of science employed his active mind. His name had become well known: he was consulted by all the philosophers and mathematicians of the day, who proposed questions to him; and his / thoughts were sedulously dedicated to the solution of the most difficult problems. But a change meanwhile had come over his mind, and he began to turn his thoughts to other subjects, and to resolve to quit his mathematical pursuits, and to dedicate himself wholly to the practice and study of religion. This was no sudden resolve on his part – piety had always deep root in his heart. He had never, in the most inquisitive days of his youth, applied his eager questionings and doubts to matters of faith. His father had carefully instilled principles of belief; and gave him for a maxim, that the objects of faith are not the objects of reason, much less the subject of it. This principle became deeply engraven in his heart. Logical and penetrating as his mind was, with an understanding open to conjecture with regard to natural causes, he never applied the arts of reasoning to the principles of christianity, but was as submissive as a child to all the dicta of the church. But though the so to call it metaphysical part of religion was admitted without a doubt or a question, its moral truths met with an attention – always lively, and at last wholly absorbing; so that he spent the latter portion of his life in meditating, day and night, the law of God. a The rest of this paragraph, including the criticism of Descartes for insufficient empirical rigour, follows Discours, pp. xvi–xvii.

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This change began first to operate at the age of four-and-twenty. His zeal overflowed to, and was imbibed by, all near him. His father was not ashamed to listen to his son’s exhortations, and to regulate his life hereafter by severer rules. His unmarried sister, Jaqueline – the heroine of the tale previously narrated, who possessed singular talents – listened to her brother with still greater docility and effect: an effect rather to be deplored than rejoiced in, since it caused her to renounce the cultivation of her talents, and the exercise of active duties, and to dedicate herself to the ascetic practices of catholicism. Meanwhile the health of Pascal suffered severer attacks, and his frail body wasted away; so that before he attained the prime of life he fell into the physical debility of age. He resided at this time in Paris, with / his father and his sister Jaqueline. To benefit his health, he was recommended to suspend his labours, to enjoy the recreations of society, and to take more exercise: accordingly, he made several tours in Auvergne and other provinces. The death of his father broke up the little family circle. Jaqueline Pascal had long entertained the desire of becoming a nun: on the death of her father she put her resolve in execution, and took the vows in the abbey of Port Royal aux Champs. The other sister resided with her husband at Clermont. Pascal, left to himself, devoted his time more earnestly than ever to studious pursuits, till the powers of nature failed; and he was forced, through utter inability, to abandon his studies. He took gentle exercise, and frequented society. Though serious even to melancholy, his conversation pleased by the depth of understanding and great knowledge that it displayed. Pascal himself felt the softening influence of sympathy: he began to take pleasure in society – he even contemplated marrying. Happy had it been for him if this healthy and sound view of human duties had continued: but an accident happened which confirmed him as a visionary – if we may apply that term to a man who in the very excess of religious zeal preserved the entire use of his profound arts of reasoning, and an absolute command over his will: yet when the circumstances of his exclusive dedication of himself to pious exercises are known, and we find that a vision forms one of them, that word cannot be considered unjust – nor is it possible to help lamenting that his admirable understanding had not carried him one step further, and taught him that asceticism has no real foundation in the beneficent plan of the Creator. One day, in the month of October, he was taking an airing in a carriage-andfour towards the Pont de Neuilli, when the leaders took the bit in their teeth, at a spot where there is no parapet, and precipitated themselves into the Seine: fortunately the shock broke the traces, and the carriage remained on the brink of the precipice. Pascal, a feeble, half-paralytic, trembling / being, was overwhelmed by the shock. He fell into a succession of fainting fits, followed by a nervous agitation that prevented sleep, and brought on a state resembling delirium. In this he experienced a sort of vision, or extatic trance; in commemoration of which he wrote a singular sort of memorandum, which, though incoherent to us, doubtless brought to his memory the circumstances of his vision. This paper he always kept 80

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sewn up in his dress. The effect of the circumstance was to make him look on his accident as a call from Heaven to give in all worldly thoughts, and to devote himself to God. The pious exhortations of his sister, the nun, had before given him some notion of such a course; and he determined to renounce the world, and to dedicate himself exclusively to religious practices.a The account that his sister, madame Perier, gives of the rules of life to which he adhered is most deeply interesting, as appertaining to a man of such transcendent genius; and yet deeply painful, since we cannot see that God could be pleased or served by his cutting himself off from the enjoyment of all the natural and innocent affections, or by a system of self-denial, that undermined his health and shortened his life.b To follow up the new rules he had laid down for his conduct, he removed to another part of Paris; and showed so determined a resolve to renounce the world that, at last, the world renounced him. In this retreat he disciplined his life by certain principles, the chief of which was to abstain from all pleasures or superfluity; in accordance with this system, he allowed himself nothing but what was absolutely necessary; he unfurnished his apartment of all carpets and hangings, reserving only a table and chairs, of the coarsest manufacture: he also, as much as possible, denied himself the service of domestics: he made his bed himself; and went to the kitchen to fetch his dinner, and carried it into his own room, and took back the remains when he had finished: in short, his servant merely cooked and went to market for him. His time was otherwise spent in acts of charity, in prayer, and / in reading the scriptures. At first the regularity and quiet of a life of retreat recruited somewhat his shattered frame: but this did not last. His mind could not be idle, nor his reasoning powers remain inactive; and he soon found cause to study as deeply matters connected with religion as before he had applied himself to the investigation of mathematical truths. The abbey of Port Royal had not many years before been reformed, and acquired a high reputation. M. Arnaud (a noble of Auvergne, and a celebrated advocate,) was the father of a numerous family of children, and among them a daughter, who, at eleven years of age, was named abbess of Port Royal.c Instead of following the old track of indulgence and indolence, her young heart became inflamed with pious zeal; and, at the age of seventeen, she undertook the arduous task of reforming the habits and lives of the nuns under her jurisdiction. By degrees she imparted a large portion of her piety to them, and succeeded in her undertaking: watching, fasting, humility, and labour, became the inmates of her convent; and its reputation for sanctity and purity increased daily. The abbey of Port Royal aux Champs was situated at the distance of only six leagues from Paris; a

The preceding three paragraphs follow Discours, xxxii–xxiii, blending in Périer, pp. 580–1. Périer, p. 582. c Antoine Arnaud (1560–1619), lawyer and Catholic controversialist, many of whose 10 children were associated with the Port-Royal convent. Jacqueline-Marie-Angélique Arnauld (1591–1661) became Abbess, taking the religious name of Angélique de Saint-Madeleine. The following exposition of the history of Port-Royal and the Jansenist controversies follows selectively Discours, pp. xxxii–xlii. b

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the situation in itself was desolate, but some private houses appertained to it. Several men of eminent learning and piety were attracted, by the high reputation that the abbey enjoyed, to take up their abode in one of these dwellings. They fled the world to enjoy christian peace in solitude: but indolence was not a part of their practice. Besides the works of piety of which they were the authors, they received pupils, they compiled books of instruction; and their system of education became celebrated, both for the classical knowledge they imparted, and the sentiments of religion they inspired. Among these reverend and illustrious recluses were numbered two brothers of mother Angelica, the abbess, Arnaud d’Andilli, and Antoine Arnaud, and two of her nephews; in addition may be named Saci, Nicole, and others, well known as French theologians, / and controversialists.a Pascal’s attention being drawn to this retreat by the circumstance of his sister’s having taken her vows in the abbey, he was desirous to become acquainted with men so illustrious: without taking up his abode absolutely among them, he cultivated their society, often paid visits of several weeks’ duration to their retreat, and was admitted to their intimacy. They soon discovered and appreciated his transcendent genius, while he was led by them to apply his talents to religious subjects. The vigour and justness of his thoughts inspired them with admiration. Saci was, in particular, his friend; and the famous Arnaud regarded him with wonder for his youth, and esteem for his learning and penetration. These became in the end most useful to the recluses; and from the pen of their young friend they derived, not only their best defence against their enemies, but a glory for their cause, founded on the admirable “Lettres Provinciales,”b which have survived, for the purity of their style, vigour of expression, and closeness of argument; for their wit, and their sublime eloquence, long after the object for which they were written, is remembered only as casting at once ridicule and disgrace upon the cause of religion in France. It is indeed a melancholy and degrading picture of human nature, to find men of exalted piety and profound learning, waste their powers on controversies, which can now only be regarded with contempt, though the same sentiment cannot follow the virtues which these men displayed – their constancy, their courage, and noble contempt of all selfish considerations.c The foundation of the dispute, which called forth at once these virtues and this vain exertion of intellect, still subsists between different sects of christianity. The christian religion is founded on the idea of the free will of man, and the belief that a

Robert Arnauld d’Andilly (1588–1674), courtier, resided at Port-Royal when widowed in 1645 and translated devotional writings. Six of his children were associated with the convent, as was his brother Antoine Arnauld (1612–94), scholar and theologian. Louis-Isaac Le Maître de Sacy was Robert d’Andilly’s nephew (see ‘Racine’, p. 173); Pierre Nicole (1625–95), moralist and theologian (see ‘Sévigné’, p. 116). b The Provincial Letters (1656–7). c A paragraph representing Mary Shelley’s own interpolations alongside her dependence on Discours.

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he can forsake sin; and that, according as he does forsake or cling to it, he deserves happiness or reprobation in the other world. But to this is added, with some, the belief that sanctification springs from the especial interference of God; that man / cannot even seek salvation without a call; that faith and grace is an immediate and gratuitous gift of God to each individual whom the Holy Ghost inspires with a vocation. How far man was born with the innate power of belief and faith, or how far he needed a particular and immediate gift of grace to seek these from God, divided the christian world into sects at various times, and was the foundation of the dispute between the molinists and jansenists. The first name was derived from Molina, a jesuit, who endeavoured to establish a sort of accord between the Almighty’s prescience and man’s free will, which gave the latter power to choose, and sufficing grace to choose well.a The jesuits were zealous in supporting the doctrine of one of their order. They discussed the points in question with so much acrimony that they laid themselves open to as violent attacks; they were opposed in particular by the dominicans; the dispute was carried on in Rome, before assemblies instituted to decide upon it, but which took care to decide nothing; and the pope ended, by ordering the two parties to live in peace. Meanwhile Cornelius Jansen, bishop of Ypres, wrote a book on saint Augustin, which was not published till after his death:b this book, which supported the notion of election by God, was taken up by the adversaries of the jesuits (hereafter called jansenists, the name of the bishop being latinised into Jansenius), and they called attention to it. The jesuits selected five propositions, which they said they found in it, on the subject of grace and election; and these were condemned as heretical. Antoine Arnaud rose as their advocate. The jesuits detested him for his father’s sake, who had pleaded the cause of the university of Paris against them, and gained it. Arnaud declared that he had read the work of Jansenius, and could not find the five condemned propositions in it, but acknowledged that, if they were there, they deserved condemnation. The Sorbonne exclaimed against this declaration as “rash;” for, as the pope had condemned these propositions as being enounced by Jansenius, / of course they were contained in his book.* It was considered necessary that Arnaud should reply to this attack; but, though a learned man, an eloquent writer, and a great theologian, his defence was addressed to the * Innocent X, in condemning these propositions, did not cite the passages in which they were to be found; and, in fact, they are not quoted with verbal correctness. Voltaire asserts that they are to be found there in spirit, and he cites passages which establish his assertion. Siècle de Louis XIV., chap. xxxvii.c a Luis de Molina (1535–1600), Spanish Jesuit theologian and thinker on free-will, to be distinguished from Miguel de Molinos (1640–97), the Quietist, whose doctrine was condemned as heretical (see ‘Fénélon’). b Cornelius Jansen (1585–1638), Flemish theologian who emphasised St. Augustine’s teaching on pre-destination and man’s depravity. c Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, ch. xxxiii (not xxxvii), pp. 265, 267–8.

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studious rather than the public, and it gained no partisans. It was far otherwise when Pascal took up his pen, and, under the name of Louis de Montalte, published his first letter à un Provincial; it was written in a popular, yet clear and conclusive manner, and in a style at once so elegant, perspicuous, and pure, that a child might read and understand, while a scholar would study the pages as a model for imitation. The success of this letter was prodigious: it did not however change the proceedings of the Sorbonne; it assembled – its sittings were crowded with monks and mendicant friars, ignorant men whose opinions were despicable, but whose votes counted. Arnaud’s work was condemned, and he himself expelled the Sorbonne. This sentence roused Pascal to continue his labours. He wrote another letter, which met with equal approbation; but the success only served to irritate Arnaud’s enemies; they obtained another censure of the five propositions from the pope, and insisted on all suspected persons signing a formula in which they were renounced. The nuns of Port Royal were called on to put their names, and, on their resistance, they were threatened with the destruction of their house, and dispersion. At this moment, a singular circumstance occurred, which to this day is, by many, considered a miracle. A sacred relic, one of the thorns of our Saviour’s crown of thorns, had been lately brought to Paris. To a protestant the pretence of the existence of such a relic is ridiculous, but the catholic church has always upheld a belief in the miraculous preservation of these instruments of our Saviour’s passion and death.a The holy thorn / was carried to many convents, and among others to Port Royal, and all the inhabitants went in procession, and kissed it. Among them was a niece of Pascal, daughter of madame Perier. She had been long ill of a fistula in an eye: she touched the wound with the relic, and it healed at once.* The news of this miracle was spread abroad; it was believed, and all Paris * Madame Perier, in the life she has written of her brother, mentions the miraculous cure of her daughter: “This fistula,” she says, “was of so bad a sort, that the cleverest surgeons of Paris considered it incurable. Nevertheless she was cured in a moment by the touch of the holy thorn; and this miracle was so authentic, that it is acknowledged by every body.” Racine, in his fragment of a History of the Abbey of Port Royal, details the whole circumstance with elaborate faith in the most miraculous version of it. He says, that such was the simplicity of the nuns, that though the cure took place on the instant, they did not mention the miracle for several days, and some time elapsed before it was spread abroad. Voltaire says, that persons who had known mademoiselle Perier told him that her cure was very long. Still some circumstance must have made it appear short, or so universal a belief in a miracle, sufficient at the time to confound the jesuits, could not have been spread abroad; nor would her uncle, Pascal, the most upright and single-minded of men, have given it the support of his testimony.b a

Mary Shelley here interpolates a sympathetic explanation of Catholic devotion to alleged sacred relics for her largely Protestant, and very anti-Catholic, British readership. b Based on Périer, p. 583; Jean Racine, Abrégé de l’Histoire de Port Royal, in Racine, vol. IV, pp. 467–73, who actually says that the Abbess was reluctant to publicise the cure as the convent was already the focus of controversy; and Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, p. 273.

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flocked to the convent. A religious house, the scene of an actual miracle, was considered too highly favoured by God to be persecuted; the nuns and the jansenists triumphed; the jesuits were, for the time, silent and abashed. To add to their defeat, Pascal continued to write his Letters to a Provincial, attacking the society with the arms of wit and eloquence. The jesuitical system of morality, full of mental reservation and ambiguity – its truckling to vice, and contradiction to the simple but sublime principles of the gospel, afforded him a wide field for censure. He wrote not a mere controversial work, interesting to theologians only, but a book addressed to all classes. It gained immediate attention; and its eloquence and beauty have secured its immortality.* / The success of this book, the activity of his mind, and his sedulous study of theology, naturally led Pascal to conceive the project of other works. The scope of that which principally engaged his attention was, a refutation of atheists. He meditated continually on this subject, and put down all the thoughts that occurred to his mind. Illness prevented him from giving them subsequently a more connected form, but they exist as his “Pensées,” and many of them deserve attention and veneration; while others, founded on exaggerated and false views of human duties, are interesting as displaying the nature of his mind. The acuteness and severity of thought which in early life led him to mathematical discoveries, he now applied to the truths of christianity; and he followed out all the consequences of the doctrine of the church of Rome with an uncompromising and severe spirit. Want of imagination, perhaps, caused his mistakes; for mistakes he certainly made. He is sublime in his charity, in his love and care for the poor, in his gentleness and humility; but when we learn that he, a suffering, dying man, wore a girdle * Boileau’s admiration for Pascal was unbounded. He declared the “Letters Provinciales” to be the best work in the French language. Madame de Sévigné, in her letters, narrates a whimsical scene that took place between him and some jesuits. Their conversation turning on literary subjects, Boileau declared that there was only one modern book to be compared to the works of the ancients. Bourdaloue begged him to name it. Boileau evaded the request. “You have read it more than once, I am sure,” he said, “but do not ask me its name.” The jesuit insisted; and Boileau, at last, taking him by the arm, exclaimed, “You are determined to have it, father; well, it is Pascal.” “Morbleu! Pascal!” cried Bourdaloue, astonished. “Yes, certainly Pascal is as well written as any thing false can be.” “False!” exclaimed Boileau, “False! Know that he is as true as he is inimitable.” On another occasion, a jesuit, father Bouhours, consulted Boileau as to what books he ought to consult as models for style. “There is but one,” said Boileau, “read the ‘Letters Provinciales,’ and believe me that will suffice.” Voltaire pronounces the same opinion: he calls Pascal the greatest satirist of France; and says that Molière’s best comedies have not the wit of the first of these Letters, nor had Bossuet written any thing so sublime as the latter ones.a a Mary Shelley cites a letter of Boileau to Antoine Arnauld of June 1694 (Boileau, p. 792). The comments of Louis Bourdaloue (1623–1704), fashionable Jesuit preacher, and Dominique Bouhours (1628–1702), Jesuit priest, literary critic and grammarian, are cited from LRR, p. 303, where Louis Racine quotes a letter of Mme de Sévigné to her daughter (15 Jan. 1690) describing Corbinelli recalling this conversation to her, and provides the anecdote on Bouhours. Voltaire’s comments are in Voltaire, Siècle, II, pp. 271, 274.

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armed with sharp points as a punishment for transient and involuntary emotions of vanity – when we find him reprehending his sister for caressing her children, and denouncing as sinful the most justifiable, and indeed virtuous departure from ascetic discipline, we feel that the mathematical precision with which he treated subjects of morals is totally at war with the system of the Creator. Madame Perier relates,a that she was often mortified and hurt by his cold manner, and the apparent distaste with which he repulsed her sisterly attentions. She complained to their sister, the nun; but she understood better his motives, and explained how he considered it / a virtue to love without attaching himself, and also deemed it sin to excite attachment; and proved that notwithstanding his apparent coldness his heart was warm, by mentioning the earnestness with which he served her on any occasion when she needed his assistance. His most active feeling was charity to the poor; he never refused alms, and would borrow money on interest for the sake of bestowing them; and when cautioned that he might ruin himself, replied, that he never found that any one who had property ever died so poor but he had something to leave. It was a hard life to which he condemned himself; a careful avoidance of all attachment – a continual mortification of his senses, and the labour and sadness of perpetual association with the suffering; added to this, he aimed at such a state of abstraction as not to receive pleasure from food; and aware of an emotion of satisfied vanity when consulted by the learned men of the day, he, as has been said, wore a girdle armed with sharp points, which he struck into himself, so to recal his wandering thoughts. A sense of duty – love of God, – perhaps something of pride, kept him up long; but he sunk under it at last. He spent five years in a rigid adherence to all his rules and duties; then his fragile body gave way, and he fell into a series of sufferings so great, that, though existence was prolonged for four years, they were years of perpetual pain.b His illness began by violent tooth-ach; he was kept awake night after night: during these painful vigils, his thoughts recurred to the studies of his youth. He revolved in his head problems proposed by the scientific men of the day. His attention was now chiefly engaged with the solution of various questions in the higher departments of geometry, especially those connected with the properties of cycloids. He succeeded in solving many problems of great difficulty relating to the quadrature and rectification of segments and arcs of cycloids, and the volumes of solids formed by their revolutions round their axes and ordinates. Except so far as they form / part of the history of mathematical science, and illustrate the powers of great minds, such as that of the subject of this memoir, these problems have now lost all their interest. The powerful instruments of investigation supplied by the differential and integral calculus, have reduced their solution to the mere elements of transcendental mathematics. At the epoch when they engaged the attention of Pascal, before the invention of the modern methods, a b

Périer, p. 592; Discours, p. lxix. The preceding paragraph blends Perier, p. 592, and Discours, p. lxix.

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they were questions presenting the most formidable difficulties. To Pascal, however, they were mere matters of mental relaxation, resorted to with a view to divert his attention from his acute bodily sufferings. He entertained, himself, no intention of making them public. It was, however, the wish of several of his companions in religious retirement that they should be made public, were it only to afford a proof that the highest mathematical genius is not incompatible with the deepest and most sincere christian faith. Pascal yielded, and, according to a custom which was then usual, however puerile it may now appear, he, in the first instance, proposed the several questions which he solved as subjects for a prize to the scientific world. Many competitors presented themselves; and others, who, though not competing for the prize, offered partial solutions. Among these were several who have since attained great celebrity, such as Wallis, Huygens, Fermat, and sir Christopher Wren.a The prize, however, was not gained, nor the problems solved. In the beginning of the year 1659, Pascal published his complete solutions of the problems of the cycloid, with some other mathematical tracts. These admirable investigations cannot fail to excite in every mind a deep regret, that a morbid state of moral and religious feeling should ever have diverted Pascal from mathematical and physical research.b Meanwhile his debility and sufferings increased; but he did not, on that account, yield, but held fast by his system of self-denial, practising himself in turning his / thoughts resolutely to another subject when any agreeable sensation was produced, so that he might be true to his resolve to renounce pleasure, while he bore his pains with inconceivable fortitude and patience; yet they were sufficient to interrupt his studies. As the only duty he was capable of performing, he spent his time in visiting churches where any relics were exposed or some solemnity observed; and for this end he had a spiritual almanack, which informed him of the places where there were particular devotions. “And this he did,” says his sister, “with so much devotion and simplicity, that those who saw him were surprised at it; which caused men of great virtue and ability to remark, that the grace of God shows itself in great minds by little things, and in common ones by large.” Nor did his sufferings interrupt his works of charity, and the services he rendered to the poor. This last duty grew into the passion of his heart. He counselled his sister to consecrate all her time, and that of her children, to the assistance of those in want; he declared this to be the true vocation of christians, and that without an adherence to it there was no salvation. Nor did he consider that the rich performed their duty by contributing only to public charities, but that each person a John Wallis (1616–1703), Oxford mathematician, disciple of Galileo, and founder-member of The Royal Society; Christiaan Huygens (1629–95), Dutch scientist in the fields of mathematics, physics, optics and astronomy; Pierre Fermat (1601–65), distinguished mathematician whose famous ‘Last Theorem’ was solved in 1994; Sir Christopher Wren (1632–1723), mathematician as well as architect. b The preceding two paragraphs draw selectively on Discours, pp. lxx–lxii.

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was held to bestow particular and unremitted attention to individual cases. “I love poverty,” he wrote down, “because Christ loved it. I love property, because it affords the means of aiding the needy. I keep faith with every one, and wish no ill to those who do ill to me. I endeavour to be true, sincere, and faithful to all men. I have a tenderness of heart for those with whom God has most bound me; and, whether I am alone or in the view of men, I have the thought of God as the aim of all my actions, who will judge them, and to whom they are consecrated.” Such were the sentiments of Pascal; and no man ever carried them out with equal humility, patience, zeal, and fortitude. His simplicity and singleness of heart were admirable; all who conversed with him were astounded by his child-like innocence / and purity; he used no tergiversation, no deceit with himself; all was open, submissive, and humble: if he felt himself guilty of a fault, he was eager to repair it: he attached himself to the very letter and inner spirit of the gospel, and obeyed it with all the powers of his nature. His memory was prodigious, yet he never appeared to recollect any offence done to himself; he declared, indeed, that he practised no virtue in this, since he really forgot injuries; yet he allowed that he had so perfect a memory that he never forgot any thing that he wished to remember.a Meanwhile his peace of mind was disturbed by a fresh persecution of the jansenists, which caused the dispersion of the nuns of Port Royal, and proved fatal to his beloved sister. The jesuits rose from the overthrow, caused by the miracle, with redoubled force, and, if possible, redoubled malice; they got the parliament of Provence to condemn the “Letters Provinciales” to be burned by the common hangman: they insisted that the nuns of Port Royal should sign the formula, and on their refusal they were taken violently from the abbey, and dispersed in various convents. Jaqueline Pascal was at this time sub-prioress; her piety was extreme, her conscience tender. She could not persuade herself of the propriety of signing the formula; but the anticipation of the misery that the unfortunate nuns would endure through their refusal broke her heart: she fell ill, and died, as she called herself, “the first victim of the formula,” at the age of thirty-six. Before her profession as a nun, she had displayed great talents; and had even gained the prize for poetry at Rouen, when only fourteen: her sensibility was great; her piety extreme. Pascal loved her more than any other creature in the world; but he betrayed no grief when he heard of her death. “God grant us grace to die like her,” he exclaimed; and reproved his sister for the affliction she displayed.b It was this question of the signature of the formula that caused his temporary dissension with the recluses of Port Royal. They / wished the nuns to temporise, and to sign the formula, with a reservation; but Pascal saw that the jesuits would not submit to be thus balked, and that they were bent on the destruction of their enemies. Instead therefore of approving the moderation of the jansenists, he said, “You a Périer, p. 595. The quotations in the above paragraph are taken from pp. 596 and 595, in order. b Based on Discours, pp. lxxiii–iv.

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wish to save Port Royal – you may betray the truth, but you cannot save it.” He himself became more jansenist than the jansenists themselves; instead of arguing, as M. Arnaud had done, that the five propositions were not to be found in Jansenius’s work, he declared that they were in accordance with St. Paul and the fathers; and inferred that the popes were deceived when they condemned them. He accused the recluses of Port Royal of weakness: they defended themselves; and, the dispute becoming known, it was reported that Pascal was converted; for no one could believe, as was the fact, that he was more tenacious of their doctrines than they were themselves. His confessor aided, at first, this mistake, by misconceiving the tendency of some of his expressions on his death bed; and it was not till three years after Pascal’s death that the truth became known.a At the time we now mention, the period of his sister’s death, his own end was near: decrepid and feeble, his life had become one course of pain, and each day increased his physical sufferings. He became at last so ill as to need the constant attentions of madame Perier. He had given shelter in his house to a poor family, and at this juncture one of the sons had fallen ill of the small-pox. Fearful that, if his sister visited him, she might carry this illness to her children, he consented to remove to her house. But her cares availed nothing; he was attacked by colics, which continued till his death, but which the physicians did not believe to be attended with danger. He bore his sufferings with patience; and true to his principles, received no attendance with which he could at all dispense; and, unsoftened by pain, he continued to admit the sedulous attentions of his sister with such apparent repulsion and indifference, that she often feared that they were displeasing to him. / Strange that he should see virtue in checking both his own and her sympathy – that diviner portion of our nature which takes us out of ourselves, and turns our most painful and arduous duties into pleasures.* In the * He thus expresses his sentiments on individual attachments: “It is unjust to attach one’s self, even though one should do it voluntarily and with pleasure: I should deceive those in whom I call forth affection – for I cannot be the end of any one, and possess not that by which they can be satisfied. As I should be culpable if I caused a falsehood to be believed, although I should persuade gently and was believed with pleasure, and hence derive pleasure myself – so am I culpable if I caused myself to be loved, and attracted persons to attach themselves to me. I ought to undeceive those who are ready to give faith to a falsehood in which they ought not to believe, and in the same way teach them that they should not attach themselves to me; for their lives ought to be spent in pleasing God, and seeking him.”b As if the beneficent Creator would not be pleased in seeing his creatures linked by the bonds of those very affections which he himself has made the law of our lives. One wonders where and how Pascal lived, that he did not discover that the worst crimes and vices of mankind arose from want of attachment: and that hardness of heart, pride, and selfishness, would, in the common run of men, be the consequences of an adherence to his creed. a

Based on Discours, pp. lxxiv–lxxvi. Périer, p. 593, and Discours, p. lxx. Implicit in Mary Shelley’s comments on the importance of individual attachments is a defence of Godwin, the first edition of whose Political Justice (1793) was still widely taken to represent his views on the subject, though he had long since changed his mind. b

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same spirit, when his sister lamented his sufferings, he observed, that, on the contrary, he rejoiced in them: he bade her not pity him, for that sickness was the natural state of a christian; as thus they are, as they always ought to be, suffering sorrow, and the privation of all the blessings of life – exempt from passion, from ambition, and avarice – ever in expectation of death. “Is it not thus,” he said, “that a Christian should pass his life? – and is it not a happiness to find one’s self in the state in which one ought to place one’s self, so that all one need do is to submit humbly and serenely?”a Self-denial thus became a passion with this wonderful man; and no doubt he derived pleasure from the excess to which he carried it. There was one other passion in which he indulged, that was far more laudable. We compassionate his mistake when he looks on the uselessness and helplessness of sickness as a good, but we admire him when we contemplate his sublime charity. In his last hours he lamented that he had not done more for the poor; more wholly devoted time and means to their relief. He made his will, in which he bestowed all that he could, with any justice, leave away from his family; / and as he was forced, through the excess of his sufferings, to accept more of comfort and attention than he thought consonant with virtue, he desired either to be removed to an hospital, where he might die among the poor, or that a sick mendicant should be brought to his house, and receive the same attention as himself. He was with difficulty diverted from these designs, and only gave in in submission to the dictates of his confessor.b He felt himself dying – his pains a little decreased, when a weakness and giddiness of the head succeeded, precursors of death: his physicians did not perceive his imminent danger, and his last days were troubled by their opposition to his wish to take the sacrament. His sister, however, perceived that his illness was greater than was supposed, and prepared for the last hour, which came more suddenly even than she expected. He was one night seized with convulsions, which intermitted only while he roused himself to communicate, and, then recurring, they ended only with his life. He died on the 19th August, 1662, at the age of thirty-nine. We contemplate the career of this extraordinary man with sentiments of mingled pity and admiration. He certainly wanted a lively imagination, or he would not have seen the necessity of so much mortification and suffering in following the dictates of the gospel. His charity, his fortitude, his resignation, demand our reverence; but the view he took of human duties was distorted and exaggerated: friendship he regarded as unlawful – love as the wages of damnation – marriage as a sin disguised; he saw impurity in maternal caresses, and impiety in every sensation of pleasure which God has scattered as flowers over our thorny path.

a b

This paragraph follows Périer, pp. 597–9. This paragraph is based on Périer, pp. 600–1.

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A modern writer* has said, that he pities any one who pronounces on the structure and complexion of a great mind, from the comparatively narrow and scanty materials / which can, by possibility, have been placed before him; and observes, that modest understandings will rest convinced there remains a world of deeper mysteries, to which the dignity of genius refuses to give utterance. And thus, in all humility, we despair of penetrating the recesses of Pascal’s mind, while solving mathematical problems that baffled all Europe; writing works replete with wit and wisdom, close reasoning and sublime eloquence; and the while believing that he pleased the Creator by renouncing all the blessings of life; by spending his time in the adoration of relics, and shortening his life by self-inflicted privation and torture. His works, replete with energy and eloquence as they are, present many of the same difficulties. We have already spoken at large of his “Letters Provinciales.” His “Pensées,” or Thoughts, which he wrote on loose scraps of paper, meaning hereafter to collect them in the form of a work, for the conversion of atheists, contain much that is admirable and true, though we may be allowed to object to some of his reflections. He has been praised for the mode in which he enounces the idea, that an atheist plays a losing game†; he had / far better believe, * Lockhart, in his Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. vii.a † The following is Pascal’s address to Atheists:– “I will not certainly make use, to convince you, of the faith by which we ascertain the existence of God, nor of all the other proofs which we possess, since you will not receive them. I will act by your own principles, and I undertake to show you, by the manner in which you daily reason on matters of less consequence, the way in which you ought to reason on this, and the part you ought to take in deciding the important question of the existence of God. You say we are incapable of knowing whether there be a God. Yet either God is, or God is not – there is no medium: towards which side, then, shall we lean? Reason, you say, cannot decide. An infinite gulph separates us. Stake, toss up at this distance; heads or tails – on which will you bet? Your reason does not affirm, nor can your reason deny one or the other. “Do not blame the falsehood of those who have chosen – you cannot tell whether they are mistaken: No, you say I do not blame the choice they have made, but that they choose at all; he who chooses heads and he who chooses tails are both in the wrong – the right thing is not to make the wager. “Yes; but the wager must be made. You have no choice – you are embarked; and not to bet that God does exist, is the same as betting that he does not. Which side will you be on? Weigh the gain and loss of taking that, that there is a God. If you win, you win all: if you lose, you lose nothing. Bet then that he does, without hesitation. Yes, you must wager. But perhaps I wager too much. Let us see. Since there is equal risk of gain or loss, even if it were only that you gain two lives for one, it were worth betting; and if you had ten to win, you would be imprudent not to risk your life to gain ten, at a game in which there is so much to be lost or won. But here there is an infinite number of lives to gain, with equal risk of losing or winning, and what you stake is so little and of so short duration that it is folly to fear hazarding it on this occasion.”b a John Gibson Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh, 1837), selectively quoting vol. VII, pp. 397–8. b Apparently not cited from Berth’s edition. The French text in Louis Lafuma’s edition of the Pensées (Paris: Editions du Luxembourg, 1951) is no. 418/343, p. 238, though the text does not contain the first two sentences.

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since thus he gains the chance of eternal happiness, while by disbelief he insures eternal damnation. This thought, however, is founded on misapprehension, and a want of knowledge of the human mind. Belief is not a voluntary act – it is the result of conviction; and we have it not in our choice to be convinced. Besides, love of truth is a passion of the human soul; and there are men who, perceiving truth in disbelief, cling to it as tenaciously as a religionist to his creed.a The method of convincing infidels by commenting on the beauty of the morality of the gospel, and its necessity for the happiness of man, is far more conclusive. On the excellence of christianity, and the benefits mankind has derived from its propagation, is founded the noblest argument for its truth; and he has urged these eloquently and forcibly in other portions of his work. Pascal, indeed, must always rank among the worthiest upholders of the christian faith; one who taught its lessons in their purity, and only erred by being good overmuch. The same precision and clearness / of mind that made him a good mathematician led him to excellence in the practice of christian virtues; but it also led an adherence to the letter rather than the spirit, and to the taking up its asceticism in preference to the holier duties which are an integral part of the plan of the creation, and form the most important portion of human life. / Pascal reasons better in the following article:– “We must not deceive ourselves, we are as much body as soul, and thus it is that persuasion does not use demonstration only as its instrument. How few things are proved? Proofs only convince the understanding. Habit renders our proofs strong; that persuades the senses, and gains the understanding without an exertion of its own. Who has demonstrated that there will be a to-morrow, or that we shall die? and yet what is more universally believed. Habit, then, persuades us. Habit makes so many Turks and Pagans: it makes trades, soldiers, &c. We ought not, indeed, to begin finding the truth through habit – but we ought to have recourse to it, when once the understanding has discerned the truth, so to imbibe it, and imbue ourselves with a belief which perpetually escapes from us – for to be for ever calling the proofs to mind would be too burdensome. We must acquire an easy belief – which is that of habit; which, without violence, art, or argument, causes us to believe, and inclines all our faculties to faith, so that our soul naturally falls into it. It is not sufficient to believe by force of conviction, if our senses incline us to believe the contrary. We must cause both parts to agree: the understanding through the reason that it has once acknowledged: and the senses, through habit, by not allowing them to incline the other way.b “Those to whom God has given religion as a feeling of the heart are happy and entirely convinced. We can only desire it for those, who have not this by reason, until God impresses it on the heart.”c a Cf. P. B. Shelley: ‘Belief and disbelief are utterly distinct from and unconnected with volition. […] Belief is an involuntary operation of the mind’ (Letter to Lord Ellenborough (1812) in PBS Prose, p. 65; there are similar passages in The Necessity of Atheism (1811) and Notes to Queen Mab (1813)). The argument derives ultimately from John Locke. The observation concerning the religious conviction with which atheism may be held applies also to Godwin’s injunction that Mary Shelley publish The Genius of Christianity Unveiled (the final statement of his convinced atheism) as his posthumous legacy to mankind. b Pensées, ed. Lafuma, 841/7, p. 439; also Article III, no. vi, in Berth, Œuvres, vol. II, pp. 231–2. c Pensées, ed. Lafuma, 110*/214*, pp. 76–7.

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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ. 1626–1696. I T appears ridiculous to include a woman’s name in the list of “Literary and Scientific Men.” This blunder must be excused; we could not omit a name so highly honourable to her country as that of madame de Sévigné, in a series of biography whose intent is to give an account of the persons whose genius has adorned the world. The subject of this memoir herself would have been very much surprised to find her name included in the list of French writers. She had no pretensions to authorship; and the delightful letters which have immortalised her wit, her sense, and the warm affections of her heart, were written without the slightest idea intruding that they would ever be read, except by her to whom they were addressed. Marie de Rabutin-Chantal was born on the 5th February, 1626. The family of Rabutin was a distinguished one of Burgundy,a and Chantal was its elder branch. Her paternal grandmother, Jeanne-Françoise Fremiot, now canonized, was a foundress of a religious institution, called the Sisters of Visitation;b which was the cause of a sort of hereditary alliance between her grand-daughter and the sisters of St. Mary, whose houses she was in the habit of visiting in Paris, and during her various journeys. Mademoiselle de Rabutin lost her father in her early infancy. When she was only a year and a half old, the English made a descent upon the isle of Rhé, for the purpose of succouring Rochelle.c M. de Chantal put himself at the head of a troop of gentlemen volunteers, and went out to oppose them. The artillery of the enemy’s fleet was turned upon them, / and M. de Chantal, together with the greater part of his followers, were left dead on the field. It has been said that he fell by the hand of Cromwelld himself. The baron de Chantal was a French noble of the old feudal times; when a cavalier regarded his arms and military a French province on the eastern border, proud of its independent traditions. For the account of Mme de Sévigné’s life and family history in this and the next paragraph Mary Shelley draws on Saint-Saurin, pp. 53–5. b Jeanne-Françoise Frémyot, baronne de Chantal (1572–1641), canonised 1767; Sévigné (1820), vol. IV, p. 28n. c La Rochelle, a Protestant fortified town permitted under the Edict of Nantes (1598), was besieged in 1627 by government troops. Charles I of England led an (ultimately unsuccessful) expeditionary force to relieve the siege. d Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658), later to become Parliamentary leader in the English Civil War and interregnum (1649–60), Lord Protector of the English republic (1653–8).

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services as his greatest glory, and as the origin of his rank and privileges.a His daughter has preserved a curious specimen of his independence in his mode of treating great men, and of the impressive concision of his letter writing. When Schombergb was made marshal of France, he wrote to him – “Monseigneur, “Rank – black beard – intimacy. “C HANTAL .”

By which few words he conveys his opinion that Schomberg owed his advancement, not to his valour nor military exploits, but to his rank, his having a black beard, like Louis XIII., and his intimacy with that monarch. The mother of mademoiselle de Rabutin was Marie de Coulanges, who was of the class of nobility distinguished in France as of the robe; that is, as being ennobled through their having filled high civil situations of chancellor, judge, &c. She died in 1636, when her daughter was only ten years of age, and the orphan fell under the care of her maternal grandfather, M. de Coulanges (her grandmother, the saint, being too much occupied by her religious duties to attend to her grandchild’s welfare and education): he, also, dying the same year, her guardianship devolved on her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, abbé de Livry.c Henceforth he was a father to her. We know nothing, except by conjecture, of Marie de Rabutin’s education and early years. She says that she was educated with her cousin Coulanges, who was several years younger than herself.d He is known to us as a gay, witty, convivial man, whose reputation arose from his talent for composing songs and madrigals on the events of the day, written with that airiness and point peculiar / to French productions of this sort. He was quick and clever, and the young lady must have enjoyed in him a merry, agreeable companion. She tells us, also, that she was brought up at court; a court ruled over by cardinal de Richelieu, who, though a tyrant, studied and loved letters, was desirous of advancing civilization, and took pleasure in the society of persons of talent, even if they were women.e She was always fond of reading. The endless romances of Scuderif were her earliest occua The Rabutin family could trace itself back to 1147 and belonged to the oldest branch of the French nobility, the noblesse de l’epée, which regarded its primary function as military service. b From a letter to Bussy-Rabutin of 6 Aug. 1675 (Sévigné (1820), vol. III, p. 374). Charles, duc de Schomberg (1601–56), favourite of Louis XIII, Marshal of France from 1636 and patron of the de Sévigné family. c From Saint-Saurin, p. 55; Philippe I de Coulanges (1572–1636) and Christophe de Coulanges, abbé de Livry (1607–87). An abbé studied theology and could derive income from a clerical benefice without being ordained a priest. d Philippe-Emmanuel de Coulanges (1633–1716), eldest child of Philippe II de Coulanges. A trained lawyer in the Paris Parlement, he mainly occupied himself as a conversationalist, house guest and versifier. e Richelieu’s founding of the Académie Française in 1634–5, and his patronage of a group of playwrights including Corneille are the most obvious instance of his support for letters. f The Princess Clarinte in de Scudéry’s Clélie, the favourite novel of the précieuses, is held to be modelled on Mme de Sévigné. The account of her literary tastes is based on Saint-Saurin, p. 55.

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pation; but she aspired to knowledge from more serious studies. Under the care of Ménage and Chapelle, who both admired her, she learnt Latin and Italian. She must always have possessed the delicacy and finesse of understanding that distinguish her letters: vivacity that was almost wit; common sense, that regulated and harmonized all, and never left her. She was not, perhaps, what is called beautiful, even on her first entrance into the world, but she was exceedingly pretty; a quantity of light hair, a fair blooming complexion, eyes full of fire, and a person elegant, light, and airy, rendered her very attractive. She married, at the age of eighteen, Henry, marquis de Sévigné, of an ancient family in Britany.a The Bretons even now scarcely consider themselves French. They are a race remarkable for dauntless courage and inviolable fidelity; for rectitude and independence of feeling, joined to a romantic loyalty, which, in latter years, has caused them to have a distinguished place in the internal history of France.b M. de Sévigné was not quite a man fitted to secure the felicity of a young girl, full of ability, warmth of heart, and excellent sense. He was fond of pleasure, extravagant in his expenses, heedless, and gay. In the first instance, however, the marriage was a happy one. The bon temps de la regencec were, probably, the bon temps of madame de Sévigné’s life. She bore two children, a son and a daughter. Her letters at this period are full of gaiety: there is no trace of any misfortune, nor any sorrow. / M. de Sévigné was related to the celebrated cardinal de Retz, in those days coadjutor to the archbishop of Paris.d When France became distracted by civil broils, this connection caused him to adhere to the party of the Fronde. His wife partook in his politics, and was a zealous Frondeuse. We have traces in all her after life of the intimacies formed during the vicissitudes of these troubles. She continued warmly attached to the ambitious turbulent coadjutor, whose last years were spent so differently from his early ones, and on whom she lavishes many encomiums: she was intimate with mademoiselle de Montpensier, daughter of Gaston, duke of Orleans; but her chief friend was the duchess de Chatillon, whom a Henri, marquis de Sévigné (1623–51), came from a Breton family of the noblesse de l’epée as old or possibly older than the Rabutins. ‘Britany’ is an alternative contemporary spelling. b Brittany, an independent duchy until 1491, had a strong sense of political and cultural identity, a factor behind the 1675 revolt (see below). Most Bretons spoke their own Celtic language. Brittany was staunchly royalist during the French Revolution. c In the ‘good times’ during the minority of Louis XIV, when his mother Anne of Austria was Regent, France was relatively peaceful and prosperous; see ‘Rochefoucauld’. Charles de Sévigné (1648–1713), and Françoise-Marguerite de Sévigné (1644–1705), future recipient of her mother’s letters. d Jean-François-Paul de Gondi, cardinal de Retz (1613–79). For more on de Retz, the Frondes (the Parisian and aristocratic revolts against the Regency of Anne of Austria) and Frondeurs, see ‘Rochefoucauld’ (vol. 2, pp. 354–65). In 1649 he led the First or Parisian Fronde but came to terms with the first minister Cardinal Mazarin, who promised to nominate him as a cardinal. His nomination stalled, and in 1650 he united an aristocratic faction led by three royal princes (the Grand Condé, the duc de Conti and the duc d’Orléans) to form the Second or Princely Fronde. Temporarily reconciled to the court, he became a cardinal in 1652.

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she called her sister.a Several letters that passed between her and her cousin Bussy-Rabutin, during the blockade of Paris by the prince de Condé, are preserved.b He sided with the court, and wrote to ask his cousin to interfere to obtain for him his carriage and horses, left behind in Paris when the court escaped to St. Germain:– “Pray exert yourself,” he writes: “it is as much your affair as mine; as we shall judge, by your success in this enterprise, in what consideration you are held by your party; that is to say, we shall have a good opinion of your generals, if they pay the attention they ought to your recommendation.” She failed; and Bussy-Rabutin writes, “So much the worse for those who refused you, my fair cousin. I do not know if it will profit them anything, but I am sure it does them no honour.”c We have mentioned, in the memoir of the duke de la Rochefoucauld, the depraved state of French society during the wars of the Fronde. Madame de Sévigné kept herself far aloof from even the suspicion of misconduct, but her husband imbibed the contagion. The name of his mistress, Ninon de l’Enclos, gave a celebrity to his infidelity infinitely painful to his wife. Madame de Sévigné felt her misfortune, but bore it with dignity and patience. Not long after she had cause to congratulate herself on her forbearance, when her husband was / killed in a duel by the chevalier d’Albret. The occasion of the combat is not known, but such were too frequent in the days of the Fronde.d The inconstancy of her husband did not diminish the widow’s grief: she had lived six happy years of a brilliant youth with him; his gay, social disposition was exactly such as to win affection; and, when he was lost to her for ever, she probably looked on her jealousy in another light, and felt how trivial such is when compared with the irreparable stroke of death. Her sorrow was profound. Her uncle, the abbé de Coulanges, was her best friend and consoler. He drew her attention to her duties, and assisted her in the arduous task of managing her affairs, embarrassed by her husband’s extravagance. She had two young children, and their education was her chief and dearest care, and she was thus speedily recalled to active life. Her widowhood was exemplary. Left at four-and-twenty without her husband’s protection, in the midst of a society loosened from all moral restrictions, in which the highest were the most libertine, no evil breath ever tainted her fair fame. Her a

Gaston, duc d’Orléans, uncle of Louis XIV, Frondeur; Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, duchesse de Montpensier (vol. 2, p. 364), Frondeuse; Isabelle-Angélique de MontmorencyBotteville (d. 1695) in 1645 eloped with the duc de Chatillon (d. 1649). She had later amorous adventures. Mme de Sévigné’s letter of 3 Feb. 1695 refers to their calling each other sister. b Roger de Rabutin, comte de Bussy (1618–93), of the family’s junior branch, had followed le Grand Condé (prince of the blood after Orléans) before Condé defected to the Fronde (1649) and blockaded Paris (see vol. 2, pp. 339n., 355–7). Bussy was reconciled to the court in 1651. c Letters of Bussy-Rabutin, 25 Mar. and 26 Mar. 1649 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 12–13). d The duel (1651) was caused by rivalry over a courtesan, La Belle Lolo; Mary Shelley seems to have ignored the material in Saint-Saurin (pp. 56–7) explaining this.

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cousin, Bussy-Rabutin*, who has distilled, from a venomous pen, poison / over the reputation of almost every Frenchwoman of that period, says not a word against her,a except that she encouraged sometimes the friendship of those who loved her. No blame can arise from this. It was necessary for the advancement of her children that she should secure the support and friendship of people in power. She lived in a court surrounded by a throng of society: she felt safe, since she could rely on herself; and prudery would only have made her enemies, without

* Roger de Rabutin, comte de Bussy, was one of those unfortunate men who, from some malconformity in the structure of their minds, inherit infamy from the use they make of their talents. His youth was spent in gambling, dissipation, duels, and all the disorders of a disorderly period. He was in the army during his early years, and became attached to the great Condé. He served under him when that prince blockaded Paris, and was one of the faction of young men of quality who attempted to govern the court on its return, and who received the name of PetitsMaîtresb from the witty Parisians, a name afterwards preserved to designate young coxcombs of fashion in almost all countries. When Condé was arrested, he made war against the king in Berri. When liberated, he abandoned him. Insolent and presumptuous, he made an enemy of this great man as well as of Turenne.c Bussy attacked the latter in a dull epigram. Turenne’s reply was far more witty: he wrote to the king, that “Bussy was the best officer, for songs, that he had in his troop.” In like manner, he at first paid his court to Fouquet, and afterwards caballed against him. He had frequently been imprisoned in the Bastile.d In 1659 he was exiled. He amused himself during his banishment by writing his “Amours des Gaules,” a scandalous history of the time, whose wit cannot redeem the infamy attached to his becoming the betrayer and chronicler of the faults and misfortunes of his friends. Allowed to return to court, he entered into a cabal for the ruin of the duchesse de la Vallière – his own was the consequence. Deprived of his employment, imprisoned in the Bastile, and afterwards exiled, he drank deep of the cup of disappointment and mortification. He continued his work in his retreat; but the exercise of malice and calumny did not compensate for being driven from the arena on which he delighted to figure. Sixteen years afterwards he was allowed to return to court; but it had then lost its charms, especially as the king did not regard him with an eye of favour, so he returned once again to his country retreat. He died in 1693, aged seventy-one. Ill brought up and uneducated, wit, sharpened by malice, was his chief talent. He wrote a pure style, but his letters are stiff and dull; and his chief work is remarkable for its license and malice rather than for talent.e a

i.e. against her sexual conduct, though in his novel Bussy drew her unflatteringly as Mme de Cheneville and included the portrait alongside those of ladies of easier virtue. But he soon bitterly regretted dishonouring his cousin (see below). b Petits-Maîtres: literally ‘little masters’. c Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne (1611–75), widely regarded as the greatest soldier of the age and a perfect gentleman. Brought up as a Calvinist, he converted to Catholicism in 1668 and became extremely devout. d Bastille, the fortress in Paris made famous by the French Revolution. e Note based selectively on Saint-Saurin, pp. 122–7. L’Histoire Amoureuse des Gaules (The Loves of the Gauls) began as a series of acidulous pen-portraits, including ones of the king and his mistress, Louise de la Vallière, written to entertain a house-party in 1659. Rumours of its existence caused Bussy-Rabutin to be banished to his Burgundian estates briefly. (Exclusion from attendance on the king meant the loss of all political and social opportunities for advancement.) He revised and developed the novel there. Its publication, without his permission, in the Netherlands in 1665, ensured his lasting banishment. Its most offensive passages were probably interpolations.

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any good accruing. The only friend she had who did not deserve the distinction was Bussy-Rabutin; but he being a near relation, and she the head of their house,a she showed her kindness and her prudence by continuing to admit him to the honour of her intimacy. In his letters he alludes to the admiration that Fouquet felt for her; and we find that her friendship for him continued unalterable to the last. Bussy rallies her, also, on the admiration of the prince de Conti:– “Take care of yourself, my fair cousin,” he writes: “a disinterested lady may, nevertheless, be ambitious; and she who refused the financier of the king may not always resist his majesty’s cousin. You are a little ingrate, and will have to pay one day or another. You pursue virtue as if it were a reality, and you despise wealth as if you could never feel the want of it: we shall see you some day regret all this.” Again he writes, “One must regulate oneself by you; one is too happy in being allowed to be your friend. There is hardly a woman in the kingdom, except yourself, who can induce your lovers to be satisfied with friendship: we scarcely see any who, rejecting love, are not in a state of enmity. I am certain that it requires a woman of extraordinary merit to turn a lover into a friend.” And again, “I do not know any one so generally esteemed as yourself: you are the delight of the human race; antiquity would have raised altars to you; and you would assuredly have been the / goddess of something. In our own times, not being so prodigal of incense, we content ourselves with saying that there does not exist a woman of your age more virtuous and more charming. I know princes of the blood, foreign princes, nobles of high rank, great captains, ministers of state, magistrates, and philosophers, all ready to be in love with you. What can you desire more?”b This language deserves quoting only as evidence of the sort of ordeal Madame de Sévigné passed through. While receiving all this flattery, she was never turned aside from her course. To educate her children, take care of their property, secure such a place in society as would be advantageous to them, and to render her uncle’s life happy, were the objects of her life. She was very fortunate in her uncle, whose kindness and care were the supports of her life. Her obligations to him are apparent from the letter she wrote many years after, on his death:– “I am plunged in sorrow: ten days ago I saw my dear uncle die, and you know what he was to his dear niece. He has conferred on me every benefit in the world, either by giving me property of his own, or preserving and augmenting that of my children. He drew me from the abyss into which M. de Sévigné’s death plunged me: he gained lawsuits; he put my affairs into good order; he paid our debts; he has made the estate on which my son lives the prettiest and most agreeable in the world.”c She was fortunate, also, in her children, whom she passionately loved. But it must be remembered that a Mme de Sévigné, only surviving child of the elder branch of the Rabutin family, was thus its head until her son Charles came of age. Bussy-Rabutin was head of the junior branch. Family hierarchies were extremely important to the noblesse de l’epée. b The foregoing quotations are taken selectively from letters of Bussy-Rabutin of 16 June 1654, 17 Aug. 1654 and 7 Oct. 1655 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 17–19, 22, 42–3). c Letter to Bussy-Rabutin, 2 Sept. 1687 (Sévigné (1820) vol. VII, p. 470).

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children do not entirely occupy a parent’s time. She afterwards regretted that her daughter had been brought up in a convent; but, in sending her there, she acted in accordance with the manners of the times.* While her children were away, and when she came up to Paris from her country house, she diversified her life by innocent pleasures. She enjoyed good society, and adorned it. She was one of the favourites of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, where met a / knot of people, who, however they might err in affectation and over refinement, were celebrated for talent and virtue.a She was a friend of Julie d’Angennes, afterwards madame de Montauzier; and the Alcovistes of the set were her principal friends. Ménage mentions her with admiration, and was accustomed to relate several anecdotes concerning her. He went to visit her in Britany, a great undertaking for a Parisian. The chevalier de Méré, one of the most affected and exaggerated of the Precieuses and also the count de Lude, whom Ménage mentions as one of the four distinguished sayers of bon mots of the time, were chief among her friends and admirers.b Her cousin Bussy-Rabutin quarrelled with her. The occasion is not known; but it is suspected that she refused to exert herself to re-establish him in the favour of Fouquet, who was displeased with him. The infamy of his proceeding is almost unexampled. He included mention of her in the portion of his scandalous publication of the “Amours des Gaules” published 1659. In this he does not accuse her of misconduct, but he represents her economy as avarice, her friendship as coquetry; and added to this the outrage of raking up and publishing the misfortunes of her married life, which, though they redounded to her credit, must have deeply hurt a woman of feeling and delicacy. She never forgave her cousin; and, though afterwards reconciled to him, it is evident that she never regarded him with esteem. In addition to this annoyance, her career was not entirely sunny. Her warm heart felt bitterly the misfortunes that befel her friends. Her first sorrow of * “J’admire comment j’eus le courage de vous y mettre (au couvent); la pensèe de vous voir souvent, et de vous en retirer me fit résoudre à cette barbarie, qui etoit trouvée alors une bonne conduite, et une chose nécessaire à votre éducation.” – Lettre à Mad. de Grignan, 6 May, 1676.c a

These comments redress to a degree the sharper tone of her account of the précieuses in ‘Molière’. b Ménage’s journey to Brittany from Paris would have taken 5–6 days; Méré: Antoine Gombaud, chevalier de Méré (1607–84), principal theorist of honnêté, the aristocratic ideal of moral decency combined with politeness and taste. His Conversations (1668) and Discours (1667) discuss the nature of wit, charm, conversation. Interestingly, Mary Shelley singles out a man as representative of the worst affectation. Lude: Henri de Daillon, comte du Lude (d. 1685), soldier and courtier; at one time deeply enamoured of Mme de Sévigné; bon mots: witty sayings. Based on Saint-Saurin, pp. 61, 65, 67 and note. c ‘I am astonished at how I had the courage to put you there (in the convent); the thought of seeing you often and of taking you out of it made me resolve on this barbarity, which at the time seemed to be a good plan, and necessary for your education’ (Sévigné (1820) vol. IV, pp. 281–2). The notice paid to convent education in this Life may relate to Mary Shelley’s acquiescence in Byron’s sending Allegra, his daughter by Claire Clairmont, to be brought up in a convent. The plan did not turn out well, and Allegra died there, aged six (1822).

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this kind was the imprisonment, banishment, and adversity of cardinal de Retz. He deserved his downfal, – but not in her eyes. She only saw his talents and amiable qualities; and viewed in him a powerful friend, now overthrown. His imprisonment embittered two years of her life. Her husband’s uncle, the chevalier de Sévigné, took an active part in his escape from the citadel of Nantes; but this did not restore him to his friends. He was obliged to / take refuge in Spain; and did not return to France for many years, when he came back an altered man.a Her next misfortune was the fall and banishment of Fouquet. It speaks highly for madame de Sévigné’s good sense and superior qualities that, while refusing a man who, in other instances, showed himself presuming from success with other women, she should secure him as a friend. The secret lay in her own feelings of friendship, which being sincere, and yet strictly limited, she acquired his esteem as well as affection. Fouquet was a munificent and generous man, of a superior understanding and unbounded ambition. He dissipated the finances of the state as he spent his own; but he could bestow as well as take, as he proved when, on getting his place of procureur-general to the parliament, he sent in the price (14,000 francs) to the public treasury. The entertainment he gave Louis XIV. at Vaux, which cost 18,000,000 of francs, was the seal of his ruin, already suggested to the king by Colbert.b He had made the monarch, already all powerful, fear his victim. Louis fancied that Fouquet had fortified Belle Isle,c and that he had a strong party within and without the kingdom. This was a mere mistake, inspired by the superintendent’sd enemies, to ensure his fall. Madame de Sévigné, Pelisson, Gourville,e and mademoiselle Scuderi were his chief friends: joined to these was Pelisson, his confidential clerk. He shared the fall of his master, and was imprisoned in the Bastile; but, undeterred by fear from this, defended him with great eloquence. The simple-minded, true-hearted La Fontaine was another of his firm friends in adversity. The suit against him was carried on for three years. He was a De Retz’s reconciliation with the court was short-lived and he was imprisoned in December 1652. Popular clerical support for him to succeed his uncle as Archbishop in 1654 occasioned an ecclesiastical Fronde. After his escape from prison, two successive Popes supported his claim to the see but after 1656 his star at Rome waned and he travelled through Burgundy, the Low Countries and England, issuing pamphlets arguing his case. In 1658 Louis XIV allowed de Retz to return from exile on condition that he resigned all claim to the see, offering him the royal abbey of St Denis in lieu. Thereafter de Retz lived piously and quietly, composing his memoirs, almost certainly addressed to Mme de Sévigné, for the benefit of her grandsons. b Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1619–83), formerly one of Fouquet’s chief assistants, was used by Louis XIV to arrange his master’s disgrace, and replaced him on the State Council. In 1665 he became Contrôleur-Général des Finances and a crucially important minister. Vaux: Fouquet’s splendid chateau near Paris, Vaux-le-Vicomte. c An island and naval base off the north-west coast of France. d i.e. Fouquet, Surintendant des Finances. e Gourville: La Rochefoucauld’s secretary; Pelisson: Paul Pellison-Fontanier (1624–93) spent four years in the Bastille (allegedly taming a spider) as a result of his association with Fouquet. Later he was reconciled to Louis XIV and became an Historiographer-Royal and a member of the Académie Française.

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pursued with the utmost acrimony and violence by Colbert, Le Tellier,a secretary of state, and his rival in credit, and Seguier, the chancellor. During his trial, madame de Sévigné wrote daily to M. de Pomponne, afterwards minister, relating its progress. These letters are very interesting, both from the anecdotes they contain, and the warmth of feeling / the writer displays. Fouquet was treated with the utmost harshness by the chancellor Seguier, whom he answered with spirit, preserving through all a presence of mind, a composure, a dignity, and resolution, which is the more admirable, since, in those days, there was no humiliation of language to which the subjects of Louis XIV. did not descend, and think becoming, as addressed to the absolute arbiter of their destiny. The sort of interest and terror excited about him is manifest, by the fact, that madame de Sévigné masked herself when she went to see him return from the court, where he was tried, to the Bastile, his prison.* His trial lasted for more than a month. The proceedings against him were carried on with the utmost irregularity; and this and other circumstances – the length of time that had elapsed, which turned the excitement against him into compassion; the earnestness of the solicitations in his favour, together with the virulence with which he was persecuted, – all these things saved his life. Madame de Sévigné announces this news with * Il faut que je vous conte ce que j’ai fait. Imaginez vous que des dames m’ont proposé d’aller dans une maison qui regarde droit dans l’arsenal pour voir revenir notre pauvre ami. J’etais masquée; je l’ai vu venir d’assez loin. M. d’Artagnanb etoit aupres de lui; cinquante mousquetaires à trente à quarante pas dernière. Il parroissoit assez réveur. Pour moi, quand je l’ai apperçu, les jambes m’ont tremblé, et le cœur m’a battu si fort, que je ne pouvois plus. En s’approchant de nous pour entrer dans son trou M. d’Artagnan l’a poussé, et lui a fait remarquer que nous etions là. Il nous a donc saluées, et pris cette mine riante que vous lui connoissez. Je ne croie pas qu’il m’a reconnue, mais je vous avoue que j’ai été etrangement saisée quand je l’ai vu entrer dans cette petite porte. Si vous saviez combien on est malheureux quand on a le cœur fait comme je l’ai, je suis assurée que vous auriez pitié de moi; mais je pense que vous n’en etes pas quitte à meilleur marché de la maniere dont je vous connois. J’ai été voir votre chère voisine, je vous plains autant de ne l’avoir plus, que nous nous trouvons heureux de l’avoir. Nous avons bien parlé de notre cher ami: elle a vu Saphoc (mademoiselle de Scuderi) qui lui a redonné du courage. Pour moi, j’irai demain le reprendre chez elle car de temps en temps, je sens que j’ai besoin de réconfort: ce n’est pas que, l’on ne dise mille choses qui doivent donner de l’esperance;

a Michel le Tellier (1603–85), Louis XIV’s Secretary of State for War (1643–85), uncle of Mme de Coulanges, wife of Mme de Sévigné’s cousin Philippe; Seguier: Pierre Séguier (1588– 1672), Duc de Villemor, Chancellor (1635–72) to Louis XIII and Louis XIV; M de Pomponne: Simon Arnauld d’Andilly, marquis de Pomponne (1618–99), minister and diplomat, brother of the famous Jansenist and of the Abbess of Port-Royal (see ‘Pascal’). Temporarily disgraced by his association with Fouquet, he frequented the salons of the précieuses. Pomponne was recipient of Mme de Sévigné’s letters on the trial of Fouquet. b Charles de Batz, sieur D’Artagnan (1615–73), Captain-Lieutenant of the First Company of Musketeers in the royal guard, was entrusted by Louis XIV with politically sensitive duties. Alexander Dumas’s novel The Three Musketeers (1844) was based on spurious memoirs attributed to him. c Mlle de Scudéry’s alter ego in her novel Le Grand Cyrus.

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delight:– “Praise God, and thank him! Our poor friend is saved! Thirteen sided with M. d’Ormesson (who voted for banishment), nine with Sainte Helene, (whose voice was for death).a I am beside myself with joy. How delightful and consolatory must this news / be to you; and what inconceivable pleasure do those moments impart which deliver the heart and the thoughts from such terrible anxiety. It will be long before I recover from the joy I felt yesterday: it is really too complete; I could scarcely bear it. The poor man learnt the news by air (by means of signals) a few moments after; and I have no doubt he felt it in all its extent.”b The king, however, abated this joy. He had been taught to believe that Fouquet was dangerous: fancying this, he of course felt, that, as an exile, he would enjoy every facility for carrying on his schemes. He changed the sentence of banishment into perpetual imprisonment in Pignerol.c Fouquet was separated from his wife and family, and from his most faithful servants. At first his friends hoped that his hard fate would be softened. “We hope,” writes madame de Sévigné, “for some mitigation: hope has used me too well for me to abandon it. We must follow the example of the poor prisoner: he is gay and tranquil; let us be the same.”d The king, however, continued inexorable. He remained long in prison: a doubt hangs over the

mais mon dieu, j’ai l’imagination si vive, que tout ce qui est incertain me fait mourir.” – Lettre à M. de Pomponne, 27 Novembre, 1664.e a Olivier Lefèvre d’Ormesson (1616–86), a leading Paris magistrate and chief prosecutor of Fouquet, who displayed independence of mind and attention to due process despite the packing of the tribunal with Fouquet’s opponents. Mme de Sévigné’s aunt Marie de Coulanges, mother of her cousin Philippe, was a member of the d’Ormesson family. Sainte Helene: Le Cornier de Sainte-Hélène, a magistrate from Rouen, the second prosecutor at Fouquet’s trial. b Letter to Pomponne, 19 Dec. 1664 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 101–2). c Pinerol was a fortress in the Savoyard Alps near the south-east frontier – and thus as far from Paris as it was possible to be. d Letter to Pomponne, Jan. 1665 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 108–9). e ‘I must tell you the whole story of what I’ve done. Just think, these ladies suggested to me that we went to a house that looks straight into the arsenal, so that we could see the return of our poor friend. I was masked; I saw him approach from a distance. M. d’Artagnan was in front of him; fifty musketeers at thirty to forty paces behind. He seemed to be in a dream. As for me, as soon as I saw him, my legs started to tremble, and my heart beat so hard that I could scarcely hold out. On approaching us to enter his cell, M. d’Artagnan nudged him and pointed out that we were there. He then greeted us, and adopted that amused expression you know well. I don’t believe he recognised me. But I assure you I was very strangely affected when I saw him go through that tiny door. If you knew how unhappy one can be with a heart made like mine, I would be sure that you would pity me; but from what I know of you I do not think that you have got off any more lightly. I have been to see your dear neighbour, I am as sorry for your loss of her as we are happy at our gain. We spoke a great deal of our dear friend: she has seen Sapho [mademoiselle de Scuderi] who has put fresh heart into her. As for me, tomorrow I will go and replenish my spirits with her, as from time to time I feel that I really need this comfort; not that one doesn’t say a thousand things that ought to create hope, but, my God, I have such a keen imagination that all uncertainty makes me die’ (Letter to Pomponne, 27 Nov. 1664; Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 77–8). Mary Shelley’s extracts from de Sévigné contain much irregular accentuation.

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conclusion of his life; and it is not known whether he remained a prisoner to the end. He died in 1680.* When Fouquet’s papers were seized, there were among them a multitude of letters which compromised the reputations of several women of quality. Madame de Sévigné had been in the habit of corresponding with him. The secretary of state, Tellier, declared that her letters were les plus honnêtes du monde;a but they were written unguardedly, in all the thoughtlessness of youth. She apprehended some annoyance / from their having fallen into the hands of the enemy, and thought it right to retire into the country. Bussy-Rabutin put himself forward at this moment to support her: a reconciliation ensued between them, – not very cordial, but which, for some time, continued uninterrupted. Madame de Sévigné’s retreat was not of long continuance. It took place when Fouquet was first arrested, and she returned to court long before his trial. Her daughter was presented in 1663.b The following year was rendered remarkable by the brilliancy of the fêtes given at Versailles.† The carousalsc or tournaments were splendid, from the number of combatants and the magnificence of the dresses and accoutrements. The personages that composed the tournament passed in review before the assembled court. The king represented Roger.d All the diamonds of the crown were lavished on his dress and the harness of his horse: his page bore his * On the 3d April, 1680, Madame de Sévigné writes to her daughter, “My dear child, M. Fouquet is dead. I am grieved. Mademoiselle de Scuderi is deeply afflicted. Thus ends a life which it cost so much to preserve.” Gourville, in his memoirs, speaks of his being liberated from prison as a certain thing: “M. Fouquet, being some time after set at liberty, heard how I had acted towards his wife, to whom I had lent more than a hundred thousand livres, for her subsistence, for the suit, and even to gain over some of the judges. After having written to thank me,” &c. This seems to set the matter at rest. Voltaire says, in the “Siècle de Louis XIV.,” that the countess de Vaux (Fouquet’s daughter-in-law) confirmed the fact of his liberation: a portion of his family, however, believed differently in after times. His return, if set free, was secret, and did not take place long before his death.e † Voltaire, Siècle de Louis XIV. chap. xxv.f a

‘The most moral in the world.’ i.e. being formally introduced to the king and other members of the royal family as a prelude to her participation in the social round of High Society. The British version of this ceremony continued until 1957. c Usually spelt ‘carousel’; a neo-chivalric tournament or jousting contest, taking place on horseback between two warriors armed with lances. Louis XIV was starting to develop Versailles into the magnificent chateau and royal residence from a modest hunting lodge. d The legendary knight Ruggiero in Ariosto’s romantic epic Orlando Furioso (1516). e The comtesse de Vaux was also a daughter of the Quietist, Mme de Guyon (see ‘Fénélon’); her husband, Louis-Nicolas, lived in semi-disgrace at the chateau built by his father at Vaux. Modern historians confirm that Fouquet died shortly before his liberation. Mary Shelley cites Gourville, vol. II, p. 72 and Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, pp. 20–1. She seems to have consulted Gourville after reading editorial comment in Sévigné (1820); quotations are from vol. VI, pp. 217, 221. f Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, ch. xxiv (not xxv), pp. 13–15, 29–33. b

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shield, whose device was composed by Benserade,a who had a happy talent for composing these slight commemorations of the feelings and situation of the real person, mingled with an apt allusion to the person represented. The queen,b attended by three hundred ladies, witnessed the review from under triumphal arches. Amidst this crowd of ladies, lost in it to all but the heart of Louis, and shrinking from observation, was mademoiselle de la Vallière, the real object of the monarch’s magnificent display. The cavalcade was followed by an immense gilt car, representing the chariot of the sun. It was surrounded by the four Ages, the Seasons, and the Hours. Shepherds arranged the lists, and other characters recited verses written for the occasion. The tournament over, the feast succeeded, and, darkness being come, the place was illuminated by 4000 flambeaux. Two hundred persons, dressed as fauns, sylvans, and dryads, together with shepherds, reapers, and vine-dressers, served at the / numerous tables; a theatre arose, as if by magic, behind the tables; the arcades that surrounded the whole circuit were ornamented with 500 girandoles of green and silver, and a gilt balustrade shut in the whole. Molière’s play of the “Princesse d’Elide,”c agreeable at the time from the allusions it contained, his comedy of the “Mariàge Forcée,”d and three acts of the “Tartuffe,” added the enduring stamp of genius to mere outward show and splendour. Mademoiselle de Sévigné appeared in these fêtes. In 1663 she represented a shepherdess in a ballet; and the verses which Benserade wrote for her to repeat show that she was held in consideration as one of the most charming beauties of the court, and as the daughter of one of its loveliest and most respected ornaments. In 1664 she appeared as Cupid disguised, as a Nereid*; and * In the verses made on this occasion the poet alludes also to the beauty of her mother:– “Vous travestir ainsi, c’est bien ingénu, Amour, c’est comme si, pour n’etre pas connu, Avec une innocence extreme Vous vous deguisez en vous-meme Elle a vos traits, vos yeux, votre air engageant, Et de même que vous, sourit en égorgeant; Enfin qui fit l’un a fait l’autre, Et jusque à sa mère, elle est comme la votre.”e a Isaac de Benserade or Bensserade (1613–91), poet, dramatist, and librettist for the royal ballets; device: motto in the form of a short poem. b Marie-Thérèse of Spain (1638–83), queen consort of Louis XIV. c The play was set in Spain, birthplace of the queen and her mother-in-law, Louis XIV’s mother Anne of Austria. Mary Shelley follows Voltaire, who says that its topical allusions made it very well received. d In this comédie-ballet, Sganarelle consults friends and philosophers about whether he should marry. They are all discouraging, but having pledged his word, he goes ahead anyway. e ‘Cupid, it is disingenuous of you to disguise yourself thus; it is as if, so as to pass without being recognised, you disguised yourself, in all innocence, as yourself. She has your traits, your eyes, your engaging air, and just like you, smiles as she torments [literally: cuts throats]; in short, whoever has made one has made the other, and she is like your mother even as she is like hers’. The point of the compliment to Madame de Sévigné is that Cupid’s mother is Venus, goddess of Love, who arose from the sea (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, p. x).

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as Omphale in 1665.a We must not forget that at this very time, while enjoying her daughter’s success, madame de Sévigné was interesting herself warmly for Fouquet. The favour of a court could not make her forget her friends. Her chief object of interest, as personally regarded herself at this time, was the marriage of her daughter. Her son was in the army. When only nineteen he joined the expedition undertaken by the dukes of Noailles and Beaufort for the succour of Candia.b On this, madame de Sévigné writes to the comte de Bussy, – “I suppose you know that my son is gone to Candia with M. de Roannes and the comte de Saint Paul. He mentioned it to M. de Turenne, to cardinal de Retz, and to M. de la Rochefoucauld. These gentlemen so approved his design that it was resolved on and made public before I knew any thing of it. He is / gone. I wept his departure bitterly, and am deeply afflicted. I shall not have a moment’s repose during this expedition. I see all the dangers, and they destroy me; but I am not the mistress. On such occasions mothers have no voice.”c She had foundation for anxiety, for few among the officers that accompanied this expedition ever returned. The baron de Sévigné was, however, among these: he had distinguished himself; and, as the foundation for his military career, his mother bought for him, at a large pecuniary sacrifice, the commission of guidon, or ensign, in the regiment of the dauphin.d The marriage of her daughter was a still more important object. La plus jolie fille de Francee she delights in naming her; yet it was long before she was satisfied with any of those who pretended to her hand. At length the count de Grignan offered himself. He was a widower of two marriages: he was not young, yet his offer pleased the young lady, and possessed many advantages in the eyes of the mother, on account of the excellent character which he bore, his rank, and his wealth.f “I must tell you a piece of news,” madame de Sévigné writes to the count de Bussy, “which will doubtless delight you. At length, the prettiest woman in France is about to marry, not the handsomest youth, but the most excellent man in the kingdom. You have long known M. de Grignan. All his wives are dead a Cupid: God of Love; one of his disguises was as a sea-nymph or Nereid; Omphale: Queen of Lydia. For a year as punishment for the murder of Iphites, son of the King of Occhalia, Hercules was made to serve Omphale dressed in women’s clothes. b Anne, duc de Noailles (1615–73), Captain of the first company of the Royal Guards; François de Bourbon-Vendôme, duc de Beaufort, missing, presumed dead, at the seige; Candia, now Heraklion, a fortified town of Crete, then a Venetian possession being besieged by Turkish forces. c Letter to Bussy-Rabutin, 28 Aug. 1668 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, p. 148; also cited in SaintSaurin, p. 94). d The courtesy title of the eldest son and heir of a King of France; here, Louis, known as the Grand Dauphin (1661–1711). Officerships were normally bought and sold. Mme de Sévigné paid 122,000 livres for her son’s commission. e ‘The prettiest girl in France’; letter to Bussy-Rabutin, 28 Aug. 1668 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, p. 148). f François Adhémar de Monteil, comte de Grignan (1632–1704), married (1), in 1658 Angélique-Clarisse d’Angennes (d. 1664), third daughter of the marquise de Rambouillet (2) in 1664, Marie-Angélique de Puy du Fou (d. 1665 giving birth to an infant son, who also died).

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to make room for your cousin, as well as, through wonderful luck, his father and his son; so that, being richer than he ever was, and being, through his birth, his position, and his good qualities, such as we desire, we conclude at once. The public appears satisfied, and that is much, for one is silly enough to be greatly influenced by it.”a Soon after this period the correspondence began which contains the history of the life of madame de Sévigné, – a life whose migrations were not much more important than those of the Vicar of Wakefield, “from the blue bed to the brown;”b her residence in Paris being varied only by journeys to her estate in Britany, or by / visits to her daughter in Provence. But such was the vivacity of her mind, and the sensibility of her heart, that these changes, including separations from and meetings with her daughter, assume the guise of important events, bringing in their train heart-breaking grief, or abundant felicity. When she accepted M. de Grignan as her son-in-law, she fancied that, by marrying her daughter to a courtier, they would pass their lives together. But, soon after, M. de Grignan, who was lieutenant-general to the duke de Vendôme, governor of Provence, received an order to repair to the government, where he commanded during the almost uninterrupted absence of the duke.c This was a severe blow. Her child torn from her, she was as widowed a second time: her only consolation was in the hope of reunion, and in a constant and voluminous correspondence.d Mother and daughter interchanged letters twice a week. As their lives are undiversified by events, we wonder what interest can be thrown over so long a series, which is often a mere reiteration of the same feelings and the same thoughts. Here lie the charm and talent of madame de Sévigné. Her warm heart and vivacious intellect exalted every emotion, vivified every slight event, and gave the interest of talent and affection to every thought and every act. Her letters are the very reverse of prosy; and though she writes of persons known to her daughter and unknown to us, and in such hints as often leave much unexplained, yet her pen is so graphic, her style so easy and clear, pointed and finished, even in its sketchiness, that we become acquainted with her friends, and take interest in

a

Letter to Bussy-Rabutin of 4 Dec. 1669 (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 153–4). With the death of his father Grignan inherited the family property; his infant son’s death meant that a son by Mlle de Sévigné would be the heir. But Mme de Sévigné was being optimistic, since the two daughters of the first marriage had expensive claims on their father’s property for their dowries. b Novel (1766) by Oliver Goldsmith (1728–74). On the first page, the vicar describes his contented life: ‘We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fire-side, and all our migrations were from the blue bed to the brown.’ (For Mary Shelley’s allusion to this elsewhere, see MWSL, I, p. 175.) c After the Frondes, Louis XIV adopted the policy of keeping his grandees close to him, while their deputies fulfilled their duties in the provinces. This duc de Vendôme, Louis-Joseph (1654– 1712), inherited the governorship from his father when he was sixteen, and went on to a distinguished military career. d Based on Saint-Saurin, p. 87.

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the monotonous course of her life. To give an idea of her existence, as well as of her correspondence, we will touch on the principal topics. In the first place, we must give some account of the person to whom they were addressed. Madame la comtesse de Grignan was a very different person from her mother. From some devotional scruples she destroyed all her own letters, so that we cannot judge of / their excellence; but there can be no doubt that she was a very clever woman. She studied and loved the philosophy of Descartes; and it is even suspected that she was, in her youth, something of an esprit forta in her opinions. She conducted herself admirably as a wife; she was an anxious but not a tender mother. Here was the grand difference between her and her mother. The heart of madame de Sévigné overflowed with sympathy and tenderness; her daughter, endowed with extreme good sense, wit, and a heart bent on the fulfilment of her duties, had no tenderness of disposition. She left her eldest child, a little girl, behind her, in Paris, almost from the date of its birth. Apparently this poor child had some defect which determined her destiny in a convent from her birth; for her mother seems afraid of showing kindness, and shut her up at the age of nine in the religious house where afterwards she assumed the veil; her vocation to the state being very problematical.b It was through the continual remonstrances and representations of madame de Sévigné that she kept her youngest daughter at home. She was more alive to maternal affection towards her son; but this was mixed with the common feeling of interest in the heir of her house. There was something hard in her character that sometimes made her mother’s intense affection a burden. Madame de Sévigné’s distinctive quality was amiability: we should say that her daughter was decidedly unamiable. These were, to a great degree, the faults of a young person, probably of temper: they disappeared afterwards, when experience taught her feeling, and time softened the impatience of youth. We find a perfect harmony between mother and daughter subsist during the latter years of the life of the former, and repose succeed to the more stormy early intercourse. Madame de Grignan, prudent and anxious by nature, spent a life of considerable care. The expenses of her husband’s high situation, and his own extravagant tastes, caused him to spend largely. Her son entered life early, and his career was the object / of great solicitude. Her health was precarious. All this was excitement for her mother’s sympathy; and her letters are full of earnest discussion, intense anxiety, or lively congratulation on the objects of her daughter’s interest, and her well-being.c

a

Rationalist, with implications of religious heterodoxy; see Saint-Saurin, p. 140. See Saint-Saurin, p. 91, for Mme de Grignan’s disposition. Her daughter, Marie-Blanche de Grignan (1670–1735) was too young to accompany her mother on the arduous journey back to Provence. The child was reunited with her parents in 1673, but consigned to the Convent of the Visitation at Aix when she was five and took the veil at sixteen. This was common practice in noble families unable to give suitable marriage portions to all their daughters. c Mary Shelley takes additional material from Saint-Saurin, pp. 130–1. b

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The next object of her affection, and subject of her pen, was her son. He was a man of wit and talent; but the thoughtlessness, the what the French call légèreté of his character, caused his mother much anxiety, at the same time that his good spirits, his confidence in her, and his amiable temper, contributed to her happiness. She often calls him the best company in the world; and laments, at the same time, his pursuits and ill luck. He was a favourite of the best society in Paris, and, among others, of the famous Ninon de l’Enclos. Ninon had many great and good qualities; but madame de Sévigné’s dislike to her dated far back, and was justifiably founded on the conduct of her husband. At the age of thirty-five Ninon had been the successful rival of a young and blooming wife; at that of fifty-five the son wore her chains.* Madame de Sévigné could never reconcile herself to this intimacy. “She spoiled your father,” she writes to madame de Grignan, while she relates the methods used to attach her son.a Sometimes this son, who was brave, and eager to distinguish himself, was exposed to the dangers of war; sometimes he spent his time at court, where he waited on the dauphin, squandering time and money among the courtiers, charming the circle by his vanity and wit, but gaining no advancement; sometimes he accompanied his mother to Britany; and we find / him enlivening her solitude, and bestowing on her the tenderest filial attentions. He was an unlucky man. He got no promotion in the army, and, being too impatient for a courtier, soon got wearied of waiting for advancement. He perplexed his mother by his earnest wish to sell his commission; and the failure in her projects of marriage for him annoyed her still more. At length he chose for himself: renouncing his military employments, retiring from the court, and even from Paris, he married a lady of his own province, and fixed himself entirely in Britany. His wife was an amiable, quiet, unambitious person, with a turn for devotion, which increased through the circumstance of their having no children. Madame de Sévigné was too pious to lament this, now that the destiny of her son was decided as obscure, and that she saw him happy: on the contrary, she rejoiced in * At the age of seventy-six, madame de Sévigné’s grandson, the young marquis de Grignan, sought her friendship; thus, in some sort, she reigned over three generations of the same family. The one fault of Ninon so unsexes her that we must regard her character rather as belonging to a man than a woman. “I saw the disadvantages women labour under,” she said, “and I chose to assume the position of a man (et je me fis homme).” She regulated her conduct by what was considered honourable in a man – honourable, not moral. Her talents and generous qualities caused her to be respected and loved by a large circle of distinguished friends. Madame de Maintenonb was her early and intimate friend: even when she became devout she continued to prize Ninon’s friendship, and wrote to her to give good lessons to her incorrigible brother. a

Not located. Françoise d’Aubigné, marquise de Maintenon (1635–1719), married Paul Scarron (1610– 60), the severely crippled poet, novelist and playwright. She became the morganatic second wife of Louis XIV, after coming to the King’s attention as governess to his children by Mme de Montespan, and influenced the king to become more devout. See also ‘Racine’ and ‘Fénélon’. Mary Shelley draws on Saint-Saurin, pp. 95, 59–60. b

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finding him adopt religious principles, which rendered his life peaceful, and his character virtuous.a The principal friends of madame de Sévigné were united in what she termed the Fauxbourg,b where the house of madame de la Fayette, then the resort of the persons most distinguished in Paris for talent, wit, refinement, and good moral conduct, was situated. Madame de la Fayette, and her friend the duke de la Rochefoucauld, have already been introduced to the reader in the memoir of the latter. It would seem that the lady was not a favourite with madame de Grignan, and that, with all her talents, she was not popular; but she had admirable qualities; the use of the French term vraie was invented as applicable to her; for Rochefoucauld abridged into this single word Segrais’ description, that “she loved the true in all things.”c This excess of frankness gave her, with some, an air of dryness; and madame de Sévigné’s children did not share her affection, which even did not blind her to her friend’s defects.d Speaking of the Fauxbourg, she says, “I am loved as much as she can love.” In an age when there was so much disquisition on character and motive,e and in a mind like / madame de Sévigné’s, so open to impression, and so penetrating, it is no wonder that slight defects were readily discerned, nor that they should be mentioned in so open-hearted an intercourse as that between mother and daughter. All human beings have blots and slurs in their character, or they would not be human. We judge by the better part – by that which raises a circle or an individual superior to the common run, not by those failings which stamp all our fellow-creatures as sons of Adam. Thus, we may pronounce on madame de la Fayette as being one of the most remarkable women of the age, for talent, for wit, and for the sincerity, strength, and uprightness of her character. She suffered much from ill health. Her society was confined to that which she assembled at her own house; but that circumstance only rendered it the more chosen and agreeable. M. and madame de Coulanges formed its ornaments. He was madame de Sévigné’s cousin, and brought up with her, though several years younger. His lively thoughtless disposition made him the charm of society. He was educated for the bar, but was far too vivacious to make his way. He was pleading a suit concerning a marsh disputed by two peasants, one of whom was called Grappin: – perceiving that he was getting confused in the details, and in the points of law, he suddenly broke off his speech, exclaiming, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am drowning myself in Grappin’s marsh: I am your most obedient;” and so threw up a

Saint-Saurin, pp. 129–30. The new quarter on the Left Bank where Mme de Lafayette had her house on the rue Fréron, near the church of St Sulpice. Exact reference unlocated. c Jean Regnault de Segrais (1624–1701), a former cleric; literary assistant to the duchesse de Montpensier, before associating with the précieuses, especially Mme de Lafayette; possible coauthor of La Princesse de Clèves. d Paragraph and quotes based on Saint-Saurin, pp. 129–30. e Especially evident in the literary form of the novel, the character portrait, the maxim, the memoir, and in conversation, spoken and recorded. b

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his brief, and, it is said, never took another.* He was, / in youth, and continued to the end of his life, a man of pleasure, singing with spirit songs which he made * His song, excusing his idleness, is very good: it is in dialogue between himself and the chief among those who blamed him, the count de Bussy-Rabutin. “A IR . – ‘Or nous dites, Marie’ B USSY . “Or nous dites, Coulanges, Magistrat sans pareil, Par quel destin étrange Quittez-vous le conseil? C OULANGES . “Lisez, lisez l’histoire: Vous verrez qu’avant nous Les héros, las de gloire, Allaient planter des choux. B USSY . “Le bel exemple à suivre Que Dioclétien! Est-ce ainsi qu’il faut vivre? Il n’etoit pas chrétien. C OULANGES . “Charles-Quint, qu’on admire. En a bien fait autant: Quitta-t’-il pas l’empire Pour être plus content? B USSY . “Oui, mais dans la retraite Savez-vous ce qu’il fit? Chagrin dans sa chambrette, Souvent s’en repentit. C OULANGES . “La savante Christine Ne s’en repentit pas; Et de cette héroine Je veut suivre les pas. B USSY . “Mais d’Azolin dans Rome Ignorez-vous les bruits? Et que ce galant homme Sut charmer ses ennuis? C OULANGES . “Du feu roi de Pologne, Monsieur, que dites-vous? Tranquille et sans vergogne Il vient parmi nous. B USSY . “Oui, mais son inconstance, Moine, roi, cardinal,

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impromptu, and which, afterwards, every one learnt as apropos of the events of the day; a teller of good stories, a lover of good dinners, an enjoyer of good wine; charming every one by the exuberance of his spirits; amusing others, because he himself was amused. He loved books, he cultivated his taste, and collected pictures, joining the refinements and tastes of a gentleman to the hilarity and recklessness of a boy.a / His wife, a relation of le Tellier and Louvois,b enjoyed the reputation of a wit, as well as of being the most charming woman in Paris. She had good sense, and was often annoyed by her husband’s thoughtlessness, which caused him to degenerate at times into buffoonery; while her repartees and letters caused her to be Le fit venir en France Mourir à l’hôpital. C OULANGES . “Le diable vous emporte, Monsieur, et vos raisons! Je vivrois de la sorte Et ferai des chansons.”c a

Saint-Saurin, pp. 141–3. Mme de Coulanges was a niece of the minister Le Tellier and thus a cousin of his son, François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois (1641–91) who succeeded his father as Minister of War. c In Coulanges, vol. II, pp. 37–9, but this may not be the edition used by Mary Shelley. AIR: Tell us now, Marie. BUSSY: Tell us now, Coulanges, You peerless magistrate, What curious destiny, Makes you to abdicate? COULANGES: ‘Read, read your history-books; In days of old, you’ll see, That heroes planted cabbages, When tired of victory. BUSSY: What a fine example – To be like Diocletian! Is that the way to live? He never was a Christian. COULANGES: But think of Charles the Fifth, A prince whom we admire; To find contentedness Did he not quit the Empire? BUSSY: Yes, but in his retreat Know you what then befell? Despondent he repented Inside his little cell. COULANGES: Now take the sage Christine; She never did repent; And I would gladly follow Where that brave lady went. BUSSY: But don’t you know the talk In Rome, of Azolin? And how that gallant cured Her mutiny within? COULANGES: Of the late King of Poland, Now what have you to say? In peace of mind and free from shame To France he comes to stay. BUSSY: Monk, king, and cardinal, ’Twas his inconstancy That brought him back to France To die in poverty. COULANGES: The devil take you, Sir, And all your reasoning! I’d live in my own way, And when I please, I’ll sing. (Free trans. by N. C.). ‘Planter des choux’, probably refers to Cincinnatus (c. 519–438 BC ), who retired to his farm after defeating the enemies of Rome; Diocletian: the Emperor Diocletian, notorious persecutor of Christians; he abdicated in AD 304; Charles V: Holy Roman Emperor (1519–58); effectively abdicated in 1556 and retired to a monastery at Yuste, in Spain, but continued to receive political despatches; Christine: Queen Christina (Kristina Wasa) of Sweden, intellectual and patron of the arts, abdicated 1654, turned Catholic and went to Rome. Her intense relationship with Cardinal Dezio Azzolino caused scandal, but the cardinal assured the pope that it was a platonic one. King of Poland: probably Henry of Valois, elected King of Poland in 1573. He abdicated in 1574 to become King of France, and was assassinated in 1589; ‘sans vergogne’ means ‘shameless’ as well as ‘without shame’. ‘His inconstancy’ possibly refers to de Retz, who adbicated his cardinalate in France. He attempted to become a Benedictine monk and returned to France heavily in debt. b

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universally cited and esteemed*; and her easy agreeable conversation made her the delight of every one who knew her. The airiness of her mind is well expressed in the names madame de Sévigné gives her in her correspondence: la Mouche, la Feuille, la Sylphide all denote a mixture of lightness, gaiety, and grace, with a touch of coquetry, and the piquancé of wit, whose point was sharp, but free from venom.a When madame de Maintenon became the chief lady in the kingdom, she was charmed to have near her this early friend and amusing companion. Madame de Coulanges frequented court assiduously, but she enjoyed no place. Her species of intellect was characteristic of the times. The conceits, mystifications, and metaphysical flights of the Hôtel de Rambouillet had given place to wit, and to sententious and pointed, yet perspicuous and natural, turns of expression. Truth and clearness, and a certain sort of art, that shrouded itself in an appearance of simplicity, was the tone aimed at by those who wished to shine. Equivokes, sousentendres,b metaphors, and antithesis, all kinds of trifles, sarcastic or laudatory, were lightly touched on, coloured for a moment with rainbow-hues, and vanished as fast: these were the fashion; and no conversation was more replete with these, and yet freer from obvious pretension, than that of madame de Coulanges. It is true that there must always be a sort of pedantry in an adherence to a fashion; but, when the manner is graceful, smiling, unaffected, and original, the pretension is lost in the pleasure derived. All this was natural to / madame de Coulanges. Her confessor said of her, “Each of this lady’s sins is an epigram.” When recovering from a severe illness, madame de Sévigné announced, as the sign of her convalescence, “Epigrams are beginning to be pointed;” not that by epigrams sarcasms were meant, but merely novel turns of expression, words wittily applied, ideas full of finesse,c that pleased by their originality. She and her husband were, perhaps, too much alike to accord well: she was annoyed at his want of dignity, and the heedlessness that, joined to her extravagance, left them poor and himself unconsidered. He liked to be where he was more at his ease than in his wife’s com* At the time of the dauphin’s marriage, when madame de Coulanges was presented to the dauphine, the latter received her with a compliment on her wit and letters, of which she had heard in Germany. At this time madame de Sévigné writes, – “Madame de Coulanges is at St. Germain: she does wonders at court: she is with her three friends (mesdames de Richelieu, de Maintenon, and de Rochefort) at their private hours. Her wit is a qualification of dignity at court.” – April 5. 1680.d a

The fly, the leaf, the sylph; piquancé: piquancy, stimulating quality. Truth and clarity: the goals of classical French literature, influenced also by the philosophical ideals of René Descartes; equivokes: double meanings; sous-entendres: implications. c finesse: delicacy. The quotation has not been traced. d From a letter to Mme de Grignan (Sévigné (1820), vol. VI, p. 224). Mme de Richelieu: Anne Poussart de Fors, married to the great-nephew of Cardinal Richelieu, and Dame d’Honneur to the Dauphine. Madeleine de Laval-Boisdaupin, Mme de Rochefort, married to the marquis de Rochfort, Marshal of France. Louis, the Grand Dauphin, married Marie Anne Christine of Bavaria (1660–90). b

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pany. Her faults, however, diminished as she grew old. She learnt to appreciate the court at its true value. She ceased her attendance on madame de Maintenon; but her intimacy with Ninon de l’Enclos continued to the end of her life. The ingratitude of her court friends, the smallness of her fortune, her advancing age, and consequent loss of beauty, and her weak health, rendered her neither crabbed nor sad: on the contrary, she became indulgent, gentle, and contented.a Her husband preserved his characteristics to the end. When exhorted by a preacher to more serious habits, he replied by an impromptu:– “Je voudrois, à mon âge, Il en seroit le temps, Etre moins volage Que les jeunes gens, Et mettre en usage D’un vieillard bien sage Tous les sentimens. “Je voudrois du viel homme Etre séparé; Le morceau de pomme N’est pas digéré.”*b

He died at the advanced age of eighty. / During the earlier portion of the correspondence, madame Scarron figures as one of the favourite guests of the Fauxbourg. Her husband was dead, and she was living at the Hôtel d’Albret, among her earliest friends.c The latter correspond* The best known of his couplets are the following philosophic ones:– “D’Adam nous sommes tous enfans: La chose est très-connue, Et que tous nos premiers parens Ont mené la charrue; Mais, las de cultiver enfin Sa terre labourée, L’un a dételé le matin, L’autre l’après-dînée.”d a

This characterisation is partly based on Saint-Saurin, pp. 143–4. ‘I should like, at my time of life – it would be the right time – to be less frivolous than the young men and to carry into practice all the sentiments of a wise old man. I should like to distance myself from the Old Adam. But I have not yet digested my piece of the apple.’ (The verses have not been located in the 1698 Coulanges.) c An hôtel was a private town house, in this instance, of the maréchal d’Albret, baron de Pons, where several branches of the same family would have had different quarters. The Hôtel d’Albret, former dwelling of Mme de Maintenon (Scarron), is on the rue des Francs-Bourgeois in the Marais district, then the centre of fashionable Paris. Madame de Sévigné was later (1677–96) to rent the Hotel de Carnavalet (now the Musée Carnavalet) in the Marais. d Coulanges, vol. I, p. 207. ‘We are all Adam’s children, As everyone can tell. Our first ancestors sped the plough, And all know that as well. But tired of tilling the land By labour and sweat of the brow, One in the morning and the other after dinner Unyoked the ox from the plough.’ (Free trans., by N. C.) b

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ence is full of anecdotes about her, as madame de Maintenon, and indicate her gradual advancement; but those which speak of her early days, when she was the charm and ornament of her circle, merely through her talents, and agreeable and excellent qualities, are the most interesting. Corbinelli was another chief friend of madame de Sévigné. He was descended from an Italian, who came into France on the marriage of Catherine de’Medici and Henry II. His father was attached to marshal d’Ancre, and was enveloped in his ruin.a We have no details of his actual circumstances, except that, although he was poor, his position in society was brilliant. A stranger, without employment, without fortune or rank, he was sought, esteemed, and loved by the first society; while his character presents many contradictions. Studious and accomplished, a man of learning and science, he only wrote compilations. Something of a sceptic, he studied religion, and became a quietist.b Pitied by his friends, as neither rich nor great, he passed a happy life; and, though always in ill health, his life was prolonged to more than a century. He was one of madame de Sévigné’s most familiar friends. In early life he had had employments under cardinal Mazarin. He was a friend of the marquis de Vardes,c and shared the disgrace he incurred, together with Bussy-Rabutin and others, on account of certain letters fabricated, pretending to be written by the king of Spain, for the purpose of informing his sister, the queen of France, of Louis XIV.’s attachment for mademoiselle de la Vallière. This event was fatal to his fortunes; but it developed his talents, since he made use of the leisure afforded by his retreat for the purpose of study. He applied himself to the theories of Descartes, and became deeply versed in classic literature. At one time he turned his attention to the study of law, but soon threw it aside with disgust: his / clear and comprehensive understanding was utterly alien to the contradictions, subterfuges, and confusion of old French law. In religion, he sided with the mystics and quietists; but was more of a philosopher than a religionist; and chose his party for its being more allied to protestant tenets, and because, M. de Sévigné says, his mysticism freed him from the necessity of going to mass.d He was a mixture of Stoic and Epicurean. He would not go half a league on horsea Jean Corbinelli (1615–1716) had first been a secretary to Queen Marie de Médicis or de’ Medici (1573–1642), widow of Henri IV. The marquis d’Ancre, Concino Concini, her favourite, was assassinated 1617. Catherine de Médicis (1519–89), daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici, duke of Urbino, m. Henri II, King of France (b. 1518, rgnd 1547–59). Corbinelli’s compilations included Sentiments d’amour tirez des meilleurs poëtes modernes (1665–71) (Expressions of Love taken from the the best modern poets) and Extraits de tous les beaux endroits des ouvrages des plus célèbres de ce temps (1681) (Extracts of all the best passages from the most celebrated works of the day). b Quietism emphasized inner spirituality and ecstatic prayer rather than doctrine or ritual; see ‘Fénélon’. c François-René du Bec Crespin, marquis de Vardes (1621–88), Capitain-Lieutenant of the Swiss Guards. His banishment from court for the scandal described by Mary Shelley lasted 18 years. Queen Marie-Thérèse was half-sister to Charles II of Spain (1661–1700). d Probably derived from letter of 15 Jan. 1690 (Sévigné (1820), vol. X, pp. 305–6).

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back, he said, to seek a throne. And thus he harmonised his temper with his fortunes, for he was an unlucky man. “His merit brings him ill luck,” madame de la Fayette said.a It may be added that it brought also a contented mind, a friendly disposition, and calm studious habits. An amusing anecdote is told of his presence of mind in extricating himself from a dilemma in which he was placed. Louis XIV. learnt that the prince of Conti,b and other young and heedless nobles of high rank, had, at a certain supper, uttered various sarcasms against, and told stories to the discredit of, himself and madame de Maintenon. The king wished to learn the details, and sent D’Argensonc to inquire of Corbinelli, who was supposed to have been at the supper. Corbinelli was by this time grown old and deaf. “Where did you sup on such an evening?” asked D’Argenson. “I do not remember,” the other replied. “Are you acquainted with such and such princes?” “I forget.” “Did you not sup with them?” “I do not in the least remember?” “It seems to me that a man like you ought to recollect these things.” “True, sir, but before a man like you, I am not a man like myself.” Madame de Sévigné’s correspondence with this accomplished and valued friend is lost, but her letters to her daughter are full of expressions of esteem and friendship towards him.d Thus, in her letters, we find all the events of the day alluded to in the tone used by this distinguished society. Some of the observations are witty and amusing; others remarkable for their truth, founded on a just / and delicate knowledge of the human heart.* These are mingled with details of the events of the day. We may mention, among others, the letters that regard the death of Turenne. The glory that lighted up that name shines with peculiar brilliancy in her pages. His * Turning over her pages, we frequently find reflections such as the following, which, from its gentleness and feeling, is singularly characteristic of the amiable writer: – “Vous savez que je suis toujours un peu entêtée de mes lectures. Ceux à qui je parle ont intérêt que je lise de bons livres: celui dont il s’agit présentement, c’est cette Morale de Nicole: il y a un traité sur les moyens d’entretenir la paix entre les hommes, qui me ravit: je n’ai jamais rien vu de plus utile, ni si plein d’esprit et de lumières. Si vous ne l’avez pas lu, lisez-le; si vous l’avez lu, relisez-le avec une nouvelle attention: je crois que tout le monde s’y trouve; pour moi, je suis persuadée qu’il a été fait à mon intention; j’espère aussi d’en profiter; j’y ferai mes efforts. Vous savez que je ne puis souffrir que les vieilles gens disent, “Je suis trop vieux pour me corriger:” je pardonnerois plutôt aux jeunes gens de dire, “Je suis trop jeune.” La jeunesse est si aimable, qu’il faudrait l’adorer, si l’âme et l’esprit etoient aussi parfaits que le corps; mais quand on n’est plus jeune, c’est alors qu’il faudroit se perfectionner et tâcher de regagner par les bonnes qualités ce qu’on perd du côté des agréable. Il y a long-temps que j’ai fait ces réflexions, et pour cette raison je veux tous les jours travailler à mon esprit, à mon âme, à mon cœur, à mes sentimens. Voilà de quoi je suis pleine,

a

Source: see previous page, note d. Stoics followed the school of Greek philosophy (founded 4th century BC ) which cultivated indifference to pleasure and pain. Epicureans believed in pursuing refined pleasure in moderation. b Louis-Armand de Bourbon, prince de Conti (1675–1727). c Marc-René de Voyer, marquis d’Argenson (1652–1721), appointed Lieutenant-Général de Police de Paris in 1697. d Characterisation in these two paragraphs is mostly based on Saint-Saurin, pp. 138–41.

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heroism, gentleness, and generosity are all recorded with enthusiasm.* Sometimes her letters record / the gossip, sometimes the bon mots, of the day; and each finds its place, and is told with grace, simplicity, and ease.

et de quoi je remplis cette lettre, n’ayant pas beaucoup d’autres sujets.”a – Aux Rochers, 7. Oct. 1671. With regard to the book that gave rise to these reflections, M. de Sévigné, her son, who had a more enlightened taste as to style, by no means approved it. He says, “Et moi, je vous dirai que le premier tome des Essais de Morale vous paroitroit tout comme à moi, si la Marans et l’abbé Têtu ne vous avoient accoutumée aux choses fines et distillées. Ce n’est pas aujourd’hui que le galimathias vous parois clair et aisé: de tout ce qui a parlé de l’homme, et l’intérieur de l’homme, je n’ai rien vu de moins agréable; ce ne sont point là ces portraits où tout le monde se reconnoit. Pascal, la logique de Port Royal, et Plutarque, et Montaigne, parlent autrement: celui-ci parle parce qu’il veut parler, et souvent il n’a pas grand’ chose à dire.”b * Take, for instance, the following extracts on the subject of his death: – “Ne croyez point, ma fille, que le souvenir de M. de Turenne soit déjà finit dans ce pays-ci; ce fleuve, qui entraine tout n’entraine pas sitôt une telle mémoire; elle est consacrée à l’immortalité. J’étois l’autre jour chez M. de la Rochefoucauld, avec madame de Lavardin, madame de la Fayette, et M. de Mara ‘You know that I am always a little stubborn in my opinions when it comes to my reading. The people I talk to are concerned that I read good books: the one they are urging on me at present, is the Morale of Nicole; it is a treatise on the means of keeping the peace between human beings, which I find enrapturing: I have never seen anything more useful, or so full of intelligence and illumination. If you have never read it, do read it; if you have read it, reread it with fresh attention; I believe the whole world can find itself in its pages; as for me, I am convinced it has been expressly designed for my benefit; I, too, am keen to profit from it; I am going to direct my efforts in that direction. You know that I can’t bear it when older people say ‘I’m too old to improve myself’: I would rather forgive young people who say ‘I’m too young’. Youth is so amiable, that one would be obliged to worship it, if the soul and mind were as perfect as the body; but when one is no longer young, that is the time to try to become perfect, and try to regain by one’s good qualities what one has lost of the pleasing qualities. I have had these reflections for a long time, and for that reason I wish to work at my mind, soul, heart and sentiments every day. That is what engrosses me, and what I am filling up this letter with, not having many other topics’ (Letter to Mme de Grignan, 7 Oct. 1671; Sévigné (1820) vol. II, pp. 213–14). Morale: Essais de Morale by Pierre Nicole, Jansenist controversialist who taught at the convent of Port-Royal (see ‘Pascal’, p. 82). b ‘And for myself, I shall say that the first volume of the Essais de Morale would strike you as it does me if Marans and the Abbé Têtu had not accustomed you to the over-refined and the fine-spun. This is not the first time that nonsense has seemed to you to be lucid and easy; in all that relates to man, and the inner self, I have never read anything that pleased me less; there are no portraits where everyone may recognise himself. Pascal, the Port Royal Logic, Plutarch and Montaigne write otherwise; Nicole writes because he wants to write, and often he has nothing to say of importance’ (Letter to Mme de Grignan of 31 Jan. 1676; Sévigné (1820) vol. IV, pp. 199–200). Marans: Françoise de Montalais, comtesse de Marans, widow of Jean de Bueil, comte de Marans; l’abbé Têtu: Jacques Têtu, Abbé de Belval (1626–1706), a worldly abbé frequenting Parisian literary circles, in love with Mme de Coulanges. He wrote Stances Chrétiennes sur divers passages de l’Ecriture Sainte et des Pères (The Christian position on several passages of Holy Scripture and the Church Fathers) (1669); logique de Port Royal: La Logique, ou l’art de penser, a treatise by Antoine Arnauld, the leading Jansenist controversialist and Pierre Nicole, used as a textbook in the school maintained by the abbey of Port-Royal, the main centre of Jansenism; Plutarch: Greek biographer, historian and moral philosopher (AD 46–c. 120), author of Parallel Lives of Greek and Roman statesmen.

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From this scene, full of life and interest, at the call of duty, she visited Britany; and, when her uncle desired, or motives of economy urged, buried herself in the sillac. M. le Premier y vint. La conversation dura deux heures sur les divines qualités de ce véritable héros: tous les yeux étoient baignés de larmes, et vous ne saurièz croire comme la douleur de sa perte est profondément gravé dans les cœurs. Nous remarquions une chose, c’est que ce n’est pas depuis sa mort que l’on admire la grandeur de son cœur, l’étendue de ses lumières, et l’élévation de son âme; tout le monde en étoit plein pendant sa vie, et vous pouvez penser ce que fait sa perte par-dessus ce qu’on étoit déjà: enfin, ne croyez point que cette mort soit ici comme celle des autres. Vous pouvez en parler tant qu’il vous plaira, sans croire que la dose de votre douleur l’emporte sur la nôtre. Pour son âme, c’est encore un miracle qui vient de l’estime parfaite qu on avoit pour lui; il n’est pas tombé dans la tête d’aucun dévot qu’elle ne fut pas en bon état: on ne sauroit comprendre que le mal et le péché pussent être dans son cœur: sa conversion si sincère nous a paru comme un baptême; chacun conte l’innocence de ses mœurs, la pureté de ses intentions, son humilité, éloignée de toute sorte d’affectation; la solide gloire dont il étoit plein, sans faste et sans ostentation; aimant la vertu pour elle-même, sans se soucier de l’approbation des hommes; une charité généreuse et chrétienne. Vous ai-je dit comme il l’habilla ce régiment anglois? il lui coûta quatorze mille francs, et il resta sans argent. Les Anglois ont dit à M. de Lorges qu’ils achèveroient de servir cette campagne, pour venger la mort de M. de Turenne, mais qu’après cela ils se retireroient, ne pouvant obéir à d’autres que lui. II y avoit de jeunes soldats qui s’impatientoient un peu dans les marais, où ils étoient dans l’eau jusqu’aux genoux; et les vieux soldats leur disoient ‘Quoi, vous vous plaignez! On voit bien que vous ne connoissez pas M. de Turenne: il est plus fâché que nous quand nous sommes mal; il ne songe, à l’heure qu’il est, qu’à nous tirer d’ici; il veille quand nous dormons; c’est notre père: on voit bien que vous êtes jeunes.’ Et c’est ainsi qu’ils les rassuroient. Tout ce que je vous mande est vrai; je ne me charge point des fadaises dont on croit faire plaisir aux gens éloignés: c’est abuser d’eux, et je choisis bien plus ce que je vous écris, que ce que je vous dirois, si vous étiez ici. Je reviens à son âme: c’est donc une chose à remarquer, que nul dévot ne s’est avisé de douter que Dieu ne l’eût reçue à bras ouverts, comme une des plus belles et des meilleures qui soient jamais sorties de ses mains. Méditez sur cette confiance générale sur son salut, et vous trouverez que c’est une espèce de miracle qui n’est que pour lui. Vous verrez dans les nouvelles les effets de cette grande perte.” – 15 Août, 1675.a a ‘Do not believe, my child, that the memory of M. de Turenne has already departed from this country; the stream which bears all away does not so soon bear away such a memory; it is consecrated to immortality. The other day I was with M. de la Rochefoucauld, Madame de Lavardin [Marguerite-Renée de Rostaing, Marquise de Lavardin], madame de la Fayette, and M. de Marsillac. The President [Guillaume de Lamoignon, President of the Paris Parlement] came. The conversation on the divine qualities of this true hero lasted two hours; all eyes were bathed in tears, and you would never believe how profoundly etched on our hearts is the pain of his loss. We observed one thing, that admiration of his great-heartedness, breadth of vision and elevation of soul is not something that has arisen since his death; everyone was impressed with them during his lifetime, and you may imagine what made his loss surpass existing ones. In short, do not believe that this death was felt here like other deaths. You may speak of it as much as you like but do not believe that the volume of your grief exceeds ours. As for his soul, that is also a miracle arising from the perfect esteem that one had for him; as soon as any of the faithful think of him, they enter into a state of grace. One cannot believe that his heart had room for evil and sin; his conversation, so sincere, seemed to us like a baptism; everyone enumerated the simplicity of his morals, the purity of his intentions, his humility, removed from any kind of affectation, the enduring glory with which he was imbued, without splendour or ostentation; loving virtue for its own sake, without worrying about the approbation of mankind; his generous Christian charity. Have I told you about how he equipped that English regiment? It cost him fourteen

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solitude of her country seat of Les Rochers, a château belonging to the family of Sévigné, one league from Vitré, and still further from Rennes.a As far as the character and person of the writer are concerned, we prefer the letters written from this retirement to those that record the changes and chances of her Parisian life. They breathe affection and peace, the natural sentiments of a kind heart, an enlightened taste, and an active mind. “At length, my child,” she writes, on her first visit to her solitude after her daughter’s marriage (May 31. 1671), “here I am at these poor Rochers. Can I see these avenues, these devices, my cabinet and books, and this room, without dying of sorrow? / There are many agreeable memories, but so many that are tender and lively, that I can scarcely support them: “M. de Barillon soupa ici hier: on ne parla que de M. de Turenne, il en est véritablement très-affligé. Il nous contoit la solidité de ses vertus, combien il étoit vrai, combien il aimoit la vertu pour elle-même, combien pour elle seule il se trouvoit récompensé, et puis finit par dire que l’on ne pouvoit pas l’aimer, ni être touché de son mérite, sans en être plus honnête homme. Sa société communiquoit une horreur pour la friponnerie, pour la duplicité, qui mettoit ses amis au-dessus des autres hommes. Bien de siècles n’en donneront pas un pareil. Je ne trouve pas qu’on soit tout-à-fait aveugle en celui-ci, au moins les gens que je vois. Je crois que c’est vanter d’être en bonne compagnie.” – 28 Août, 1675.b

thousand francs, and he had no money left. The English said to M. de Lorges that they would complete their service in that campaign in order to avenge the death of M. de Turenne, but that after that they would withdraw, as they were unable to obey any other commanders. There were some young soldiers who were getting restive in the marshes, where they were in water up to their knees; and the old soldiers said to them, “What, complaining? Clearly you don’t know M. de Turenne: he is more upset than we are when we are doing badly; right this very minute he is only thinking of getting us out of here; he keeps vigil while we sleep; he is our father: it’s obvious that you are young.” And that is how they kept up their morale. Everything I am telling you is true. I am not bothering to recount trifles aimed at pleasing those who are not here with me; that would be to make bad use of their time, and I am far more selective about what I am writing to you than I would be in talking to you if you were here. To return to his soul: it is worth noting that none of the faithful has thought to doubt that God has received it with open arms, as one of the brightest and best that ever left his hands. Meditate on that general confidence of his salvation, and you will find that it is a kind of miracle wrought specially for him. You will see the effects of this great loss in the newspapers’ (Letter of 16 (not 15) Aug. 1675, to Mme de Grignan; Sévigné (1820) vol. III, pp. 397–9). M de Marsillac: François VII, Prince de Marsillac (1634– 74) son of François VI, duc de la Rochefoucauld, Frondeur and author of the Maxims. The son was a successful courtier and close friend of Louis XIV; M. de Lorges: Guy Aldonce de Durfort, duc de Lorges (1624–1704), nephew of Turenne, Marshal of France. a Her uncle: i.e. the abbé Christophe de Coulanges; Rennes: capital of Brittany. b ‘M. de Barillon had supper here yesterday: we talked only of M. de Turenne, he is truly deeply afflicted. He told us of the enduring quality of his virtues, how true he was, how much he loved virtue for itself, how it was for him its own reward, and then he ended by saying that no one could love him or be touched by his merit without becoming a more virtuous man. His presence communicated a horror of frivolousness and duplicity, which raised his friends above other men. His like will not be seen for many centuries. I do not think that I am altogether blind in saying this – at least the people whom I see are not. I consider that it comes from being proud to be in good company’ (Letter of 28 Aug. 1675 to Mme de Grignan, slightly shortened; see Sévigné (1820), vol. III, pp. 443–4). Barillon: Paul de Barillon d’Amoncourt, Conseiller of the Paris Parlement and Ambassador to England (1672–89).

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those that are associated with you are of this number. Can you not understand their effect on my heart? My young trees are surprisingly beautiful. Pilois (her gardener) raises them to the sky with an admirable straightness. Really, nothing can be more beautiful than the avenues you saw planted. You remember that I gave you an appropriate device: here is one I carved on a tree for my son, who has returned from Candia: Vago di fama. Is it not pretty to say so much in a single word? Yesterday I had carved, in honour of the indolent, Bella cosa far niente.a Alas, dear child, how rustic my letters are! Where is the time when I could speak, as others do, of Paris? You will receive only news of myself; and such is my confidence, that I am persuaded that you will like these letters as well as my others. The society I have here pleases me much. Our abbé (the abbé de Coulanges, her uncle, who resided constantly with her) is always delightful. My son and La Mousse (a relation of M. de Coulanges)b suit me extremely, and I suit them. We are always together; and, when business takes me from them, they are in despair, and think me very silly to prefer a farmer’s account to a tale of La Fontaine.” – “Your brother is a treasure of folly, and is delightful here. We have sometimes serious conversations, by which he may profit; but there is something of whipped cream in his character: with all that, he is amiable.” – “We are reading Tassoc with pleasure. I find myself an adept, through the good masters I had. My son reads ‘Cleopatra’ (a romance of Calprenède) to La Mousse;d and, in spite of myself, I listen, and find amusement. My son is setting off for Lorraine: his absence will give me much ennui.e You know how sorry I am to see agreeable company depart; and you have been witness, also, to my transports of joy when I see a carriage drive away with that which restrained and annoyed me; and how this caused us to decide that / bad company was better than good. I remember all the follies we committed here, and every thing you did or said: the recollection never quits me. All the young plantations you saw are delicious. I delight in raising this young generation; and often, without thinking of the injury to my profit, I cut down great trees, because they overshadow and inconvenience my young children. My son looks on; but I do not suffer him to make the application my conduct might inspire.”f It was not, however, always solitude at the Rochers. The duke of a

‘Desirous of fame’ and ‘It is a fine thing to do nothing’. Pierre de la Mousse, priest, Doctor of Theology, former tutor of Mme de Sévigné’s daughter. c Torquato Tasso (1544–95), Italian poet best known for his romance epic Gerusalemme Liberata (1580). d Gauthier de Coste, sieur de la Calprenède (c. 1610–63), playwright and novelist. His three long quasi-historical romances were hugely popular especially among aristocratic former Frondeurs for their exploration of heroic, courtly ideals. Cléopâtre (1646–57) dealt more with love than war. e ennui: tedium, boredom. Lorraine: Francophone border duchy, then part of the Holy Roman Empire, though occupied by French troops. It came under direct crown control only in 1766. See ‘Voltaire’. f The three extracts given above are found in Sévigné (1820) vol. II, pp. 71–3 (abridged); letter of 21 June 1671 (loosely translated and abridged), p. 87; letter of 28 June 1671 (pp. 94–5). b

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1672. Ætat. 46. 1674. Ætat. 48. 1675. Ætat. 49.

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Chaulnes was lieutenant-governor of Britany; and he and the duchess were too happy to visit madame de Sévigné, and to persuade her to join them when they visited the province, to hold the assembly of the states.a From such a busy scene she gladly plunges again into her avenues and old halls, her moonlight walks, and darling reveries. She returned to Paris in December; and, in July of the following year, visited her daughter in Provence, where she spent fifteen months. These periods, so full of happiness to her, are blanks to us; and when, with tears and sighs, she tears herself away from Grignan, and the letters begin again, our amusement and delight recommences. In 1674, madame de Grignan visited Paris, and remained fourteen months. Parisian society was invested for the tender mother with a charm and an interest, which became mingled with sadness on her daughter’s departure. The letters on this separation are rendered interesting by the circumstance of her intimacy with cardinal de Retz, who was then projecting abdicating his cardinal’s hat, which the pope forbade, and his retreat, for the sake of paying his debts. This last was a measure founded on motives of honour and integrity, whatever his adversary, M. de la Rochefoucauld, may say to the contrary.b The esteem, amounting to respect, which madame de Sévigné expresses for him, raises them both. The death of Turenne happened also during this spring, and the letters are redeemed from the only fault / which a certain sort of minds might find with them, that of frivolity. If they are frivolous, what are our own lives? Let us turn our eyes towards ourselves, and ask, if we daily put down our occupations, the subjects of our conversation, our pleasures and our serious thoughts, would they not be more empty of solid information than madame de Sévigné’s letters; or, if more learned, will they not be less wise, and, above all, deficient in the warmth of heart that burns in hers? In the summer of this year, she would fain have visited her daughter; but her uncle insisted that a journey to Britany was necessary for the final settlement of their mutual affairs, as he was grown old, and might die any day. She arrived at the Rochers at the end of September. Her life was more lonely than during the previous visit, for her only companion was her uncle. She had felt deeply disappointed at giving up her journey to Provence, and the additional distance between her and her daughter, when in Britany, was hard to bear. “We were far enough off,” she writes; “another hundred leagues added pains my heart; and I cannot dwell upon the thought without having great need of your sermons. What you say of the little profit you often derive from them yourself displays a tenderness that greatly pleases me. You wish me, then, to speak of my woods. The sterility of my letters does not disgust you. Well, dear child! I may tell you, that I a A traditional representative assembly still at the time retained in a handful of provinces, consisting of clergy, peers and commoners, with tax-raising powers. Chaulnes: Charles d’Albert d’Ailly (1625–98), governor of Brittany from 1670–95. He also served as French ambassador to Rome. b La Rochefoucauld’s Mémoires were concluded before this specific event, but in general he is disparaging of de Retz’s motives.

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do honour to the moon, which I love, as you know. The good abbé fears the dew: I never suffer from it, and I remain, with Beaulieu (her dog) and my servants in attendance, till eight o’clock. Indeed, these avenues are of a beauty, and breathe a tranquillity, a peace, and a silence, of which I can never have too much. When I think of you, it is with tenderness; and I must leave it to you to imagine whether I feel this deeply – I cannot express it. I am glad to feel alone, and fear the arrival of some ladies, that is, of constraint.”a Her residence in the province was painfully disturbed, on account of the riots which had taken place at / Rennes, on account of the taxes;b and the governor had brought down 4000 soldiers to punish the inhabitants. Ever fearful that her letters might be read at the post, madame de Sévigné never directly blames any act of government, but her disapprobation and regret are plainly expressed. “I went to see the duchess de Chaulnes,c at Vitré, yesterday,” she writes, “and dined there: she received me with joy, and conversed with me for two hours, with affection and eagerness; relating their conduct for the last six months, and all she suffered, and the dangers she ran. I thanked her for her confidence. In a word, this province has been much to blame; but it is cruelly punished, so that it will never recover. There are 5000 soldiers at Rennes, of which one half will pass the winter. They have taken, at hazard, five-and-twenty or thirty men, whom they are about to hang. Parliament is transferredd – this is the great blow – for, without that, Rennes is not a better town than Vitré. The misfortunes of the province delay all business, and complete our ruin.” – “They have laid tax of 100,000 crowns on the citizens; and, if this sum be not forthcoming in twenty-four hours, it will be doubled, and exacted by the soldiers. They have driven away and banished the inhabitants of one whole street, and forbidden any one to give them refuge, on pain of death; so that you see these poor wretches – women lately brought to bed, old men and children – wander weeping from the town, not knowing whither to go, without food or shelter. Sixty citizens are arrested: to-morrow they begin to hang. This province is an example to others, teaching them, above all, to respect their governors and their wives; not to call them names, nor to throw stones in their garden.”e Coming back from these scenes, which filled her with grief and indignation, she returns to her woods. “I have business with the abbé: I am with my dear workmen; and life passes so quickly, and, consequently, we approach our end so fast, that I wonder how one a

Letter of 2 Oct. 1678 (Sévigné (1820), vol. IV, pp. 13–14). In 1675 lawyers and shopkeepers in Rennes revolted against new taxes, sparking actions in Nantes and the countryside. More than 10,000 troops were billeted in the province to restore order. Mme de Sévigné’s eye-witness descriptions provide a rare first-hand account of the clampdown. c Elisabeth Le Féron, m. the duc de Chaulnes, her second husband, in 1655. They were a notably devoted couple; she survived the duc’s death in 1698 by only a few months. d The parlement or senior law court (which had no legislative powers, unlike the British Parliament) was exiled to Vannes for 14 years as punishment for encouraging the tax revolt. e Letters of 27 Oct. 1675 (with alterations) and 30 Oct. 1675 (Sévigné (1820), vol. IV, pp. 59, 63–4). b

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can feel worldly affairs so deeply. My woods / inspire me with these reflections. My people have such ridiculous care of me, that they guard me in the evening, completely armed, while the only enemy they find is a squirrel.”a These twilight walks had a sorrowful conclusion. In January she was suddenly laid prostrate by rheumatism: it was the first illness she ever had – the first intimation she had received, she says, that she was not immortal. Her son was with her: they were better friends than ever. “There is no air of maternity,” she writes, “in our intercourse: he is excellent company, and he finds me the same.” On this disaster, his tenderness and attentions were warm and sedulous. “Your brother,” she writes, “has been an inexpressible consolation to me.”b She at first made light of her attack, in her letters, though she was obliged to acknowledge that she could not move her right side, and was forced to write the few lines she was able to trace with her left hand; and soon she lost even the power of using this. In the then state of medicine, her cure, of course, was long and painful. This illness deranged many of madame de Sévigné’s plans. On her return to Paris, she was ordered to take medicinal baths, to complete her cure. She went to Vichi,c where her health mended, and then returned to Paris, where she expected a speedy visit from her daughter. Her letters during this period are very diverting. She throws an interest over every detail. The one that describes her visit at Versailles, on her return, gives us a lively and picturesque account of the etiquette and amusements of the court.* / * “Voici un changement de scène qui vous paroitra aussi agréable qu’à tout le monde. Je fus samedi à Versailles avec les Villars.d Vous connoissez la toilette de la reine, la messe, le dîner: mais il n’est pas besoin de se faire étouffer pendant que leurs majestés sont à table; car à trois heures le roi, la reine, monsieur, madame,e mademoiselle, tout ce qu’il y a de princes et de princesses, madame de Montespan,f toute sa suite, tous les courtisans, toutes les dames, enfin ce qui s’appelle la cour de France, se trouve dans ce bel appartement du roi que vous connoissez. Tout est meublé devinement – tout est magnifique. On ne sait ce que c’est d’y avoir chaud; on passe d’un lieu à l’autre sans avoir presse nulle part. Un jeu de reversi donne la forme, et fixe tout. Le roi est auprès de madame de Montespan, qui tient la carte; monsieur, la reine et madame de Soubise, Dangeau et compagnie, Langlée et compagnie.g Mille louis sont répandus sur le tapis. a

Letter of 27 Oct. 1675 (Sévigné (1820), vol. IV, p. 60). Source unlocated for this and previous quotation. c Vichy: spa town famous for its medicinal waters. d Marie Gigault de Bellefonds, marquise de Villars (c. 1624–1706), one of Mme de Sévigné’s oldest friends, and well-known for her letters about the postings of her husband, Pierre, marquis de Villars (1629–98), soldier and diplomat. e Courtesy title of Louis XIV’s sister-in-law, Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria, Princess Palatine (1652–1722), second wife of Philippe, duc d’Orléans. f Montespan: Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, marquise de Montespan (1640–1709), succeeded (c. 1667) Louise de la Vallière as official mistress of Louis XIV, but lost favour by the end of the 1670s; mother of seven children, all legitimated, four of whom lived to adulthood. g Soubise: Anne de Rohan-Chabot (1648–1709), princesse de Soubise, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and very discreet occasional mistress of Louis XIV; Dangeau: Philippe de Courcillon, marquis de Dangeau (1638–1720), gambling crony of Louis XIV; Langlée: Claude de Langlée, another gambling crony of the king, the son of a maid of Anne of Austria; he became very popular despite his lowly birth. b

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The visit that madame de Grignan paid her mother, soon after, was an unlucky one. She fell into a bad state of health. The anxiety her mother evinced Il n’y a point d’autres jetons. Je voyois Dangeau, et j’admirois combien nous sommes sots au jeu auprès de lui. Il ne songe qu’à son affaire, et gagne où les autres perdent: il ne néglige rien, il profite de tout; il n’est point distrait: en un mot, sa bonne conduite défie la fortune; aussi les deux cent mille francs en deux jours, les cent mille écus en un mois, tout cela se met sur le livre de sa recette. Il dit que je prenois part à son jeu, de sorte que je fus assise très-agréablement et très-commodément. Je saluai le roi ainsi que vous me l’avez appris: il me rendit mon salut, comme si j’avois été jeune et belle. La reine me parla aussi long-temps de ma maladie que si c’eût été une couche. M. le duc me fit mille de ces caresses, à quoi il ne pense pas. Le maréchal de Lorges m’attaqua sous le nom du chevalier de Grignan,a enfin tutti quanti. Vous savez ce que c’est que de recevoir un mot de tout ce que l’on trouve en son chemin. Madame de Montespan me parla de Bourbon: elle me pria de lui conter Vichi, et comment je m’en étois portée. Elle me dit que Bourbon, au lieu de guérir un genou, lui a fait mal aux deux. Je lui trouvai le dos bien plat, comme disoit la maréchale de la Meilleraie;b mais sérieusement, c’est une chose surprenante que sa beauté; sa taille n’est pas la moitié si grosse qu’elle étoit, sans que son teint, ni ses yeux, ni ses lèvres en sont moins bien. Elle étoit habillée de point de France, coiffée de mille boucles: les deux des tempes lui tombent fort bas sur les joues; des rubans noirs à sa tête, des perles de la maréchale d’Hôpital,c embellies de boucles et de pendeloques de diamans de la dernière beauté, trois ou quatre poinçons, point de coiffe; en un mot, une triomphante beauté, à faire admirer tous les ambassadeurs. Elle a su qu’on se plaignoit qu’elle empêchoit à toute la France de voir le roi; elle l’a redonné, comme vous voyez; et vous ne sauriez croire la joie que tout le monde en a, ni de quelle beauté cela rend la cour. Cette agréable confusion, sans confusion, de tout ce qu’il y a de plus choisi, dure depuis trois heures jusqu’à six. S’il vient des courriers, le roi se retire un moment pour lire ses lettres, puis revient. Il y a toujours quelque musique qu’il écoute, et qui fait un très-bon effet. Il cause avec les dames qui ont accoutumé d’avoir cet honneur. Enfin, on quitte le jeu à six heures. On n’a point du tout de peine à faire les comptes – il n’y a point de jetons ni de marques. Les poules sont au moins de cinq, six, à sept cent louis, les grosses de mille, de douze cents. On parle sans cesse, et rien ne demeure sur le cœur. Combien avez-vous de cœurs? J’en ai deux, j’en ai trois, j’en ai un, j’en ai quatre: il n’en a donc que trois, que quatre; et Dangeau est ravi de tout ce caquet: il découvre le jeu, il tire ses conséquences, il voit à qui il a affaire; enfin, j’étois bien aise de voir cet excès d’habilité: vraiment c’est bien lui qui sait le dessous des cartes. On monte donc à six heures en calèches, le roi, madame de Montespan, M. et madame de Thianges, et la bonne d’Heudicourtd sur le strapontin, c’est-à-dire comme en paradis, ou dans la gloire de Niquée. Vous savez comme ces calèches sont faites: on ne se regarde point, on est tourné du même côté. La reine étoit dans une autre avec les princesses, et ensuite tout le monde attroupé selon sa fantaisie. On va sur le canal dans des gondoles; on trouve de la musique; on revient à dix heures, on trouve la comédie; minuit sonne, on fait media noche. Voilà comme se passe le samedi. De vous dire combien de fois on me parla de vous, combien on me fit de questions sans attendre la réponse, combien j’en épargnai, combien on s’en soucie peu, a Brother of the comte de Grignan, Colonel of the Grignan regiment, and in 1680 nominated as menin or companion to the Dauphin. His career was blighted by gout. b Marie de Cossé-Brissac, maréchale de la Meilleraie, widow of Charles de la Porte, duc de la Meilleraie (1602–64) Marshal of France (1639) and Lieutenant General of Brittany. c Françoise Mignot, married in 1653 to Anne, maréchal de L’Hôpital, as his second wife. Her large pearls were famous. d Claude-Léonor de Damas, marquis de Thianges and his wife, Gabrielle de RochechouartMortemart, older sister of Mme de Montespan; la bonne d’Heudicourt (misprinted as Hendicourt): Bonne de Pons, marquise d’Heudicourt, niece of the maréchale d’Albret.

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augmented her illness. It was deemed necessary to separate mother and daughter. Corbinelli writes, “It was a cascade of terror; the reverberation was fatal to all combien je m’en souciois encore moins, vous reconnoitrez au naturel l’iniqua corte. Cependant il ne fut jamais si agréable, et on souhaite fort que cela continue.”a a ‘Here is a change of scene which will strike you as pleasantly as it strikes everyone else. I was at Versailles on Saturday with the Villars. You know what the queen’s toilette, her mass and her dinner are like; but it is not necessary to be stifled with the heat while their majesties dine, for at three o’clock the King, the Queen, Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle [the king’s brother, sister-in-law, sister], all the princes and princesses, Madame de Montespan with all her train, all the courtiers, all the ladies, in short, what one calls the court of France, may be found in that fine royal apartment which you know. Everything is furnished divinely – everything is magnificent. You simply can’t be over-heated there; you move from one spot to the next without any overcrowding. A game of reversi [a card game where players try to avoid taking tricks] takes shape and everything falls into place. The king is near Mme de Montespan, who holds the cards; Monsieur, the Queen, and Madame de Soubise, Dangeau and company, Langlée and company. A thousand louis are spread on the cloth. There are no other tokens. I watched Dangeau and I was amazed to see how stupid we are at gaming compared to him. He thinks only of his tactics, and wins where others lose; he neglects nothing and profits from everything; he never gets distracted; in short, he challenges chance with his skill; and two hundred thousand francs in two days, a hundred thousand écus in a month – all go into his receipt book. He told me to join his table, so that I was very agreeably and comfortably placed. I saluted the King, as you taught me how to; he returned my salutation, as if I were young and beautiful. The Queen talked to me a long time about my ailment as if it had been child-birth. The Duke paid me a thousand compliments, which mean nothing to him. Marshal de Lorges bore down on me, calling himself the chevalier de Grignan – in short, all and sundry [were there]. You know what it’s like to hear a snatch of everything that comes one’s way. Madame de Montespan spoke to me about Bourbon [Bourbon L’Archambault, spa town where Mme de Sévigné took the cure in 1687]; she begged me to tell her about Vichy, and how I got on there. She told me that Bourbon, instead of curing one of her knees, made both worse. She held herself bolt upright [lit: flat-backed], as Madame de La Meilleraie used to say; but, seriously, her beauty is astonishing; she is half the size she was, without her complexion, eyes, or lips being the worse for it. She was dressed in French point lace and her hair was done up in a thousand curls; the two at her temples fell low onto her cheeks, her head crowned with black ribbons, Madame d’Hôpital’s pearls, embellished with ear-rings and diamond pendants of the first water, three or four jewelled pins, no head-dress; in short, beauty triumphant, beauty to astonish all the ambassadors. She knew that people were complaining that she prevented everyone from seeing the king; she has given him back to them, as you can see; and you would not believe how happy this makes everybody, nor how fine the court is as a result. This pleasant melée, without confusion, of the choicest society, lasts from three to six. If messengers arrive, the king retires for a moment to read his letters, then comes back. There is always some music, which he listens to, and which has a very good effect. He converses with ladies who are accustomed to have the honour. Finally, play stops at six o’clock. There is no problem about adding up the accounts – there are no tokens and markers. The stakes are at least five, six, up to seven hundred louis, the big ones a thousand, twelve hundred. Everyone talks incessantly, no one plays their cards close to their chest. How many hearts have you? I have two, three, one, four: he has only three, four; and Dangeau is delighted with all this chatter; he finds out their tactics, and draws conclusions; he sees whom to deal with; in short, I am glad to see his excessive cleverness; he certainly is a man who can read the cards. At six o’clock we get into our calèches, the king, Madame de Montespan, M. and Madame de Thianges, and the good little Bonne d’Heudicourt on the jump seat, in other words, in paradise, or in the throne-room of Niquée [enchantress in the medieval romance Amadis de Gaule]. You know how a calèche is

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three; the circle was mortal.”a Madame de Grignan returned to / Provence. This was a severe blow to madame de Sévigné. Her daughter wrote to her, “I was the disorder of your mind, your health, your house. I am good for nothing to you.”b To this, and to the reproaches she heard that her solicitude had augmented madame de Grignan’s illness, madame de Sévigné replies, “To behold you, then, perish before my eyes was a trifle unworthy of my attention? When you were in good health, did I disquiet myself about the future? did I think of it? But I saw you ill, and of an illness perilous to the young; and, instead of trying to console me by a conduct that would have restored you to your usual health, absence was suggested. I kill you! I am the cause of all your sufferings! When I think of how I concealed my fears, and that the little that escaped me produced such frightful effects, I conclude that I am not allowed to love you; and, since such monstrous and impossible things are asked of me, my only resource is in your recovery.” For some years after this madame de Grignan was in a delicate state of health. “Ah!” writes her mother, “how happy I was when I had no fears for your health! Of what had I then to complain, compared to my present inquietude?”c However, though still delicate, she revisited Paris in the following month of November – it being considered advantageous for her family affairs, – and remained nearly two years. Her mother had taken a large mansion, the Hôtel de Carnavalet, and they resided under the same roof. There was a numerous family, and chief among them was a brother of M. de Grignan. The chevalier de Grignan enjoyed a great reputation for bravery and military conduct. He was a martyr to rheumatic gout, which often stood in the way of his active service; but he was always favoured by the king, and regarded by every one, as a man of superior abilities, and of a resolute and fearless mind. When six men of quality were selected to attend on the dauphin, under the name of Menins, he was named one of them. Two of M. de Grignan’s daughtersd also accompanied them. They were the children / of his former marriage with Angélique d’ Angennes, sister of the celebrated madame de Montauzier. Cardinal de Retz died in the August of this year. “Pity me, my cousin,” madame de Sévigné built: nobody faces anybody else, everyone faces the same way. The queen was in another with the princesses, and then everyone trooped off as they pleased. You can go on the canal in the gondolas, you can find music; you can come back at ten o’clock and find that there’s a play; midnight strikes, you have a media noche [midnight feast]. That is how you pass Saturday. If I were to tell you how many times people spoke to me of you, how people asked me questions without waiting for a reply, how much I held back from telling them, how little anyone cares, how I cared even less, you would recognise the Iniquitous Court, plain and simple. However, it has never been more pleasant, and one really wishes it to continue in this way.’ (29 July 1676, Sévigné (1820), vol. IV, pp. 394–8, punctuation slightly altered and a few words omitted). a Letter of Corbinelli to Mme de Grignan, 19 July 1677 (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, p. 138). b Letter of 11 Aug. 1677 (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, p. 182). Mme de Sévigné quotes her daughter’s words to her. c Both quotes are from a letter of 19 July 1677 (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, pp. 136–7). d Louise-Catherine and Julie-Françoise de Grignan, the two daughters of the marquis de Grignan by his second marriage to Angélique-Clarisse d’Angennes, third daughter of the marquise de Rambouillet, one of the original précieuses.

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writes to the count de Bussy, “for having lost cardinal de Retz. You know how amiable he was, and worthy the esteem of all who knew him. I was a friend of thirty years’ standing, and ever received the tenderest marks of his friendship, which was equally honourable and delightful to me. Eight days’ uninterrupted fever carried him off. I am grieved to the bottom of my heart.”a At length, in the month of September, madame de Grignan returned to Provence. Her mother writes, “Do not tell me that I have no cause to regret you: I have, indeed, every cause. I know not what you have taken into your head. For myself, I remember only your friendship, your care, your kindness, your caresses. I have lost all these: I regret them; and nothing in the world can efface the recollection, nor console me for my loss.”b M. de Sévigné was at this time in Britany, and was elected deputy,c by the nobles, to attend on the governor. “The title of new comer,” writes his mother, “renders him important, and causes him to be mixed up in every thing. I hope he will marry: he will never again be so considerable. He has spent ten years at court and in the camp. The first year of peace he gives to his country. He can never be looked on so favourably as this year.”d Unfortunately, he deranged all these schemes by falling in love inopportunely; and he lingered in Britany, grasping all the money he could, felling trees, and squandering the proceeds without use or pleasure, while his mother awaited his return anxiously, and bore the blame of his absence, as it was supposed that he was detained by business of hers. The time when he could settle was not come. He was of that disposition which is not unfrequent among men. Gifted with vivacity, wit, and good humour, agreeable and gay, it appeared, as madame de Sévigné said, that he was exactly fitted for the situation at court, which, as lieutenant / of the dauphin’s company of gendarmes, he naturally filled. But he was discontented: the restraint annoyed him; pleasure palled on him; he was eager to sell out, to bury himself in his province. One reason was that he was not regarded with an eye of favour by the king. Madame de Sévigné herself felt this disfavour, arising from her having been of the party of the fronde, a friend of Fouquet, and, lastly, a jansenist. During this year madame de Sévigné again, as she said,e for the last time, to wind up all accounts, visited Britany. Her letters become more agreeable than ever; her affection for her daughter even increasing: her advice about her grandchildren*; her annoyance with regard to her son; is the interior portion of the * It is curious to find her earnestly recommending maternal affection to her daughter. One poor little girl was wholly sacrificed – shut up in a convent, waiting for a vocation; the other was

a

Letter of 25 Aug. 1679, abbreviated (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, p. 421). Letter of 20 Sept. 1679, slightly altered (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, p. 434). c The Estates of Brittany had 22 clerical deputies, 174 nobles, and 70 commoners. d Blending letter of 27 Sept. 1679 with letter of 29 Sept. 1679 (Sévigné (1820), vol. V, pp. 442, 446–7). e Based on a letter of 17 May 1680 (Sévigné (1820), vol. VI). b

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story to which we are admitted. The news of the court is mentioned, and the progress of madame de Maintenon’s favour, so puzzling to the courtiers; and, lastly, the picture of the provincial court of the duke and duchess de Chaulnes, who had the government of Britany. She describes their guards, their suite of provincial nobles, with their wives and daughters; and a little discontent creeps out, as it sometimes does, with regard to the court, that she had never risen above a private station.a “I have seen you in Provence,” she writes to her daughter, “surrounded by as many ladies, and M. de Grignan followed by as many men, of quality, and receive, at Lambesc, with as much dignity, as M. de Chaulnes can here. I reflected that you held your court there; I come to pay mine here: thus has Providence ordered.”b She enjoyed, however, the dinners, suppers, and festivals of the duke, who made much of her; and her anecdotes / are full of vivacity. Her eyes never rest: they see all: sometimes a grace, sometimes a folly; now a bon mot, now a stupidity, salutes her eyes or ears: it is all transmitted to her daughter; and we, at this distance of time and place, enjoy the accounts, which, being true to human nature, often seem as fresh and à propos as if they had occurred yesterday. And then she quits all, and writes, “I am at length in the quiet of my woods, and in that state of abstinence and silence for which I longed.”c And she plunges into the depths of jansenism, and discusses the knotty subject of the grace of God.*

saved by her grandmother from a similar fate. She writes, “Mais parlons de cette Pauline; l’aimable, la jolie petite créature! Ai-je jamais été si jolie qu’elle? on dit que je l’étois beaucoup. Je suis ravie qu’elle vous fasse souvenir de moi: je sais bien qu’il n’est pas besoin de cela; mais, enfin, j’ai une joie sensible: vous me la dépeignez charmante, et je crois precisément tout ce que vous me dites: je suis étonnée qu’elle ne soit devenue sotte et ricaneuse dans ce couvent: ah, que vous avez fait bien de l’en retirer! Gardez-la, ma fille, ne vous privez pas de ce plaisir; la Providence en aura soin.” – Oct. 4. 1679. In another letter she says, “Aimez, aimez Pauline; croyez-moi, tâtez, tâtez de l’amour maternel.”d * It is in these letters from her château that we find her penetration into the human heart, and her sympathy with all that is upright and good. She writes to her daughter, “Vous verrez comme tous les vices et toutes les vertus sont jetés pêle-mêle dans le fond de ces provinces; car

a i.e. Mme de Sévigné had never held a court position, nor been the wife of a man who had held a position of public importance in the court, administration or army. b Letter of 6 Aug. 1680 (Sévigné (1820), vol. VI, pp. 411). Lambesc was where the representative assembly of Provence held its sessions. c Source unlocated. d ‘But let us speak of Pauline, that amiable, pretty little creature! Was I ever so pretty as she? I am told that I was very pretty. I am delighted that she reminds you of me; I am sure that there is no need of that; but nevertheless I feel a sensation of joy; you describe her as charming, and I believe every word you tell me. I am astonished that she has not become a silly giggler in that convent; ah! how wise you were to take her away from it! Look after her, my daughter; do not deprive yourself of that pleasure; Providence will take care of things’ (Letter of 6 (not 4) Aug. 1679; Sévigné (1820), vol. V, p. 453). ‘Love Pauline, love her; believe me, try, try maternal love’ (not located). Pauline was the comtesse de Grignan’s second daughter.

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On her return to the capital, she was made perfectly happy by the arrival of her daughter, in better health than she had been for a long time, and who remained in Paris for several years. Her son, also, whose youthful follies had cost her many a pang, made an advantageous marriage. She writes to the count de Bussy, “After much trouble, I at last marry my poor boy. One must never despair of good luck. I feared that my son could no longer hope for a good match, after so many storms and wrecks, without employment or opening for fortune; and, while I was engaged in these sorrowful thoughts, Providence brought about a marriage, so advantageous that I could not have desired a better when my son’s hopes were highest. It is thus that we walk blindly, taking for bad that which is good, and for good that which is bad, and always in utter ignorance.”a M. de Sévigné married Jeanne-Marguerite / de Brehaut de Mauron,b an amiable and virtuous woman, whose gentleness, and common sense, and turn for piety, joined to a caressing and playful disposition, suited admirably both mother and son. In the autumn of this year she visited the new married pair at the Rochers. It was a sad blow to her to quit Paris, where her daughter was residing. Motives of economy, or, rather, the juster motive of paying her debts, enforced this exile, which was hard to bear. We read her letters for the variety of amusement and instruction we find in them; and, as

je trouve des âmes de paysans plus droites que les lignes, aimant la vertu comme naturellement les chevaux trottent.”c As to her jansenism, it was very sincere, though not mingled with the spirit of party. She believed in the election of grace, and the few that were to be saved; and, though somewhat puzzled when she tried to reconcile this doctrine with the free will of man, she has recourse to St. Augustin, the jansenian saint, and says, “Lisez un peu le livre de la prédestination des saints de St. Augustin, et du don de la persévérance: je ne cherche pas à être davantage éclaircie sur ce point; et je veux me tenir, si je puis, dans l’humilité et dans la dépendance. Le onzième chapitre du don de la persévérance me tomba hier sous la main: lisezle, et lisez tout le livre: c’est où j’ai puisé mes erreurs: je ne suis pas seule, cela me console; et en vérité je suis tentée à croire qu’on ne dispute aujourd’ hui sur cet matière avec tant de chaleur, que faute de s’entendre.”d a

Letter of 16 Dec. 1683 (Sévigné (1820), vol. VII, pp. 135–6). Daughter of a counsellor of the Breton parlement and thus from the noblesse de la robe. c ‘You see how the vices and virtues are thrown together, pell-mell, in the provinces, for I find the souls of peasants more righteous than a straight line, loving virtue as horses trot.’ Unlocated. d ‘Read a little in the book on predestination of the saints by St Augustine, and of the gift of Final Perseverance; I do not seek any further enlightenment on this point; and I wish to remain, if I may, in a state of humbleness and dependency. The eleventh chapter on the gift of Final Perseverance fell into my hands yesterday – read it, and read the whole book; it brought home to me my errors; I am not alone, it consoles me; and truly, I am tempted to believe that the only reason why people dispute so heatedly on this matter is for want of of understanding the subject’ (Letter of 26 June 1680; Sévigné (1820), vol. VI, pp. 342–3). Mme de Sévigné refers to the book On the Predestination of the Saints (AD 428) by Saint Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (354–430) who emphasised the depravity of human nature and the need for divine grace, and was the inspiration behind Jansenism. ‘Final Perseverance’ is the gift that God bestows on the convert of persisting in faith and good works until death. b

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we read, we are struck by the change of tone that creeps over them. From the period of this long visit of eight years, which madame de Grignan paid to Paris, we find the most perfect and unreserved friendship subsisting between mother and daughter. Their ages agree better: the one, now forty, understands the other, who is sixty, better than the young woman of twenty did her of forty. Other interests, also, had risen for madame de Grignan in her children. Her anxiety for her son’s advancement was fully shared by madame de Sévigné. A more sober, perhaps a less amusing, but certainly a far more interesting (if we may make this distinction), tone pervades the later letters. Her daughter, before, was the affection that weaned her from the world; now it mingled with higher and better thoughts. The Rochers were more peaceful than ever. Her son had not good health: his wife was cheerful only at intervals: she was delicate; she never went out: by nine in the evening her strength was exhausted, and she retired, leaving madame de Sêvigné to her letters. She was gentle and kind withal; attentive, without putting herself forward; so that her mother-in-law never felt that there was another mistress in the house, though all her comforts were attended to sedulously. We pause too long over these minutia.a We turn over madame de Sévigné’s pages: an expression, a detail strikes us; we are impelled to put it down; but the memoir grows too long, and we must curtail. She returned to Paris in August, 1685, and enjoyed for three / years more the society of her daughter. During this period she lost her uncle, the abbé de Coulanges. “You know that I was under infinite obligations to him,” she writes to count de Bussy: “I owed him the agreeableness and repose of my life; and you owed to him the gladness that I brought to your society: without him we had never laughed together. You owe to him my gaiety, my good humour, my vivacity; the gift I had of understanding you; the ability of comprehending what you had said, and of guessing what you were going to say. In a word, the good abbé, by drawing me from the gulf in which M. de Sévigné had left me, rendered me what I was, what you knew me, and worthy of your esteem and friendship. I draw the curtain before the wrong you did me: it was great, but must be forgotten; and I must tell you that I have felt deeply the loss of this dear source of the peace of my whole life. He lived with honour, and died as a christian. God give us the same grace! It was at the end of August that I wept him bitterly. I should never have left him, had he lived as long as myself.”b The subsequent separation of mother and daughter renewed the correspondence. This division lasted only a year and a half, when madame de Sévigné repaired to Grignan, which she did not quit again. The letters written during these few months are very numerous and long. The growing charms and talents of Pauline de Grignan; the début of the young marquis de Grignan, who began his a

‘Minutia’, used erroneously as a plural, is found elsewhere in Mary Shelley’s writings and, sporadically, among other 19th-century authors (see OED). b Letter of 13 Nov. 1687, shortened (Sévigné (1820), vol. VIII, pp. 34–5).

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career at sixteen in the siege of Philisburg;a and the deep interest felt by both, is the first subject. The arrival of James II. in France,b and the court news, which had the novelty of the English royal family being established at St. Germain, fills many of the letters. The account of the acting of Esther*,c which / enlivened the

* “Je fis ma cour l’autre jour à St. Cyr, plus agréablement que je n’eusse jamais pensé. Nous y allâmes samedi; madame de Coulanges, madame de Bagnols,d l’abbé Têtu, et moi: nous trouvâmes nos places gardées; un officier dit à madame de Coulanges que madame de Maintenon lui faisoit garder un siège auprès d’elle: vous voyez quel honneur! ‘Pour vous, madame,’ me ditil, ‘vous pouvez choisir.’ Je me mis avec madame de Bagnols, au second banc derrière les duchesses. Le maréchal de Bellefonde vint se mettre par choix à mon côté droit. Nous écoutâmes, le maréchal et moi, cette tragédie avec une attention qui fut remarqué; et de certaines louanges sourdes et bien placées. Je ne puis vous dire l’excès de l’agrément de cette pièce. C’est une chose qui n’est pas aisée à représenter, et qui ne sera jamais imitée. C’est un rapport de la musique, des vers, des chants, et des personnes si parfait, qu’on n’y souhaite rien. On est attentif, et l’on n’a point d’autre peine que celle de voir finir une si aimable tragedie. Tout y est simple, tout y est innocent, tout y est sublime et touchant. Cette fidélité à l’histoire sainte donne du respect: tous les chants convenables aux paroles sont d’une beauté singulière. La mesure de l’approbation qu’on donne à cette pièce, c’est celle du goût et de l’attention. J’en fus charmée et le maréchal aussi, qui sortit de sa place pour aller dire au roi combien il étoit content, et qu’il étoit auprès d’une dame qui étoit bien digne d’avoir vu Esther. Le roi vint vers nos places; et après avoir tourné, il s’adressa à moi, et me dit, ‘Madame, je suis assuré que vous avez été contente.’ Moi, sans m’étonner, je repondis, ‘Sire, je suis charmée, ce que je sens est au dessus des paroles.’ Le roi me dit, ‘Racine a bien de l’esprit.’ Je lui dit, ‘Sire, il en a beaucoup, mais en vérité ces jeunes personnes en ont beaucoup aussi; elles entrent dans le sujet, comme si elles n’avoient jamais fait autre chose.’ ‘Ah, pour cela,’ reprit-il, ‘il est vrai;’ et puis sa majesté s’en alla, et me laissa l’objet d’envie: comme il n’y avoit quasi que moi de nouvelle venue, il eut quelque plaisir de voir mes sincères admirations, sans bruit et sans éclat. M. le prince, madame la princesse, me vinrent dire un mot, madame de Maintenon, elle s’en alloit avec le roi. Je répondit à tout, car j’étois en fortune. Nous revinmes le soir aux flambeaux; je soupai chez madame de Coulanges, à qui le roi avoit parlé aussi, avec un air d’être chez lui, qui lui donnoit une douceur trop aimable. Je vis le soir M. le chevalier de Grignan. Je lui contait tout naïvement un éclair mes petites prospérités, ne voulant point les cachoter sans savoir pourquol, comme certaines personnes. Il en fut content, et voilà qui est fait. Je suis assurée qu’il ne m’a point trouvé dans la suite, ni une sotte vanité, ni un transport de bourgeoise.”f a Phillipsburg (or Philisburg) was a key strategic crossing of the Rhine near Strasbourg, which capitulated to the siege of Louis XIV in 1688. b James II, Catholic king of England and Scotland 1685–8, was deposed in the ‘Glorious Revolution’ and fled with his family to France. They were given the use of St Germain by Louis XIV, James’s cousin. c Racine’s play (1689), commissioned by Mme de Maintenon for her girls’ school at St Cyr, a hamlet near Versailles (see ‘Racine’). d Anne de Gué, sister of Mme de Coulanges, married to her cousin Dreux-Louis du GuéBagnols. e Bernardin de Gigault, marquis de Bellefonds (1630–94), courtier, diplomat and soldier, marshal of France (1668). f ‘I paid my respects at St Cyr the other day, more pleasantly than I could have supposed. We went there on Saturday; Madame de Coulanges, Madame de Bagnols, the Abbé Têtu and me; we found that seats had been reserved for us. An official said to Madame de Coulanges that Madame de Maintenon had ordered that a seat be reserved for her next to herself: you can just

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royal pleasures; and her naïve delight at having been spoken to by the king is one of her most agreeable passages. Added to this pleasure was that of M. de Grignan receiving the order of the saint esprit.a Soon after she repaired to Britany, where her time was spent partly at Rennes, with the duchess de Chaulnes, partly at the Rochers. Her absence from Paris was felt bitterly by her friends: her motive, the payment of her debts,b was, however, appreciated and applauded; and she was at once mortified and gratified by the offer of a loan of money to facilitate her return. Madame de la Fayette wrote to make her the proposition; but the money was to come from her kind friend the duchess de Chaulnes. The proposal was made with some brusquerie: “You must not, my dear, at any price whatever, pass the winter in Britany. You are old; the Rochers are thickly wooded; catarrhs and colds will destroy you; you will get weary; your mind will become / sad and lose its tone: this is certain; and all the business in the world is nothing in comparison. Do not speak of money nor of debts, I am to put an end to all that;” and then follows a proposition for her to take up her abode at the Hôtel de Chaulnes, and of the loan

imagine it – what an honour! ‘As for you, Madame,’ he said ‘the choice is yours.’ I sat with Madame de Bagnols, in the second row behind the duchesses. Marshal Bellefonds came and by his own choice placed himself to the right of me. The Marshal and I listened to the tragedy with an attention which was remarked on, and with some muted and well-timed expressions of praise. I can’t tell you how excessively pleased I was with the play. It was not an easy one to put on, and it will never be imitated. It is a unity of music, poetry, hymns, and characters so perfectly done that one can hope for nothing more. It holds your attention, the only displeasure consists in seeing such a delightful tragedy come to an end. All is simple, all is pure, all is sublime and touching. Its fidelity to sacred history compels respect; the hymns adapted for speaking were all singularly beautiful. The measure of approbation that was given to this play was one of taste and attention. I was charmed and so was the Marshal. He left his seat to tell the king how pleased he was, and that he was next to a lady who was eminently worthy to have seen Esther. The king came towards our seats and after having done his tour he addressed me and said “Madame, I am assured that you are delighted with the play.” I replied with aplomb, “Your Majesty, I am charmed, what I feel words cannot express.” The king said to me, “Racine is very spirited.” I said to him “Your Majesty, he is, very much so, but as a matter of fact so are the young people; they threw themselves into their parts as if they had never done anything else.” “Ah, yes,” he said, “that’s true.” And then his Majesty went off, leaving me the object of envy. As I was almost the only newcomer there, he was pleased to see my sincere admiration, expressed without noise and publicity. The prince and the princess came to say a few words to me, Madame de Maintenon gave a passing glance [‘un eclair’, displaced from after ‘tout naïvement’ below]; she went off with the King. I replied to all the questions I was asked because it was my lucky day. We came back that evening by torchlight; I had supper with Madame de Coulanges, to whom the King had also spoken, with an air of complete ease, which gave him an immensely amiable sweetness of manner. I saw the Chevalier de Grignan in the evening. I simply told him of my little pieces of good luck, not wishing to hide them for no reason at all, unlike some people. He was satisfied, and there you have it. I am certain that in the aftermath he found me neither foolishly vain, nor vulgarly over-impressed’ (Sévigné (1820), vol. VIII, pp. 342–4, with some alteration of punctuation and some minor errors). a The Order of the Holy Ghost, the most prestigious French order of chivalry, founded by Henri III in 1578; French equivalent of the Order of the Garter. b She was in debt because of the need to raise money to give to her children on their marriages; low returns from her estates made it difficult to repay loans based on their security.

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of a thousand crowns. “No arguments,” the letter continues, “no words, no useless correspondence. You must come. I will not even read what you may write. In a word, you consent, or renounce the affection of your dearest friends. We do not choose that a friend shall grow old and die through her own fault.”a This tone of command gave pleasure to madame de Sévigné, though she at once refused to lay herself under the obligation. But there was a sting in the letter which she passed over; madame de Grignan discovered it, and her mother allowed that she felt it; and writes, “You were, then, struck by madame de la Fayette’s expression, mingled with so much kindness. Although I never allow myself to forget this truth, I confess I was quite surprised, for as yet I feel no decay to remind me: however, I often reflect and calculate, and find the conditions on which we enjoy life very hard. It seems to me that I was dragged, in spite of myself, to the fatal term when one must suffer old age. I see it, – am there. I should, at least, like to go no further in the road of decrepitude, pain, loss of memory, and disfigurement, which are at hand to injure me. I hear a voice that says, even against your will you must go on; or, if you refuse, you must die; which is another necessity from which nature shrinks. Such is the fate of those who go a little too far. But a return to the will of God, and the universal law by which we are condemned, brings one to reason, and renders one patient.”b As madame de Sévigné was resolved to give up her Parisian life, for the admirable motive of paying her debts before she died, she felt that the only compensation she could receive was residing at Grignan. Madame de la Fayette, on hearing of her intention of going thither, writes, “Your friends are content that you / should go to Provence, since you will not return to Paris. The climate is better; you will have society, even when madame de Grignan is away; there is a good mansion, plenty of inhabitants; in short, it is being alive to live there; and I applaud your son for consenting to lose you, for your own sake.”c On the 3d of October, therefore, she set off; and friendship, as she says, rendering so long a journey easy, she arrived on the 24th; when madame de Grignan received her with open arms, and with such joy, affection, and gratitude, “that,” she says, “I found I had not come soon enough nor far enough.”d From this time the correspondence with her daughter entirely ceases. The letters that remain to her other friends scarcely fill up the gap. She visited Paris once again with her daughter; but her time was chiefly spent at Grignan. She witnessed the establishment of her grandchildren.e The marriage of the young marquis de Grignanf was, of course, a a

7).

Letter of Mme de Lafayette, 8 Oct. 1689, slightly altered (Sévigné (1820), vol. IX, pp. 156–

b

Letter of 30 Oct. 1679 (Sévigné (1820), vol. IX, p. 234). Letter of 20 Sept. 1690, adapted (Sévigné (1820), vol. IX, p. 406). d Letter to Président Moulceau, 10 Nov. 1690 (Sévigné (1820), vol. IX, p. 408). e i.e their entrance into adult life, social position and marriage. f Louis-Provence, marquis de Grignan (1671–1704) only surviving son of the comte and comtesse de Grignan. His father bought the command of the Grignan regiment for him from his uncle the chevalier de Grignan. He married Anne-Marguerite de Saint-Amans in 1695. c

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deeply interesting subject; nor was she less pleased when Pauline, whom she had served so well in her advice to her mother, married, at the close of the following year, the marquis de Simiane.a Early in the spring of 1696 madame de Grignan was attacked by a dangerous and lingering illness. Her mother attended on her with tenderness and zeal; but she felt her strength fail her. She wrote to her friends, that, if her daughter did not soon recover, she must sink under her fatigues, – words that proved too fatally true.b After a sudden and short illness, she died, in April of the same year, at the age of seventy. The blow of her death was severely felt by her friends, – a gap was made in their lives, never to be filled up. In describing her character, her malicious cousin, count de Bussy, darkens many traits, which, in their natural colouring, only rendered her the more agreeable. He blames her for being carried away by a love of the agreeable rather than the solid; but he allows, at the same time, that there was not a cleverer woman in France; that her manners were vivacious and diverting, / though she was a little too sprightly for a woman of quality. Madame de la Fayette addressed a portrait to her, as was the fashion of those times.c Madame de Sévigné was three-andthirty when it was written. It is, of course, laudatory: it speaks of the charms of her society, when all constraint was banished from the conversation; and says that the brilliancy of her wit imparted so bright a tinge to her cheek, and sparkle to her eye, that, while others pleased the ears, she dazzled the eyes of her listeners; so that she surpassed, for the moment, the most perfect beauty. The portrait speaks of the affectionate emotions of her heart, and of her love of all that was pleasing and agreeable. “Joy is the natural atmosphere of your soul,” it says; “and annoyance is more displeasing to you than to any other.” It mentions her obliging disposition, and the grace with which she obliged; her admirable conduct, her frankness, her sweetness. Of course fault has been found with her. In the first place, Voltaire says, after praising her letters, “It is a pity that she was absolutely devoid of taste; that she did not do Racine justice; and that she puts Mascaron’s funeral oration on Turenne on a par with the chef-d’ œuvre of Fléchier.”d We need not say much concerning the first of these accusations. It may be thought that madame de Sévigné showed good taste in her criticisms on Racine. The truth was that, accustomed to Corneille in her youth, she adhered to his party, and was faithful to tastes associated with her happiest days. Of the second, we must mention that she heard Mascaron’s oration delivered:e and the effect of delivery is often to dazzle, and to inspire a false judgment. She wrote to her daughter on the spur of the moment; a

Louis de Simiane de Trucheim, from a noble family with neighbouring lands to the Grignans, m. Pauline de Grignan in 1695. b Not further located. c Included in Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. xv–xvii, with a quote taken from p. xvi. d Voltaire, Siècle, cited in Saint-Saurin, p. 110n. ‘Mascaron’: Jules Mascaron (1634–1703), Court Preacher to Louis XIV, and a popular funeral orator. e As few of his texts survive, Mme de Sévigné’s comments have perpetuated his reputation.

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and her opinion had no pretensions to a criticism meant for posterity. Afterwards, when she read Fléchier’s oration at leisure, she did not hesitate to prefer it. She is a little inclined to a false and flowery style in her choice of books; but her letters exonerate / her from the charge of too vehement an admiration for such, or they would not be, as they are, models for grace, ease, and nature. Another accusation brought against her is, that she was a little malicious in her mode of speaking of persons.a It is strange how people can find dark spots in the sun: for, as that luminary is indeed conspicuous for its universal light, and not for its partial darkness, so madame de Sévigné’s letters are remarkable for their absence of ill-nature; and, when we reflect with what unreserve and pouring out of the heart they were written, we admire the more the gentle and kindly tone that pervades the whole. “There is a person here,” she writes to her daughter, of her uncle, the abbé de Coulanges, “who is so afraid of misdirecting his letters after they are written, that he folds them and puts the addresses before he writes them.” The spirit of hyper-criticism alone could discover ill-nature in the quick sense for the ludicrous that the mention of this most innocuous piece of caution displays. In a few of her letters we find her record with pleasure some ill-natured treatment of a certain lady; but this lady had calumniated madame de Grignan, and so drawn on herself the mother’s heaviest displeasure. The last fault brought against her is her being dazzled by greatness:– her saying to her cousin, Bussy, after Louis XIV. had danced with her, “We must allow that he is a great king,” which, as a frondeuse, she was at that time bound to deny: but he was a great king, and posterity may therefore forgive her. She made no sacrifices to greatness, and was guilty of no truckling. She allows she should have liked a court life. She traces her exclusion from it to her alliance with the fronde, her friendship for Fouquet, and her jansenist opinions; but she never repines; and this is the more praiseworthy, with regard to her jansenism, since she only adhered to it from entertaining the opinions which received that name, not from party spirit; and / had not, therefore, the support and sympathy of the party. She revered the virtues of their leaders; but there was nothing either bigotted or controversial in her admiration or piety. The only reproach that madame de Sévigné at all deserves is her approval of the revocation of the edict of Nantes,b the stain and disgrace of Louis XIV.’s reign, which banished fròm his country his best and most industrious subjects. We blame Philip III. for extirpating the Moriscosc from Spain; but they, at least, were of a different race, and a gulf of separation subsisted between them and the Spana

The source of this accusation is unlocated, as is that of the quotation that follows. The Edict of Nantes (1598), granted by Henri IV, had guaranteed Protestants in France restricted rights of worship and self-defence, and put an end to the religious civil wars begun in 1561. It was revoked in 1685. c Inhabitants of Spain of Moorish origin; crusades led by a succession of rulers resulted in the expulsion of all Moriscos from Spain in 1492 after their last stronghold in Granada capitulated. The comment stems from Mary Shelley’s recent work on Spanish Lives. b

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iards. The huguenots were the undoubted and native subjects of the kingdom: the times, also, were more enlightened and refined; and our contempt is the more raised when we find Louis the dupea of two ministers, Le Tellier and Louvois, who were influenced by their hatred of Colbert, one of the greatest and most enlightened ministers of France. We cannot but believe that the French revolution had worn a different aspect had the huguenots remained in France, and, as a consequence, the population had been held in less ignorance and barbarism. We cannot believe that madame de Sévigné really approved the atrocities that ensued. As a good jansenist, she was bound to detest forced conversions. Much of her praise, no doubt, was foisted in from fear that her letters might be opened at the post and read by officials; and it may be remembered, that M. de Grignan had evinced a suspicion that her jansenism had impeded the advancement of his family, as it certainly had of her own. She was at a distance, too, from the scene of action: still she says too much; and cannot be excused, except on the plea that she knew not what she did.*b / The question has been asked, “In what does madame de Sévigné’s merit consist? Did she show herself above her age?” La Harpe says, in his panegyric, “Even those who love this extraordinary woman do not sufficiently estimate the superiority of her understanding. I find in her every species of talent: argumentative or * “Le père Bourdaloue s’en va, par ordre du roi, prêcher à Montpelier, et dans ces provinces où tant de gens se sont convertis sans savoir pourquoi. Le père Bourdaloue le leur apprendra, et en fera de bons catholiques. Les dragons ont été de très-bons missionnaires jusqu’ici: les médiateurs qu’on envoient présentement rendront l’ouvrage parfait. Vous aurez vu, sans doute, l’édit par lequel le roi révoque celui de Nantes. Rien n’est si beau que tout ce qu’il contient, et jamais aucun roi n’a fait et ne fera rien de plus mémorable.” – Lettre au comte de Bussy, 14 Nov. 1685.c The count replies, “J’admire la conduite du roi pour ruiner les huguenots: les guerres qu’on leur a faites autrefois, et les Saints Barthélémis, ont multiplié et donné vigeur à cette secte. Sa majesté l’a sapée petit à petit, et l’édit qu’il vient de donner, soutenu des dragons et des Bourdaloues, a été le coup de grace.”d a Louis had been persuaded by Louvois that many Protestants had been converted to Catholicism and that few remained in France; he was also under pressure from Mme de Maintenon to deal with the Huguenots. b Echoing Christ’s words on the cross regarding his persecutors, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’ (Luke 23: 34). c ‘Father Bourdaloue has gone, by order of the King, to preach at Montpellier, and in those provinces where so many people have been converted without knowing why. Father Bourdaloue will instruct them, and make them good Catholics. The dragoons have been very good missionaries to date; the commissioners now being sent will complete their work to perfection. You will no doubt have seen the edict by which the king revokes that of Nantes. Nothing is so satisfactory as what it says, and no king has ever, nor will ever, achieve anything more memorable.’ Montpellier was a centre of French Protestantism. d ‘I admire the king’s policy of destroying the Huguenots; the previous wars against them and the St. Bartholomews have multiplied and invigorated the sect. His majesty has sapped their strength little by little and the edict he has just proclaimed, reinforced by the dragoons and the Bourdaloues, has finished them off.’ (‘Bartholomews’ refers to the massacre of Huguenots in Paris in 1572 on St Bartholomew’s Day; see p. 416, note c.)

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frivolous, witty or sublime, she adopts every tone with wonderful facility.”a To the question, however, of whether she was superior to her age, we answer, at once, no; but she was equal to the best and highest portion of it. We pass in review before us the greatest men of that day – the most profound thinkers, the most virtuous, – Pascal, Rochefoucauld, Racine, Boileau. Her opinions and sentiments were as liberal and enlightened as theirs; and that is surely sufficient praise for a woman absolutely without pretensions; and who, while she bares the innermost depths of her mind to her daughter, had no thought of dressing and educating that mind for posterity. The race of madame de Sévigné is extinct. Her son continued childless. The marquis de Grignan died also without offspring. He died young, of the small-pox; and his broken-hearted mother soon followed him to the tomb. Pauline, marquise de Simiane, left children, who became allied to the family of Créqui; but that, also, is now extinct.b /

a In fact Mary Shelley quotes not from La Harpe (Jean-François de La Harpe (1739–1803), playwright and critic) but from ‘Du Style Épistolaire de Mme de Sévigné’ (On Mme de Sévigné’s Epistolary Style) by Jean-Baptiste-Antoine Suard (1733–1817), critic, journalist, member and historian of the Académie (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. lv–lxvii, quoting p. lxi). This essay immediately follows La Harpe’s ‘Sur les lettres de Madame de Sévigné’ (‘On Mme de Sévigné’s Letters’) (ibid., pp. l–liv). b The marquis’s distinguished military career was cut short by smallpox in 1704. Pauline de Simiane had three daughters; the eldest became a nun, the second became marquise de Vence and the third marquise de Castellane-Esparron.

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BOILEAU. 1636–1711. O NE of the authors most characteristic of the better part of the age of Louis XIV. was Boileau. The activity and directness of his mind, his fastidious taste, his wit, the strict propriety of his writings, and their useful aim, were worthy of a period which, for many years, legislated for the republic of letters. Sunk in ignorance as France had been, it required spirits as resolute and enlightened as his to refine it, and spread knowledge widely abroad – while his disposition and habits were honourable to himself, and to the society of which he formed a distinguished part.a The father of the poet, Giles Boileau, was for sixty years greffier to the great chamber of the parliament of Paris. The simplicity of his character, his abilities, and probity, caused him to be universally esteemed. He had a large family. Three of his sons distinguished themselves in literature. One, who took the name of PuiMorin, was a lawyer; but his publications were rather classic than legal. Another entered the church; he became a doctor of Sorbonne, and enjoyed several ecclesiastical preferments.b Nicholas Boileau (who, to distinguish him from his brothers, was called by his contemporaries Despréaux, from some meadows which his father possessed at the end of his garden,) was born in Paris, on the 5th of December, 1636.* He lost his mother when he was / only eleven months old – she dying at the early age of * The place of his birth and the date have been disputed. Critics have decided on the facts above given. The doubt partly originated in Boileau himself. Louis XIV. one day asked him his age; he replied, “I came into the world a year before your majesty, that I might announce the glories of your reign.” The reply pleased the king, and was applauded by the courtiers; nor did Boileau err much in the fact; for, being born as late in the year as December, he was scarcely more than a year older than the king, though the date of that monarch’s birth was 1638.c a The term ‘republic of letters’ originated in the late 17th century among writers and critics, to suggest cosmopolitan, fraternal solidarity transcending political and religious divides. Mary Shelley alludes to the political and cultural disorder (‘ignorance’) associated with the Frondes against royal authority, discussed in ‘Rochefoucauld’ and ‘Sévigné’, prior to the re-establishment of order and the creation of canons of literary and artistic production under Louis XIV. b Boileau’s father was a barrister in the Paris Parlement, the most senior appeal court in the realm; Pierre de Puy-Morin was a member of the household of Gaston d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIII; Jacques Boileau (b. 1635) became a priest and a doctor of theology at the Sorbonne in 1662, subsequently Dean of the Theology Faculty. c Mary Shelley follows LRR, p. 290–1.

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twenty-three. His childhood was one of suffering; so that he said of himself, in after times, that he would not accept a new life on the condition of passing through a similar childhood. We are not told what the evils were of which he complained, but they were certainly, to a great degree, physical; for he was cut for the stone at an early age, and the operation being badly performed he never entirely regained his health. His earliest years were spent at the village of Crone, in which his father had a country house, where he spent his law vacations, and where, indeed, Louis Racine declares that Nicholas was born. The house must have been small and humble, for the boy was lodged in a loft above a barn, till a little room was constructed for him in the barn itself, which made him say that he commenced life by descending into a barn. His disposition as a child was marked by a simplicity and kindliness, that caused his father to say, “that Colin was a good fellow, who would never speak ill of any one.”a His turn for satire made this seem ridiculous in after times: yet it was founded on truth. Delicacy, and a sort of irritability of taste, joined to wit, caused him to satirise writers: but he carefully abstained from impugning the private character of any one; and, with his friends, and in his conduct during life, he was remarkable for probity, kindness of heart, and a cordial forgiving disposition. When we view him as a courtier, also, we recognize at once that independence of feeling, joined to a certain absence of mind, of which his father perceived the germ. He went to school at Beauvais; and M. Sevin, master of one of the classes, discovered his taste for poetry, and asserted that he would acquire great reputation in his future life; being persuaded that, when a man is born a poet, nothing can prevent him from fulfilling his destiny. Boileau was at this time passionately fond of romances and poetry; but his critical taste was awakened by these very pursuits. “Even at fifteen,” he says, in his ninth satire, “I detested a stupid book. Satire / opened for me the right path, and supported my steps towards the Parnassus where I ventured to seek her.”b At the age of eighteen he wrote an ode on the war which it was expected that Cromwell would declare against France. In later days he corrected this ode, and added to the force of its expressions; but even in its original state it is remarkable for the purity of its language, its conciseness, and energy. At the age of sixteen he lost his father, and thus acquired early that independent position which is the portion of orphans. His relations wished him to follow the profession of the law: he consented, and, applying himself with diligence, was named advocate at an early age. But the chicanery, the tortuousness, and absurdity of the practice speedily disgusted him, formed as he was by nature to detect and expose error; so that, in the very first cause entrusted to him, he showed so a This sentence and the preceding three follow LRR, p. 222 very closely. The earlier statement that Boileau was born in Paris is the correct one; Crosnes, where the family had an estate, was south of Paris, near Corbeil. b Satires, IX. 279–82. Parnassus: the mountain where the Muses assembled, and thus the highpoint of artistic achievement.

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much disgust, that the attorney (who probably was aware that such existed), fancying that he had discovered some irregularity in his proceedings, said, on withdrawing his brief, “Ce jeune avocat ira loin.”a Boileau, on the contrary, was only eager to throw off the burden of a profession so little suited to him; and he quitted the bar for the study of ecclesiastical polity, fancying that religion would purify and elevate the practice of the church. He was soon undeceived; and was shocked and astonished by the barbarous language, the narrow scholastic speculations, and polemical spirit, of the sorbonne.b He found that chicanery had but changed its garb;c and, unwilling to debase his mind by such studies, he gave them up, and dedicated himself entirely to literature. Led by his inborn genius, he boldly entered on the career of letters and poetry, in spite of the warnings of his family*, for / his patrimony, consisting only of a few thousand crowns, seemed to render it imperative that he should follow a gainful profession. His desires, however, were moderate; and he contrived to limit his expenses to his slender income. Literature and knowledge were at a low ebb in France when Louis XIV. began to reign. The genius of the people had, previously to Corneille, displayed itself in

* Que si quelqu’un, mes Vers, alors vous importune, Pour savoir mes parens, ma vie, et ma fortune, Contez lui qu’allié d’assez hauts magistrats, Fils d’un greffier, né d’ayeux avocats, Des le berçeau perdant une forte jeune mère, Reduit seize ans après à pleurer mon vieux père, J’allai d’un pas hardi, par moi-même guidé, Et de mon seul génie en marchant secondé, Studieux amateur de Perse et d’Horace, Assez pres de Regnier m’asseoir sur le Parnasse. – Epître X. La famille en palit, et vit en fremissant, Dans la poudre du greffier un poète naissant. – Epître V.d a

This young lawyer will go far’ (LRR, p. 222). The Theology Faculty of the University of Paris was known as the Sorbonne after the building where it was housed. Theological dispute drew on the scholastic legacy of the middle ages, seen by Enlightened thinkers as a ‘barbarous’, i.e. uncivilised era. c Words attributed to a eulogy of Racine, which in turn echo a phrase from Boileau’s Satire IX; the story is given in both LRR, p. 223 and Des Maizeaux, p. 13. d ‘My verses, if anyone should inquire of you all about my parentage, my life, and my fortunes, tell him that, connected to magistrates of pretty high rank, son of a barrister, with advocates as ancestors, losing in my cradle a blooming young mother, forced sixteen years later to mourn my venerable father, I took an arduous route, guided by myself alone, and with only my own genius to walk alongside me. A devoted admirer of Persius and Horace, I took my seat on Parnassus quite near Regnier’ (Epistles, X. 93–102); ‘His family turned pale, and groaned to see a poet being born in the dust of a lawyer’s office’ (Epistles, V. 115–16). Persius: Aulus Persius Flaccus (AD 34–62), follower of Horace in his six satires; Horace: Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65–8 BC ), whose satires avoided personal invective and used an easy colloquial style; Regnier: Mathurin Regnier (1573–1613), poet and satirist who took Horace as his model. b

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no great national poem. Its instincts for poetry, owing, perhaps, to the faulty nature of the language, had confined itself to songs and ballads, inimitable for a certain charming elegant simplicity, but with no pretension to the praise due to a high order of imagination. Corneille, in his majesty and power, stood alone. Then had come Molière, who detected and held up to ridicule the false taste of the age. Yet, in spite of his attacks, this false taste in part subsisted; and there were several of the favourite authors of the day whose works excited Boileau’s spleen, and roused him to the task of satire. Chapelain may be mentioned as the chief among them. Jean Chapelain was a Parisian, and a member of the French academy. He was much patronised by the minister Colbert; and, under his auspices, the king not only granted him a pension, but entrusted to his care the making out a list of the chief literary men of Europe, towards whom Louis, in a spirit of just munificence, inspired by Colbert, allowed pensions, in token that their labours deserved assistance or reward. Jean Chapelain, an upright, a clever, and a generous man, was thus exalted to the head of the republic of letters; and was seduced by the voice of praise to write a poem on the subject of the Maid of Orleans.a The topic was popular: while in progress, Chapelain enjoyed an anticipated reputation on the strength of it; and the duke de Longuevilleb allowed him a pension; but as soon as the “Pucelle” was published, / which rash act he did not venture on for a number of years, his fame as a poet fell to the ground; epigrams rained on the unfortunate epic, and Boileau brought up the rear with pointed well-turned sarcasms. As the friend of Colbert, as an amiable man of acknowledged talents, Chapelain had many partisans. The duke de Montauzier*, a satirist himself in his youth, was furious, and declared that Boileau ought to be tossed into the river, that he might rhyme there.c Other friends of Chapelain remonstrated; but their representations turned to the amusement of the satirist. “Chapelain is my friend,” said the abbé de la Victoire, “and I grieve that you have named him in your satires. It is true, if he followed my advice, he would not write poetry; prose suits him

* The due de Montauzier married Julie d’Angennes, demoiselle de Rambouillet – the deity of the clique which established the system of factitious gallantry which Molière and Boileau ridiculed and exploded. Of course the duke was inimically inclined; but time softened the exasperation, and Boileau, by apt flattery in his epistle to Racine, completed the change. Soon after the publication of this epistle, the peer and poet met in the galleries of Versailles, and exchanged compliments; the duke took the satirist home to dine with him, and was his friend ever after.d a Joan of Arc, the maiden or ‘Pucelle’, the peasant heroine from Lorraine whose visions and charismatic leadership rallied the French to victory against the English in the 15th century. b Henri d’Orléans-Longueville (1593–1663), French grandee descended from the bastard but legitimated branch of the French royal family. c Anecdote taken from the note to Satires, X. 135–6. d Selectively quoted from note to Epistles, VII. 100.

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much better.” – “And what more do I say?” cried Boileau: “I repeat in verse what every one else says in prose: I am, in truth, the secretary of the public.”*a As such the public joyfully accepted him. He became the favourite guest of the best society in Paris, where genius and wit were honoured. Joined to his faculty of writing satires, whose every word was as a gem set in gold, Boileau read his verses well, and possessed the talent of mimicry, which added greatly to the zest of his recitations. Chapelain, Cotin, and the poetasters / whom he lashed, passed thus, as it were, in living array before his audience; and the enjoyment he created naturally led to a popularity, which, as it was bestowed by the well-born, the beautiful, and the rich, spread a halo of prosperity round the poet’s steps. Boileau, however, has not escaped censure for his personal attacks. It was considered a defilement of the elevated spirit of poetical satire to attack persons; and, though Boileau only lashed these men as authors, their blameless private characters made many recoil from seeing their names held up to ridicule. Not only his contemporaries, but later writers, have blamed him.† He has even been accused * The following is a specimen of the poetry of the “Pucelle,” – the Maid of Orleans is addressing the king:– “O! grand prince, que grand des cette heure j’appelle, Il est vrai, le respect sert de bride à mon zèle: Mais ton illustre aspect me redouble le cœur, Et me le redoublant, me redouble la peur. A ton illustre aspect mon cœur se sollicite, Et grimpant contre mont, la dure terre quitte. O! que n’ai-je le ton desormais assez fort Pour aspirer à toi, sans te faire de tort. Pour toi puissé-je avoir une mortelle pointe Vers où l’epaule gauche à la gorge est conjointe, Que le coup brisat l’os, et fit pleûvoir le sang De la temple, du dos, de l’épaule, et du flanc.b † Voltaire, in his “Mémoire sur la Satire,” severely censures Boileau. Voltaire was peculiarly sensitive to satire, while he never spared it in his turn; he cherished a sort of reserve in his mind, that made it venial in him to attack with virulence, while no one was to censure him without the most cutting return. This fact, however, does not alter his argument. It is a difficult question. It may be said that it is impossible but that bad books should be criticised by contemporary writers, while all men of generous and liberal natures will be averse to undertaking the office of butcher themselves.c a

Cited almost verbatim from note to Satires, IX. 203. ‘Oh, great prince, whom I call great from this moment, it is true, respect acts as a bridle to my zeal: but thy illustrious appearance redoubles my heartbeat, and in redoubling it, redoubles also my fear. My heart takes counsel, looking at thy famous face, and climbing this mountain, quits the hard earth. Oh! if only I had a strong enough voice nonetheless to aspire toward thee, without doing thee a wrong. For thy sake, might I have a fatal dagger pointed towards where my left shoulder meets my throat; and that the blow might break my bone, and make my blood pour out from my temple, back, shoulder and side.’ The rhymes in the original make for heavy-footed poetry, if not bathos, not the deft elegance espoused by Boileau. c ‘Mémoire sur la Satire’, Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XLVII, pp. 480–503; with discussion of Boileau, pp. 486–9. b

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of acting from base motives. That Chapelain, when he made a list for Colbert of literary men deserving of pensions, did not include Boileau’s name is supposed to be the occasion of his enmity. But the dislike seems to have had foundation earlier; for we are told that the first satire was composed when the poet was only fourand-twenty, and had no pretensions to be pensioned for unwritten works, and, indeed, before the pensions in question were granted.* Some ill blood might have arisen through a quarrel between Boileau and his elder brother Giles, who was a friend of Chapelain. This circumstance rendered him, perhaps, more willing to attack the latter; but, doubtless, / his ruling motive was his hatred of a bad book, and his natural genius, which directed the scope of his labours. Boileau himself carefully distinguishes between attacks made on authors and on individuals; and, à propos, of his ridicule of Chapelain, he says, “En blamant ses ecrits, ai-je d’un style affreux Distilé sur sa vie un venin dangereux? Ma muse en l’attaquant, charitable et discrete, Scait de l’homme d’honneur distinguer le poète.”†a

Still he whimsically gives, as it were, the lie to this very defence by his subsequent conduct; for, when any one of the unhappy authors whom he had held up to ridicule showed him personal kindness, he was not proof against the impulse that led him to expunge his name in the next edition of his works, and substitute that of some new-sprung enemy. Thus in the seventh satire we find the following persons strung together:– * The pensions were granted in 1663. Chapelain selected the names; but we can hardly believe that he wrote the list, such as it has come down to us, wherein the praise lavished on himself is ridiculous enough: The occasion of the pension is appended to the name: this is a specimen of some among them:– “Au sieur Pierre Corneille, premier poète dramatique du monde, deux mille francs. “Au sieur Desmarets, le plus fertile auteur, et doué de la plus belle imagination qui ait jamais été, douze cents francs. “Au sieur Molière, excellent poète comique, mille francs. “Au sieur Racine, poète français, huit cents francs. “Au sieur Chapelain, le plus grand poète français qui ait jamais été, et du plus solide jugement, trois mille francs.”b † Satire IX. a ‘In casting blame on his works, did I, in an abominable style, exude a dangerous venom over his life? In attacking him, my Muse, charitable and discreet, knows how to differentiate the man of honour from the poet’ (Satires, IX. 209–12). b Mary Shelley possibly quotes selectively from Taschereau, pp. 370–1: ‘For Monsieur Pierre Corneille, the leading dramatic poet in the world, two thousand francs. For Monsieur Desmarets, the most prolific author, gifted with the most beautiful imagination that has ever existed, twelve hundred francs. For Monsieur Molière, the excellent comic poet, a thousand francs. For Monsieur Racine, French poet, eight hundred francs. For Monsieur Chapelain, the greatest French poet, with the greatest literary acumen, that has ever been, three thousand francs.’

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“Faut-il d’un froid Rimeur dépeindre la manie? Mes vers, comme un torrent, coulent sur le papier, Je recontre à la fois Perrin et Pelletier, Bardou, Mauroy, Boursault, Colletet, Titreville.”a

He afterwards altered the last verse to “Bonnecorse, Pradon, Colletet, Titreville.”b

Perrin had translated the Æneid into French; and was the first person who obtained leave to introduce the Italian opera into France. Pelletier was a sort of itinerant rhymester, who, when he addressed a sonnet to a man, carried it to him, and contrived to get paid for his pains. Bardou and Mauroy were minor poets, whose nonsense appeared in ephemeral collections of verses. Boursault was more distinguished. He quarrelled with Molière, and endeavoured to satirise him in a slight drama, entitled “Portrait du Peintre, ou, contre Critique de l’Ecole des Femmes.” Molière showed himself very indifferent to this sort of attack; but Boileau took up the cudgels for him. Boursault revenged himself by another drama, levelled against Boileau himself, called “Satire des Satires;” and the latter, with a / sensitiveness in which he had no right to indulge, got a decree of parliament to prevent its representation. Many years after, when Boileau was at the baths of Bourbon for his health, and Boursault was receveur des termesc at Mont Luçon, a town not far distant, Boileau writes to Racine, “M. Boursault, whom I thought dead, came to see me five or six days ago, and made his appearance again unexpectedly this evening. He told me he had come three long leagues out of his way to Mont Luçon, whither he was bound, and where he lives, to have the pleasure of calling on me. He offered me all sorts of things – money, horses, &c. I replied by similar civilities, and wished to keep him till to-morrow to dinner; but he said he was obliged to go away early in the morning, and we separated the best possible friends.” Racine says, in reply, “I am pleased by the civilities you have received from Boursault; you are advancing towards perfection at a prodigious pace; how many people you have pardoned.” Boileau replies, “I laughed heartily at the joke you make of the people I have pardoned; but do you know that I have a ‘Must one depict the mania of a frigid Rhymester? My verses rush onto the paper in a torrent. I encounter all at the same time Perrin and Pelletier, Bardou, Mauroy, Boursault, Colletet, Titreville’ (Satires, VII. 42–5). Perrin: Pierre Perrin (1620–75), opera and ballet librettist as well as translator of Virgil’s Aeneid; Pelletier: Pierre de Pelletier. Mary Shelley (below) cites information from note to l. 54 of Boileau’s Discours au Roi (Address to the king), Boileau (1746), I, p. 4; Bardou: Jean Bardou (1621–68) a contributor to anthologies; Mauroy: Testu de Mauroy, Academician and friend of Chapelain. Boursault: Edme Boursault (1638–1701) wrote a number of successful comedies after his quarrels with Molière and Boileau. Mary Shelley (below) cites from note to Satires, VII. 45; Colletet: François Colletet, d. 1680, editor and poet; Titreville: probably l’abbé de Francheville (1627–c. 1689), another admirer of Chapelain and contributor to anthologies. b Balthasar de Bonnecourse (1631–1706), poet and friend of Mlle de Scudéry, La Fontaine, and other luminaries. He answered Boileau’s mockery with Le Lutrigot (1686). c Rent collector.

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more merit than you imagine, if the Italian proverb be true, chi offende non perdona.”a About this time Pradonb and Bonnecorse attacked him; and he took occasion, in a new edition of his works, to substitute their names for those of the persons with whom he was now reconciled. To return to his younger days: wit, high and convivial spirits, and his acknowledged and popular talents, gained him the favour of the great. The great Condé was his especial protector; and he changed many expressions in his poems, and even altered them materially, at his suggestion. The great Condé often assembled literary men at Chantilly; and he liked this society far better than that of people of rank. One day, when Racine and Boileau were with him, the arrival of some bishop was announced, as having come to view his palace and grounds. “Show him every thing,” said the prince impatiently, “except myself.”c This prince often discussed literary topics with his guests. When he was / in the right, he argued with moderation and gentleness; when in the wrong, he grew angry if contradicted: his eyes sparkled with a fire that even intimidated Boileau, who yielded at once, remarking, at the same time, to his neighbour, “Henceforth I shall always agree with the prince when he is in the wrong.”d The First President Lamoignon also honoured him with his intimate friendship; and Arnaud and Nicole, churchmen distinguished for their virtues and talents, were among his dearest and most revered friends.e But, besides these, he had intimates of his own station, of not less genius than himself; authors, yet without rivalship, who enjoyed the zest given by each other’s wit in society; to whom he was strongly attached, and with whom, in the heyday of life, he played many a prank, and spent long hours of social enjoyment. Racine, La Fontaine, Molière, and Chapelle* were among these. Many anecdotes are told concerning them, which makes us the more regret that no faithful Boswell was near to glean more amply. The “Boileana,” which pretended to record their wit, is by no means authentic.f Louis Racine, in his valuable life of his father, has given us one or two; * For an account of Chapelle, see Life of Molière. a ‘He who offends does not pardon’; the quotations are taken from letters exchanged by Boileau and Racine of 19, 24 and 28 Aug. 1687 (Daunou, III, pp. 147–8, 154, 159). b Nicolas Pradon (1632–98), playwright, author of Phèdre et Hippolyte (1677), in rivalry to Racine’s Phèdre. c The story was actually told of Colbert at his country house at Sceaux (LRR, p. 275). Chantilly was the seat of the princes de Condé. d The anecdote, correctly attributed to Condé, follows LRR, p. 253 almost verbatim. e Guillaume de Lamoignan (1617–77), Premier Président of Paris Parlement from 1658, and man of letters who formed an informal ‘academy’; Antoine Arnauld, scholar, theologian and leading Jansenist (see p. 82). f Bolaeana ou Entretiens avec Monsieur Boileau-Despréaux (Paris, 1735). Mary Shelley probably follows Louis Racine’s disparagement of this source (LRR, p. 204, note, and passim). James Boswell (1740–95) was the famous biographer of the lexicographer and critic Samuel Johnson (1709–84) and recorder of his conversation.

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from these – the shadow rather than the light of wit – marking its place rather than displaying its form – we select a few. This knot of friends frequently dined at a celebrated traiteur’s,a or at one another’s houses; in particular, at Molière’s and Boileau’s country houses at Auteuil. The conversation on these occasions was brilliant; and, did a silly remark escape from any among them, a fine was immediately levied. Chapelain’s poem of the “Pucelle” was on the table, and, according to the quality of the fault, the accused was adjudged to read a certain number of lines from this poem: twenty lines was a heavy punishment; a whole page was considered equivalent to a sentence of death.b The famous supper, when the whole company resolved to drown themselves, has been related in the life of / Molière.c Buoyant spirits, unchecked by age or sorrow, inspired a thousand freaks, which were put in execution on the spur of the minute. At one time the university of Paris was going to present a petition to parliament to desire that the philosophy of Descartes should not be taught in the schools. This was mentioned before the First President Lamoignon, who said that, if the petition were presented, the decree could not be refused. Boileau, amused by the idea, wrote a burlesque decree, which he got up in common with Racine, and his nephew added the legal terms, and carried it, together with several other papers, to be signed by the president. Lamoignon was on the point of putting his name, when, casting his eyes over it, he exclaimed, “This is a trick of Despréaux!” The burlesque petition became known, and the university gave up the notion of presenting a serious one.d Meanwhile, flattered and courted by the great, and beloved by his friends, Boileau long abstained from publishing those satires which had gained him so much popularity. Many of his verses had passed into proverbs from their appositeness and felicity of expression*; and those who heard him recite were eager to * In one of his later poems, Boileau, addressing his verses, thus speaks of the successes of his youth:– “Vains et faibles enfans dans ma veillesse nés, Vous croyez sur les pas de vos heureux ainés, Voir bientôt vos bons-mots, passant du peuple aux princes, Charmer egalement la ville et les provinces; Et, par le prompt effet d’un sel rejouissant, Devenir quelquefois proverbes en naissant. Mais perdez cette erreur dont l’appas vous amorce, Le temps n’est plus, mes Vers, où ma plume, en sa force Du Parnasse Français formant les nourissons,

a

Catering establishment which provided meals. Mary Shelley translates this paragraph almost verbatim from LRR, p. 238. c See pp. 32–3. d Anecdote and quotes from LRR, pp. 274–5 almost verbatim. b

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learn them by heart, and repeat them to others. Becoming thus the universal subject of conversation, – listened to with delight, repeated with enthusiasm, – the booksellers laid hold of mutilated copies, and printed them. The / sensitive ear of the author was shocked by the mistakes that crept in, the result of this loose mode of publication, and he at last resolved to bring them out himself. He published seven satires, preceded by an address to the king, which, however full of praise, could hardly be called flattery, since it echoed the voice of the whole French nation, and had been fairly earned by the sovereign. Louis then appeared in the brilliant position of a young monarch labouring for the prosperity and glory of his people. Cardinal Richelieu and cardinal Mazarin had disgusted the French with favourites and prime ministers. Louis was his own minister; unwearied in his application to business, and never suffering his pleasures to seduce him to idleness. These very pleasures, conducted with magnificence and good taste, dazzled and fascinated his subjects. He established his influence in foreign countries, forcing them to acknowledge his superiority. He aided Austria against the Turks; succoured Portugal; protected Holland:a and while, with some arrogance, but more real greatness, he thus rose the sun of the world, he studied to make his court the centre of civilisation and knowledge. Such a course might well deserve the praises Boileau bestowed, who was also influenced by Colbert to give such a turn to his address as would lead the mind of the active and ardent sovereign to take delight in the blessings of peace, instead of the false glories of war. The first edition was also preceded by a preface, in which he apologises for the publication, De si riches couleurs habillait ses leçons: Quand mon Esprit, poussé d’un courroux légitime, Vint devant la Raison plaider contre la Rime, A tout le genre humain sçut faire le procès, Et s’attaqua, soi-même avec tant de succès. Alors il n’était point de lecteur si sauvage, Qui ne se déridât en lisant mon ouvrage, Et qui pour s’égayer, souvent dans ses discours D’un mot pris en mes vers n’empruntât le secours.” b a In fact, while Louis XIV was an ally of Portugal in its war against Spain, he conspicuously gave the Austrian Habsburgs little aid against the Turkish occupation of Hungary, and in 1667– 8 was fighting on the Dutch border, prior to making a direct attack on the Dutch in 1672. b ‘Vain and feeble offspring born of my old age, you think that you will soon see, following the footsteps of your happier elder brothers, your bon-mots passing between all ranks, charming alike the capital and the provinces, and, through the quick effect of an entertaining wit, sometimes becoming proverbs at their birth. But forget this charming and enticing error; the time is past, oh my Verses, when the force of my pen, forming the minds of the infants of the French Parnassus, embellished its lessons with such rich colours; when my wit, impelled by a legitimate anger, appeared before the tribunal of Reason to plead against Rhyme, could bring a case against all human nature and prosecuted the attack with great success. At that time there was no reader so unsociable but his brow would unfurrow when reading my works and, to divert himself, he would often rely in his conversation on the assistance of a witticism borrowed from my poetry’ (Epistles, X. 7–24).

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to which he was solely urged by the disfigurement of his poems as they were then printed. He bids the authors whom he criticises remember that Parnassus was at all times a free country; and that, if he attacked their works, they might revenge themselves by criticising his; and to reflect that, if their productions were bad, they deserved censure; if good, nothing said in their dispraise would injure them.a In vain he tried to propitiate authors; and it must be acknowledged that, though some might be found candid enough to admit the truth of his strictures, no man / could be pleased at being the mark for ridicule. The outcry was prodigious, and he endeavoured to appease it, and justify himself, in his ninth satire, addressed to his understanding (“à son esprit:” the word thus used is very untranslateable; in former times the term wit had very much the same signification). About the same time he published his eighth satire on man, while he still kept the ninth in manuscript. The king read the eighth, and admired it exceedingly. M. de Saint Maurice, an officer of the king’s guard, who had a frequent opportunity of approaching the monarch, as he was teaching him to shoot flying, observed that Boileau had written a still better satire, in which there was mention of his majesty. “Mention of me!” cried the king haughtily. “Yes, sire,” replied Saint Maurice, “and he speaks with all due respect.” Louis showed a desire to see this new production; and Boileau gave a copy of it to his friend on condition that he showed it only to the king. Louis was much pleased: it became known at court, copies got abroad, and the poet found it necessary to publish it.b This was the period of his life when Boileau was fullest of energy and invention; and his industry equalled the fecundity of his wit. He himself used in after days to call it his bon temps, and alluded to it at once with pride and regret.c He wrote several of his epistles, his “Art Poétique,”d and the “Lutrin.” Having in his satires held up to ridicule the prevalent faults of the literature of his time, he turned his thoughts to giving rules of taste, and was desirous of pointing out the right path for authors to pursue. He mentioned his design to M. Patin,e who doubted the possibility of adapting such a subject to French verse. In this he mistook the genius of his language. Narrow as are the powers of French verse, which was then, indeed, in its infancy, it was, under the master hand of Boileau, admirably fitted for pointed epigrams and sententious maxims. He felt this; and, notwithstanding his friend’s counsels, he began his. “Art Poétique;” and, carrying a / portion of it to his adviser, M. Patin at once acknowledged his mistake, and exhorted him to proceed. At the same time he was employed on the “Lutrin;” a poem in which he displayed more fancy and sportive wit than he had before exhibited. It is not so a

Mary Shelley cites Boileau’s Preface from Des Maizeaux, p. 17. From introductory note to Satire IX. Shoot flying: shoot birds on the wing. c ‘Good time’. Allusion unlocated. d The Art of Poetry (1674). e Guy Patin (1601–72), Parisian physician, academic and man of letters. b

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graceful nor so airy as “The Rape of the Lock*;”a but it is more witty, and abounds with those happy lines, many of which have passed into proverbs, while others concentrate, as it were, a whole comedy into a few lines. The idea of the “Lutrin” was suggested in conversation.b Some friends of the author were disputing concerning epic poetry, and Boileau maintained the opinion advanced in his “Poetics,” that an heroic poem ought to have but a slender groundwork, and that its excellence depended on the power of its inventor to sustain and enlarge the original theme. The argument grew warm; but no one was convinced, and the conversation changed. It turned upon a ridiculous dispute between the treasurer and chanter of the Chapelle Royale of Paris, concerning the placing of a reading desk (lutrin).† M. de Lamoignon, the revered and excellent friend of Boileau, turned to him, and asked whether an heroic poem could be written on such a subject. “Why not?” was the reply: the company laughed; but Boileau, excited to think on the subject, found the burlesque of it open upon him. The spirited opening is the happiest effort of his muse; and, when he showed it to M. de Lamoignon, he was encouraged to proceed. At first he limited the poem to four cantos, which are the best; for, as is usually the case with burlesque, it becomes heavy and / tedious as it is long drawn out. The first and second cantos are, indeed, far superior to the remainder. The wit has that pleasantry whose point is sharp, and yet without sting; so that even those attacked can smile. The poem begins with an exordium that at once opens the subject:–

* In an article in The Liberal, Mr. Leigh Hunt draws a parallel between Boileau and Pope, in that spirit of just and delicate criticism for which he is remarkable: “As Terence was called half Menander so Boileau is half Pope. He wants Ariel; he wants his invisible world; he wants that poetical part of poetry which consists in bringing a remote and creative fancy to wait on the more obvious wit and graces that lie about us.” The critic, however, bestows great praise on the exordium of the “Lutrin;” and it must be remembered that Boileau preceded Pope, and that the English poet was in some sort an imitator of the French.c † The desk, being old fashioned and cumbrous, covered the whole space before the chanter, and hid him entirely; the chanter consequently removed it, which excited the anger of his superior, the treasurer, who had it replaced. It was again removed, again replaced; the whole chapter being in a state of dissension and enmity on the subject, till Lamoignon contrived to pacify the parties. a

Mock heroic poem (1712, 1714) by Alexander Pope, based on a true incident of Lord Petre snipping off a lock of Arabella Fermor’s hair without permission. b Mary Shelley follows the account given in Des Maizeaux, pp. 33–5, which quotes extensively from Boileau’s Preface. A ‘lutrin’ is a kind of lectern. c ‘Notes to “The Book of Beginnings”’, The Liberal, Verse and Prose from the South, no. 3 (1823), 126–7. Terence (193/183–159 BC): Roman comic dramatist who modelled himself on Menander (342–c. 292 BC), regarded as the best Greek comic poet; Ariel: alludes to the supernatural apparatus in Pope’s poem, where Ariel is chief of the sylphs. Hunt in fact merely concedes that Boileau’s exordium is ‘livelier’ than Pope’s. He was possibly drawing on the comparison made by James Ozell in the Dedication of his English translation of the poem, The Works of Monsieur Boileau, 2 vols (London, 1712).

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“Je chante les combats, et ce Prélat terrible, Qui par ses longs travaux, et sa force invincible, Dans une illustre Eglise exerçant son grand cœur, Fit placer à la fin un Lutrin dans le chœur. C’est en vain que le Chantre abusant d’un faux titre, Deux fois l’en fit ôter par les mains du chapitre: Ce Prélat sur le banc de son rival altier, Deux fois le reportant, l’en couvrit tout entier.”a

It goes on to describe the peace and prosperity enjoyed by the Sainte Chapelle at Paris*:– “Parmi les doux plaisirs d’une paix fraternelle, Paris voyoit fleurir son antique chapelle. Les chanoines vermeils et brillant de santé S’engraissoient d’une longue et sainte oisiveté. Sans sortir de leurs lits, plus doux que leurs hermines, Ces pieux fainéans faisoient chanter matines; Veilloient à bien diner, and laissoient en leur lieu, A des chantres gagés le soin de loüer Dieu.”b

Discord witnesses their repose with indignation:– “Quand la Discorde, encore toute noire de crimes, Sortant des Cordeliers pour aller aux Minimes; Avec cet air hideux qui fait frémir la paix, S’arrêta près d’un arbre, au pié de son palais. Là, d’un œil attentif contemplant son empire A l’aspect du tumulte elle-même s’admire.”c * In the first edition of this work the scene of the poem was laid at the insignificant village of Pourges, not far from Paris. He found afterwards that the effect of the poem was injured by this change, and he transferred it to its right and proper place. a ‘Arms and the mighty-hearted dean I sing, Who in a church divinely triumphing By his long toils and his resistless ire, Got placed, at last, a Pulpit in the choir. In vain the Chanter, on a false pretence, Twice got the Church to take the Pulpit thence; The Dean, upon his lofty rival’s place, Twice took it back, and fixed, for ever, in his face’ (The Liberal, no. 3 (1823), 126– 7). Subsequent translations of Le Lutrin extracts are from Ozell’s 1712 free poetic version. b ‘Midst the soft Pleasures of Fraternal Peace, In laughing Plenty and luxuriant Ease, Paris beheld her Ancient Chappel rise, Florid in Years, delightful to her Eyes; Her lusty Canons rosy Beauties Grace, And brilliant Health crimsons each ruddy Face; Deep sunk in Down, soft as their Furs they lie; Fatten’d with tedious Holy Luxury; While there the sacred Sluggards waste the Day In dull Repose – By Deputy they Pray. They only watch’d that they might relish Rest, And never fasted but to make a Feast. Unhealthy Mattins wisely they decline, And substitute a Journeyman-Divine’ (Le Lutrin, I. 17–24). c ‘When Discord rose, a squalid guilty Shade, Black as her Crimes, in sable Night array’d; Soft Peace with Horror view’d the Ghastly Sprite, and trembling fled her inauspicious Sight: The livid Fury her dire Course had run, From Church to Church her Visitation gone; Then at the noisy Hall’s litigious Bar She stop’d, and smil’d to see the pleasing War; Contemplating her growing Power she stood, And breath’d Contention on the jarring Croud’ (Le Lutrin, I. 5–30).

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But, finding that the chapter of the Holy Chapel is impervious to her influence, her anger is roused; and, taking the form of an old chanter, she visits the treasurer, a bishop, resolved to excite him to strife. The description of the prelate, who, supported by a breakfast, dozed till dinner, is full of wit:– “Dans le réduit d’une alcove enfoncée, S’élève un lit de plume à grands frais amassée, Quatre rideaux pompeux, par un double contour, En defendant l’entrée à la clarté du jour. Là, parmi les douceurs d’un tranquille silence, Règne sur le duvet une heureuse indolence. C’est là que le Prélât, muni d’un dejeûner, Dormant d’un leger somme, attendait le diner. / La jeunesse en sa fleur brille sur son visage, Son menton sur son sein descend à double étage; Et son corps ramassé dans sa courte grosseur, Fait gémir les coussins sous sa molle épaisseur.”a

Discord enters, and addresses herself to the work of mischief:– “La déesse en entrant, qui voit la nappe mise, Admire un si bel ordre, et reconnoit l’église; Et marchant à grands pas vers le lieu de repos, Au Prélat sommeillant elle addresse ces mots: “Tu dors, Prélat, tu dors? et là-haut à ta place, Le chantre aux yeux du chœur étale son audace: Chante les oremus, fait des processions, Et répand à grands flots les bénédictions. Tu dors? attens tu donc que, sans bulle et sans titre, Il te ravisse encore le rochet et le mitre? Sors de ce lit oiseux, qui les tient attaché Et renonce au repos, ou bien à l’évêché.’”b a ‘Deep in the Covert of a dark Alcove, Form’d for the idle Gods of Sleep and Love, A Downy Couch appears with wond’rous Care, At great Expence secur’d from noxious Air: Curtains in double Folds around it run, And bar all Entrance of th’intruding Sun; Artfully rais’d to lull each softer Sence, Devoted to the Goddess Indolence. In idle Riot there she keeps her Court, There airy Visions, wanton Fantoms sport. There negligently Dreaming out the Day, Dissolv’d in ease the Holy Sluggard lay, Strengthen’d with an immoderate Morning Meal, The Glutton batten’d till the Dinner Bell: Youth in its Flowry Bloom with vernal Grace, Shone in his Eyes, and brighten’d on his Face; His chin enormous, overspreads his Chest, In three deep Folds descending on his Breast: There doz’d the leaden Lump of slumbring Fat, While the press’d Cushions groan’d beneath the Weight’ (Le Lutrin, I. 57–68). b ‘The Fury ent’ring saw the Table spread, In artful Order elegantly laid; She recognized the Church, and thus address’d, With her delusive Words, the sleeping Priest. Prelate arise, quit this inglorious Down, Or the proud Chanter will thy Power disown: He sings Oremus, He Processions makes, With his resounding Voice the Chappel shakes: Without thy Leave the Blessings he bestows; His mouth with endless Benedictions flows: Dost thou then wait till this Invader’s Hand Seizes thy Mitre, takes thy high Command? Shake off these idle Bonds, or all you lose; Renounce thy Bishoprick or thy Repose’ (Le Lutrin, I. 69–80). Oremus: ‘Let us pray’.

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This exhortation has its full effect: the prelate rises, full of wrath and resolution, and even talks of assembling the chapter before dinner. Gilotin, his faithful almoner, remonstrates successfully against this piece of heroism:– “Quelle fureur, dit-il, quel aveugle caprice, Quand le diner est prêt, vous appelle à l’office? De votre dignité soutenez mieux l’éclat: Est-ce pour travailler que vous etes prélat? A quoi bon ce dégoût et ce zèle inutile; Est-il donc pour jeûner quatre-temps ou vigile? Reprenez vos esprits , et souvenez-vous bien, Qu’un diner réchauffé ne valut jamais rien. Ainsi dit Gilotin, et ce ministre sage Sur table, au même instant, fait servir le potage. Le Prélat voit la soupe, et plein d’un saint respect, Demeure quelque temps muet à cet aspect. Il cède – il dine enfin.”a

The chapter is afterwards assembled; the bishop, in tears, complains of the presumption of the chanter; when Sidrac, the Nestor of the chapter, suggests a means of humbling him; and a description of the famous reading-desk is introduced:– “Vers cet endroit du chœur où le chantre orgueilleux, Montre, assis à ta gauche, un front si sourcilleux; Sur ce rang d’ais serrés qui forment sa cléture, Fut jadis un lutrin d’inégale structure, Donc les flancs élargis, de leur vaste contour Ombragoient pleinement tous les lieux d’alentour. Derrière ce lutrin, ainsi qu’au fond d’un antre, A peine sur son banc, on discernait le chantre. Tandis qu’à l’autre banc le Prélat radieux, Découvert à grand jour, attiroit tous les yeux. Mais un démon, fatal à cette ample machine, Soit qu’une main la nuit eût hâté sa ruine, / Soit qu’ainsi de tout tems l’ordonnât le destin, Fit tomber à nos yeux le pulpitre un matin. J’eus beau prendre le ciel et le chantre à partie: Il fallut l’emporter dans notre sacristie, a ‘What more than frantick Rage (said he) now Reigns? What wild Capricio’s hurry round your Brains? Support your Lustre better, think, at best A rich laborious Prelate’s but a Jest: Let a full Meal this useless rage expel; Sharpen your Appetite, and blunt your Zeal; This is no Ember-Week, the Church commands No Fast, impose not then these rigid Bands. Great Sir, resume your Senses and your Food, A dinner heated twice was never good. Thus Gilotin – Then pointing shew’d his Lord The smoaking Soup attending on the Board; The Prelate struck with Reverence and Delight, Stood silent, conquer’d by the pleasing Sight. Victorious Pottage stop’d his eager Haste, Soften’d his Rage, and broke his three hours’ fast.’ (Le Lutrin, I. 97–109). In Greek mythology, Nestor was a wise elder statesman.

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Où depuis trente hyvers sans gloire ensêveli, Il languit tout poudreux dans un honteux oubli. Entends-moi donc, Prélat, des que l’ombre tranquille Viendra d’un crêpe noir envelopper la ville, Il faut que trois de nous, sans tumulte et sans bruit, Partent à la faveur de la naissante nuit; Et du lutrin rompu réunissant la masse, Aillent d’un zèle adroit le remettre à sa place. Si le chantre demain ose le renverser, Alors de cent arrêts tu peux le terrasser. Pour soutenir tes droits, que le ciel autorise, Abîme tout plutôt, c’est l’esprit de l’église. C’est par là qu’un prélat signale la vigueur. Ne borne pas ta gloire à prier dans le chœur: Ces vertus dans Aleth peuvent être en usage, Mais dans Paris, plaidons: c’est-là notre partage.”a

The last couplet contains a compliment to the bishop of Aleth, who dedicated his life to the instruction and improvement of the people of his diocese. We are a little astonished at the freedom with which Boileau ralliesb the clergy. At this period, when the quarrels of the jesuits and jansenists were dividing and convulsing the French church, the sarcasms of Boileau must have had a deep, perhaps a salutary, effect. The priesthood was enraged, and denounced the “Lutrin” as blasphemous; but the whole laity, with the king at their head, enjoyed the wit, and acknowledged its appositeness.

a ‘Where now that supercilious Chanter rears His harden’d Front, that Source of all thy Cares, In ancient Days a well known Desk of Wood, Fram’d of unequal Structure firmly stood; There in the Choire, on thy Left-Hand ’twas plac’d, And its large Sides a spacious Shadow cast. Behind this Work the humble Chanter sat In an obscure Invisible Retreat: When forward to the radiant Day, alone, Attracting every Eye the Prelate shone. Whether some Demon, to the Desk a Foe, Or Nightly Force combin’d its Overthrow; Or was it Destiny’s unerring Hand That Preordain’d it should no longer stand. One fatal Morning with surprizing Noise, The great Machine fell down before our Eyes: In vain we at the Angry Heav’ns repin’d; ’Twas to the Vestry in our Sight confin’d; There thirty Winters hid from open Day Forgotten in Ignoble Dust it lay. Hear Prelate then – When nightly Mists arise, And veil in dim suffusion prying Eyes, Let three elected from this friendly Rout, And favour’d by the growing Night, steal out, With ready Zeal the broken Mass rejoin, And to its pristine Seat the Desk confine: If in the Morn the Chanter dares destroy Our glorious Work, and the Machine annoy, Actions on Actions, Suits on Suits shall tell The Church’s Spirit and her Servants Zeal: Then authorized by Heaven you may engage; This is a War worthy a Prelate’s Rage: Wou’d you to Prayer alone that Heart confine? Let your great Soul in ardent Action shine! Let a dull country Vicar be content With a long Life in lazy preaching spent. In Paris, Sir, you flourish – Then prepare, Be Obstinate, Vexatious, rouse to War’ (Le Lutrin, I. 159–90). The last two lines read literally ‘ These virtues can be put to use in Aleth, but in Paris, we litigate: that is our portion’. b i.e. makes fun of. Because the Jesuits were able to enlist royal support while the Jansenists were backed by the Parisian courts, the theological arguments had immense political ramifications.

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To return to the story of the poem. The advice of Sidrac is eagerly adopted. They draw lots, and three are thus selected for the task. Brontin comes first; then L’Amour, a hairdresser, a new Adonisa with a blond wig, only care of Anne his wife, so haughty of mien that he is the terror of his neighbourhood; lastly, the name of Boirude, the sacristan, is drawn. This choice satisfies the chapter, and the first canto ends with the notice, that “Le Prélat, resté seul, calme une peu son dépit, Et jusqu’au souper se couche et s’assoupit.b

The second book commences with a description of Renown, imitated from Virgil’s Fame, who reveals the wigmaker’s purpose to his wife, and a scene of remonstrance ensues and reproach, parodied on the parting of Æneas and Dido.c The portions of the poem which are / parodies on the ancient epics are full of wit; but they are less amusing than those passages already cited, in which the poet gives scope to his fancy, unshackled by imitation of what indeed is inimitable. We are, therefore, less amused by the quarrel of the wigmaker and his wife than with the conclusion of the second book; when Discord marks the progress of the three adventurers towards the tower where the Lutrin is hid, and shout forth so joyously as to awaken Indolence. The description of Indolence contains, perhaps, the best verses that Boileau ever wrote:– “L’air qui gémit du cri de l’horrible déesse, Va jusques dans Citeaux* réveiller la Mollesse. C’est là qu’en un dortoir elle fait son séjour. Les Plaisirs nonchalans folâtrent à l’entour. L’un paîtrit dans un coin l’embonpoint des chanoines, D’autre broye en riant le vermillon des moines; La Volupté la sert avec des yeux dévots, Et toujours le Sommeil lui verse des pavots. Ce soir plus que jamais, en vain il les redouble, La Mollesse à ce bruit se réveille, se trouble.”d * Citeaux was a famous abbey of Bernardins situated in Burgundy. The monks of Citeaux had not conformed to the reform lately introduced into other houses of their order, which caused Boileau to represent Indolence as domiciled among them. a A beautiful youth loved by Venus, goddess of Love; hence, any handsome young man or one who believes that he is handsome. b ‘Leaving the Prelate with Fatigue oppress’d, ’Till a full supper calm’d his moody Breast, And laid his Anger, and his Limbs, to Rest’ (Le Lutrin, I. 239–40). c Alluding to episodes in the Aeneid, where Fama (Rumour) spreads the news of the love affair between Aeneas and Dido, Queen of Carthage and where the lovers part acrimoniously (IV. 173–97, 305–87). d ‘Discord pursu’d them, with a fav’ring Eye, She grin’d a Smile, and with her hideous Cry Drove back the trembling Clouds, and pierc’d the vaulted Sky. From thence the Sound descended to th’Abode Of the Citose, and wak’d Sloth’s drowsy God. There in a Cell he keeps his silent Court; Around him, luke-warm lazy Genii sport: Here One retires to knead the

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Night enters, and frightens her still more with the recital of how, on the morrow, the Lutrin was to appear in the Sainte Chapelle, and excite mutiny and war. Indolence, troubled by this account, lets fall a tear, and, opening an eye, complains in a feeble and interrupted voice:– “O Nuit, que m’as tu dit? Quel démon sur la terre Souffle dans tous les cœurs la fatigue et la guerre? Hélas! qu’est devenu ce temps, cet heureux temps, Où les rois s’honoraient du nom de fainéans, S’endormoient sur le trône, et me servant sans honte, Laissoient leur sceptre aux mains ou d’un maire ou d’un comte. Aucun soin n’approchait de leur paisible cour, On reposait la nuit, on dormait tout le jour. *

*

*

*

*

Ce doux siècle n’est plus! le ciel impitoyable, A placé sur le trône un prince infatigable. Il brave mes douceurs, il est sourd à ma voix. Tous les jours il m’éveille au bruit de ses exploits; Rien ne peut arrêter sa vigilante audace, L’été n’a point de feux, l’hyver n’a point de glace. J’entens à son seul nom mes sujets frémir En vain deux fois la Paix a voulu l’endormir: / Loin de moi son courage, entrainè par la gloire, Ne se plait qu’à courir, de victoire en victoire.”*a * The speech of Indolence breaks off suddenly and characteristically,– “La Mollesse, oppressée, Dans sa bouche à ce mot sent sa langue glassée,

fat’ning Paste Which plumps the Canon’s Cheeks, and swells his brawny Waste. Another the Vermilion grinds, to paint The jolly looks of mortifying Saint: There Pleasure an observant Centry stands, Regardful of the Deity’s Commands; While Morpheus pours continual Poppy Rain; (Tho’ now redoubled Show’rs descend in vain) Sloth at the Noise awakes’ (Le Lutrin, II. 97– 106). a ‘O Night thou stab’st me with this killing News? What new-born Plagues does active Hell produce? Still do the Furies throw their Fiery Darts? Still breathe Fatigue and War in Human Hearts? Ah! whither fled those happy Times of Peace, When idle Kings, dissolv’d in thoughtless Ease, Resign’d their Scepters, and the Toils of State To Counts, or some inferior Magistrate: Loll’d on their Thrones, devoid of Thought or Pain; And, nodding, slumber’d out a lazy Reign? No anxious Cares did nigh the Palace creep; But Day and Night was one continu’d Sleep. * * * * But ’tis no more: That Golden Age is gone; And an unweary’d Princess fills Britannia’s Throne Each Day she frights me with the Noise of Arms, Slights my Embraces, and defies my Charms In vain does Nature, Seas and Rocks oppose, To bar her Virtue; which undaunted goes Thro’ Libyan Burnings, and o’er Scythian Snows. Her Name alone my trembling Subjects dread, Not her own Cannon can more Terror spread’ (Le Lutrin, II. 121–8, 133–42). Ozell substitutes Queen Anne, in whose reign it was published, for Louis XIV.

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This passage is remarkable as being the cause of Boileau’s first appearance at court, of which further mention will be made. This episode is the jewel of the whole poem. Burlesque becomes tiresome when long drawn: though there are verses interspersed throughout full of sarcasm the most pointed, and ridicule the most happy, we are fatigued by a sort of monotony of tone, and the unvarying spirit of parody or irony that reigns throughout. The third canto is taken up by the enterprise of the three, who enter the sacristy to seize upon the Lutrin. Night has brought an owl, and hid it in the desk, whose sudden appearance terrifies the heroes, who are about to fly, till Discord rallies them, and they pursue the adventure, carry the desk in triumph, and place it in its ancient place before the seat of the chanter. The book concludes with an address to the latter, apostrophising the grief that will seize him when, on the morrow, the insult will be revealed. The fourth book contains the discovery – the rage of the chanter – his resolution to destroy the desk – the assembling of the chapter – their indignation – and it concludes with the destruction of the Lutrin, and its being carried off piecemeal. At first the poem consisted only of these four books. Boileau announced, that “reasons of great importance prevented his publishing the whole:” but the fact was, that only four books were at that time written.a The fifth book describes the meeting of the inimical parties, and a battle that ensued. Both prelate and chanter, rushing to the chapelle, encounter each other, near the shop of Barbin, a bookseller: they eye each / other with fury, till a partisan of the chanter, unable to suppress his rage, seizes a ponderous volume – the “Great Cyrus” of mademoiselle Scuderi – hurls it at Boirude, who avoids the blow, and the vast mass assails poor Sidrac: the old man, “accablè de l’horrible Artamène,”b falls, breathless, at the feet of the bishop. This is a signal for a general attack: they rush into the shop, disfurnish the shelves, and hurl the volumes at one another. In naming the books thus used, Boileau indulges in satirical allusions to contemporary authors, and exclaims:–

Et lasse de parler, succombant sous l’effort, Soupire, étend les bras, ferme l’œil, et s’endort.” This last line, so expressive of the lassitude it describes, charmed the brilliant but unfortunate Henrietta of England, duchess of Orleans. One day, in the chapel at Versailles, while waiting the arrival of the king, she perceived Boileau, and, beckoning him to approach, whispered, “Soupire, étend les bras, ferme l’œil, et s’endort.”c a

Des Maizeaux, p. 37. ‘struck down by the awesome Artamène’ (Le Lutrin, V. 129). c ‘Here Sloth opprest With length of Words, and want of grateful Rest, Sunk down: His strength forsook the stupid God, And to repose resign’d the lifeless Load’ (Le Lutrin, II. 161–4). The anecdote about Henriette d’Orléans is virtually translated from Boileau (1746), II, p. 116. b

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“O! que d’écrits obscurs, de livres ignorés, Furent en ce grand jour de la poudre tirés.”a

And then follows the names of many now so entirely forgotten, that the point of his sarcasms escapes us. The party of the chanter is on the point of being victorious, till the bishop, by a happy stratagem, contrives to escape the danger:– “Au spectacle étonnant de leur chute imprévue, Le Prélat pousse un cri qui pénètre la nue. Il maudit dans son cœur le démon des combats, Et de l’horreur du coup il recule six pas. Mais bientôt rappelant son antique proüesse, Il tire du manteau sa dextre vengeresse; Il part, et ses doigts saintement alongés, Bénit tous les passans en deux fils rangés, Il scait que l’ennemi, que ce coup va surprendre, Désormais sur ses piés ne l’oseroit l’attendre, Et déjà voit pour lui tout le peuple en courroux, Crier aux combattans: Profanes, à genoux. Le chantre, qui de loin voit approcher l’orage, Dans son cœur éperdu cherche en vain du courage. Sa fierté l’abandonne, il tremble, il cède, il fuit; Le long des sacrés murs sa brigade le suit. Tout s’écarte à l’instant, mais aucun n’en réchappe, Partout le doigt vainqueur les suit et les ratrappe. Evrard seul, en un coin prudemment retiré, Se croyoit à couvert de l’insulte sacré. Mais le Prélat vers lui fait une marche adroite: Il observe de l’œil, et tirant vers la droite, Tout d’un coup tourne à gauche, et d’un bras fortuné, Bénit subitement le guerrier consterné. Le chanoine, surpris de la foudre mortelle, Se dresse, et lève en vain une tête rebelle: Sur ses genoux tremblans il tombe à cet aspect, Et donne à la frayeur ce qu’il doit au respect.”b a ‘Volumes aloft, a Leathern Tempest, Fly; And Clouds of rising Dust involve the Sky. […] Numberless Books apear’d this mighty Hour, Which scarce were seen, or ever known before’ (Le Lutrin, V. 151–2). b ‘The Prelate saw their Fall with ghastful Eyes, And sent to Heav’n a Scream that pierc’d the Skies. Struck back with Horror and Appal’d with Fear, He curses in his Heart the God of War. With Silent Indignation he Retreats, Yet still the Chanter in his Mind defeats. Then rallying his lost Spirits, Makes a Stand, And from his Cassock Draws his Vengeful Hand. Yes, said the Mighty Chief, Tho’ Armies fail, These Blessing-giving Fingers shall prevail. Forward he moves, and upwards turns his Eyes, Then Stretch’d his Fingers forth in Holy-Wise. Kneeling in heaps the Passengers Receive The Benedictions He prepares to Give With politic design to turn the Rout Upon his Foes, who durst not Stand him Out. The Zealous Vulgar force down All they Meet, Nor will they Suffer One to keep his Feet. Th’Out-witted Adverse Host, Confounded

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Nothing can be more humorous than this description. The bishop conferring his blessing in a spirit of vengeance, and his angry enemies forced, unwillingly, to be / blessed, is truly ludicrous. Yet here Boileau laid himself open to attack. In the remainder of the poem, while ridiculing the clergy, no word escaped him that treated sacred things jocosely, and he was too pious indeed not to have shrunk from so doing. This joke made of a bishop’s blessing intrenched on this rule: priests, who hitherto had remained silent, now ventured to raise the cry of blasphemy. However, it was innocuous: the excellent character and real piety of Boileau sheltered him from the attacks so levelled. The sixth book recounts the arrival of Piety, and Faith, and Grace, who awaken Aristus (the First President Lamoignon, to whom, he having died in the interval between the publishing the commencement of the poem and its conclusion, Boileau paid this tribute of respect), and, through his mediation, peace is restored. We have given this detail of the “Lutrin,” as being at once the best and the most successful of Boileau’s poems.a We now return to the author. We have alluded to his presentation at court, occasioned by the eulogy of Louis XIV., which the poet puts in the mouth of Indolence. Madame de Thianges, sister of madame de Montespan,b was so struck by this passage, that, while the poem was still in manuscript, she read it to the king; and he, flattered and pleased, desired that the poet should be presented to him. Boileau accordingly appeared at court. The king conversed with him, and asked him what passage in his poems he himself esteemed the best. It so happened that the prince of Condé had found fault with the conclusion of his epistle to the king. It had ended with the fable of the two men quarrelling about an oyster they had found, and referred their dispute to a judge, who swallowed the cause of it in a moment. The prince considered this story, however well told, not in harmony with the elevated tone of the epistle; and Boileau, yielding to the criticism, wrote a different conclusion. When asked by the king for his favourite passage, the little tact he had as a courtier, joined to an author’s natural partiality / for his latest production, made him cite the lines, of which these are the concluding ones:–

stare At this unthought of Stratagem in War, And dread the Storm approaching from afar. Vainly the Trembling Chanter seeks for Aid From his own Courage, or his Firm Brigade; By Both Forsaken, He too now must Fly, Or Fall before his Haughty Enemy. The consternated Troops themselves Disband; Yet None Escape the swift-pursuing Hand. Driv’n on each others Backs, and spur’d by Fear; Still Hangs the Conqu’ring Finger on their Rear. Evrard, in Hopes to hide his threatn’d Head From Holy Insult, to a corner Fled. The Watchful Prelate saw his close Retreat, And strait March’d up, his Conquest to Compleat; Then turning to the Right, he wheel’d around, And Bless’d the frightn’d Champion to the Ground. There he Erects his Rebel Head in Vain, The lengthen’d Finger forc’d him down again. Oblig’d to Kneel, because the Mob’s so near; And what he owes to Rev’rence Pays to Fear’ (Le Lutrin, V. 216–44). a Mary Shelley is in agreement with Des Maizeaux, p. 35. b Gabrielle de Rochechouart-Mortemart, older sister of Mme de Montespan, mistress of Louis XIV.

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“Et comme tes exploits étonnant les lecteurs, Seront à peine crus sur la foi des auteurs, Si quelque esprit malin les veut traiter de fables, On dira quelque jour, pour les rendre croyables: Boileau, qui dans ses vers, pleins de sincerité, Jadis à tout son siècle a dit la vérité, Qui mit à tout blâmer son étude et sa gloire, A pourtant de ce roi parlé comme l’histoire.”a

1677. Ætat. 41.

The king was naturally touched by this forcible and eloquent praise: the tears came into his eyes, and he exclaimed, “This is, indeed, beautiful; and I would praise you more had you praised me less.” And at once he bestowed a pension on the poet. Such applause and such tribute, from a monarch then adored by his subjects, might have elated a weak man. Boileau afterwards related that, on returning home, his first emotion was sadness: he feared that he had bartered his liberty, and he regretted its loss.b Racine was already received at court, and a favourite. The intimate and tender friendship between him and Boileau caused them often to be together, and together they conceived many literary plans. One of these was the institution of an academy composed of a very small number of persons, who were selected for the purpose of writing a short explanation beneath every medal struck by Louis XIV. to celebrate the great events of his reign. These scanty notices were necessarily incomplete, and madame de Montespan originated the project of a regular history being compiled. “Flattery was the motive,” writes madame de Caylus, in her memoirs; “but it must be allowed that it was not the idea of a common-place woman.”c Madame de Maintenon proposed that the king should name Boileau and Racine his joint historiographers, and the appointment accordingly took place. The poets, gratified by the distinction, were eager to render themselves competent to the task. It must be remembered, that, though their inutility and subsequent loss have thrown Louis’s conquests into the shade, / they were then the object of all men’s admiration, and were the influential events of the time; while the rapidity and brilliancy of his victories dazzled his subjects, and intimidated all other nations. The two friends renounced poetry, and betook themselves to the studies appertaining to their future work. They applied thema ‘And if some devil tries to treat your exploits as mere fables – for they will astonish readers and scarcely be believed on the mere oath of the writers – one day it will be said, in order to restore their credibility, that Boileau, who, in his verses, full of sincerity, declared the truth to his era in days of yore, and who made it his study and his distinction to censure everything, nonetheless spoke of this king as a historical person’ (Epistles, I. 185–6). b In these two paragraphs Mary Shelley follows almost verbatim the annotations in Boileau (1746), I, pp. 252–3. c Marthe-Marguerite La Vallois de Villette-Mursay, comtesse de Caylus (1673–1727), son of Mme de Maintenon’s cousin and treated in French custom as her niece. Mary Shelley draws on LRR, pp. 276–7, which quotes Caylus’s account.

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selves to the past history of their country, and to the memoirs and letters concerning the then present time, which, at the command of the king, were placed in their hands. Louis was at war with Holland, Spain, and the German empire. Turenne was dead; but many great generals, formed under him and the great Condé, remained. Louvois, as minister of war, facilitated every undertaking by the admirable order which he established in his department. The king joined the armies in person in the spring, and town after town fell into his hands. On his return from these rapid conquests, he asked his historiographers how it was that they had not had the curiosity to witness a siege – “The distance was so slight,” he said. “Very true,” replied Racine, “but our tailors were too slow: we ordered clothes for the journey, but, before they came home, all the towns besieged by your majesty were taken.”a The compliment pleased Louis, who bade them prepare by timesb for the next campaign, as they ought to witness the events which, as historians, they were destined to relate. The following year, accordingly, the two authors accompanied the king to the siege of Gand. The fact of two poets following the army to be present at sieges and battles was the source of a number of pleasantries at court. Their more warlike friends, in good-humoured raillery, laid a thousand traps for their ignorance: they often fell in; and when they did not they got the credit of so doing, as the king was to be diverted by their mistakes. The poets seem to have been singularly ignorant of everything appertaining to a journey, and to have shown the most amusing credulity. Racine was told that he must take care to have / his horse shod by a bargain of forfeit. “Do you imagine,” said his adviser, M. de Cavoie,c “that an army always finds blacksmiths ready on their march? Before you leave Paris, a bargain is made with a smith, who warrants, on penalty of a forfeit, that your horse’s shoes shall remain on for six months.” “I never heard of that before,” said Racine; “Boileau did not tell me; but I do not wonder – he never thinks of anything.” He hastened to his friend to reproach him for this neglect; Boileau confessed his ignorance; and they hurried out to seek the blacksmith most in use for this sort of bargain. The king was duly informed of their perplexity, and, by his raillery in the evening, undeceived them. One day, after a long march, Boileau, whose health was weak, being much fatigued, threw himself on his bed, supperless, on arriving. M. de Cavoie, hearing this, went to him, after the king’s supper, and said, with an appearance of great uneasiness, that he had bad news. “The king,” he said, “is displeased with you. He remarked a very blameable act of which you were guilty today.” “What was it?” asked Boileau in alarm. “I cannot bring myself to tell you,” replied his tormentor; “I cannot make up my mind to afflict my friends.” Then, after teazing him for some time, he said, “Well, if I must confess it, the king remarked that you were sitting awry on your horse.” “If that is all,” said Boileau, a

Anecdote and quote taken almost verbatim from LRR, pp. 277. i.e. betimes, at an early hour. ‘Gand’ (next paragraph) is Ghent, in modern Belgium. c Louis d’Oger, marquis de Cavoie (1640–1716), a dashing soldier, patron of letters, and adroit courtier. b

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“let me go to sleep.” On one occasion, during this campaign, Louis having so exposed himself that a cannon ball passed within perilous vicinity, Boileau addressed him, saying, “I beg, sire, in the character of your historian, that you will not bring your history to so abrupt a conclusion.”a Boileau’s health prevented him from following any other campaign; but Racine accompanied the king in several, and wrote long narrations to his brother historian. It has been asserted that, though named historiographers, they did not employ themselves in fulfilling the duties of their office; and a fragment of / Racine’s, on the siege of Namur, is the only relic that remains of their employment. Louis Racine, however, assures us that they were continually occupied on it. On their death, their joint labours fell into the hands of M. de Valincour, their successor, and were consumed when his house at Saint-Cloud was burned down.b That such was the case seems certain, from the fact that they were in the habit, when they had written any detail of interest, of reading it to the king. These readings took place in the apartments of madame de Montespan. Both had the entrée there at the hour of the king’s visit, and madame de Maintenon was also present. Racine was the favourite of the latter lady, Boileau of the former; but the friends were wholly devoid of jealousy; and Boileau’s free spirit led him to set little real store by court favour. In these royal interviews, the poets could mark the increasing influence of madame de Maintenon, and the decreasing favour of her rival. At one time, however, madame de Montespan contrived to get her friend excluded from the readings, much to the mortification of the historians. This did not last long. One day, the king being indisposed, and keeping his bed, they were summoned, with an order to bring some newly-written portion of their history with them. They were surprised to find madame de Maintenon sitting in an armchair near the king’s bed, in familiar conversation with him. They were about to commence reading when madame de Montespan entered. Her uneasy manner and exaggerated civilities showed her vacillating position; till the king, to put an end to her various demonstrations of annoyance, told her to sit down and listen, as it was not just that a work, commenced under her directions, should be read in her absence.c Such scenes seem scarcely to enter into a narration of Boileau’s life; but, he being present at them, they form a portion, and cannot be passed over. It is essential to his character to show, that, though admitted to a court, the cynosure of all men’s aspirations, the focus / of glory, he was neither dazzled nor fettered by its influence. As a courtier he maintained a free and manly bearing, while his absence of mind even caused him to fall into mistakes which shocked his more careful friend Racine. Being in conversation one day with madame de Maintenon a

This paragraph is based on LRR, pp. 277–9, with the last anecdote unlocated. LRR, p. 287. Namur (in modern Belgium) was besieged in 1692. Jean-Henri de Trousset, sieur de Valincour (1653–1720) is best remembered now for his criticism of the novel, La Princesse de Clèves. c For this paragraph, Mary Shelley follows LRR, p. 288, almost verbatim. b

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on the subject of literature, Boileau exclaimed against the vulgar burlesque poetry which had formerly been in fashion, and it escaped hima to say, “Happily this vile taste has passed away, and Scarron is no longer read even in the provinces.” Racine reproached him afterwards: – “Why name Scarron before her?” he said; “are you ignorant of their near connection.” – “Alas! no,” replied Boileau; “but it is the first thing I forget when I am in her company.” He even forgot himself so far, on occasions, as to mention Scarron before the king. Racine was still more scandalised on this: – “I will not accompany you to court,” he said, “if you are so imprudent.” “I am ashamed,” replied Boileau; “but what man is exempt from saying foolish things?” and he excused himself by alleging the example of M. Arnaud, who was even more absent.b Nor did he limit his want of pliancy to mere manner. He did not disguise more important differences of opinion. The king and court espoused the cause of the jesuits: to be a jansenist often caused the entire loss of court favour; but Boileau did not conceal his adherence to that party, and his partiality to its chief, M. Arnaud; and as he grew older, instead of growing more servile, he emancipated himself yet more entirely from court influence; and his “Epistle on Ambiguity”c is a proof of an independence of spirit that commands our warmest esteem. His courage in thus openly espousing the opinions of jansenism surprised Racine. “You enjoy,” he said to him, “a privilege I cannot obtain. You say things I dare not say. You have praised persons in your poems whom I do not venture to mention. You are the person that ought to be accused of jansenism; yet I am much more attacked. What can be the reason?” “It is / an obvious one,” replied Boileau; “you go to mass every day; I only go on Sundays and festivals.”d The honour of belonging to the academy was in those days eagerly sought after. Boileau aspired to a seat, but never solicited it, and was passed over. It has been related in the life of La Fontaine how displeased the king was with this omission, and how he refused to confirm La Fontaine’s election till Boileau was also chosen. His speech on taking possession of his chair, in which it was the fashion for the new member to humiliate himself, and exalt the academy with ridiculous exaggerations, was dignified, but modest. He alluded to the attacks he had made on authors who were members of the academy as “many reasons that shut its doors against him.”e His after career as member was rather stormy. Surrounded by writers whom he had satirised, and who conceived themselves injured, he had to contend with a numerous party. His chief antagonist was a M. Charpentier, on a

i.e. he inadvertently said; Mary Shelley’s literal translation of ‘il lui est échappé de dire’. Mary Shelley follows LRR, pp. 289–90 almost verbatim for these two anecdotes. Paul Scarron was Mme de Maintenon’s first husband. c More accurately Satire XII, ‘On Equivocation’, published posthumously. The main accusation the Jansenists made against the Jesuits was that their moral equivocation made them too lenient on sin. d Mary Shelley quotes from LRR, p. 339. e Mary Shelley follows the account in Boileau (1746), vol. I, p. 67. The above cross-reference suggests that she was shown ‘La Fontaine’ (see pp. 59–60). b

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whom he often spent the treasures of his wit, and discomfited by his raillery, though he had a host of members on his side. One day, however, he gained his point. “It is surprising,” he said: “everybody sided with me, and yet I was in the right.”a His life, meanwhile, was easy and agreeable. Undisturbed by passion,b yet of warm and affectionate feelings, with a mind ever active, and a temper unruffled, the society and pleasures of Paris, the favour of the great, and love of his friends, filled and varied his days. The slight annuity he had purchased with his inheritance was seasonably increased by the pension which the king had bestowed on him, and his salary as historiographer. He was careful and economical, but the reverse of grasping or avaricious. He had an ill-founded scruple as to an author’s profiting by his writings, as if he had not a legitimate claim on the price which the public were eager to pay to acquire his productions. He carried this so far as to infect Racine with the same notion. In his own case there might be some ground; since, when he first published, his works consisted of satires, and a delicate, / feeling man might shrink from profiting by the attacks he made on others. Another instance is given of his scrupulousness in money matters. He enjoyed for some years an income arising from a benefice.c His venerated friend, M. de Lamoignon, represented to him that he could not conscientiously, as a layman, enjoy the revenues of the church; and he not only gave up his benefice, but, calculating how much he had received during the years that he enjoyed it, he distributed that sum among the poor of the place. Another anecdote is told of his generosity. M. Patin was esteemed one of the cleverest men of the times, as well as one the most excellent and virtuous. His passion for literature was such, that he neglected his profession as advocate for its sake, and fell into indigence. He was forced to sell his library: Boileau bought it, and then begged his friend to keep possession of it as long as he livedd. He was, indeed, generally kind-hearted and generous to authors, unchecked by any ill conduct on their part. Often he lent money to a miserable writer, Liniére,e who would go and spend it at alehouses, and write a song against his creditor. The economy that allowed him to be thus generous was indeed praiseworthy, and did not arise from love of money, but a spirit of independence, and the power of self-denial in matters of luxury. The only thing that seems to have unpleasantly disturbed his easy yet busy life was a delicate state of health, and he grew more ailing as he grew older. At one time an affection of the chest caused him to lose his voice, and he was ordered to a Mary Shelley follows LRR, p. 285. François Charpentier (1620–1702) was an Academician and one of the chief proponents of the ‘Moderns’ (see below). b Boileau’s early operation had left him impotent; Mary Shelley is quoting LRR, p. 298, which may be discreetly alluding to this. c Anecdote not traced. d Mary Shelley follows Des Maizeaux, p. 132. ‘Patin’ is an authorial or typesetter’s error for Patru (Olivier Patru (1604–81), lexicographer and barrister, whose speeches were literary masterpieces). e François-Payot de Lignières, one of the first poets to mock Chapelain’s La Pucelle.

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drink the waters of the baths of Bourbon as a means of regaining it. His correspondence with Racine on this occasion is published. Boileau’s letters are the best, the most witty, easy, and amusing. Racine relates how each day the king inquired after his health, and was eager for his return to court; while Boileau laments over his continued indisposition.a There was a dispute among the physicians, as to his bathing in the waters as well as drinking them: some of the learned declaring such an act fatal, while others / recommended it as a mode of cure. Racine related to the king, while at dinner, the perplexity of his friend between these contradictory counsels. “For my part,” said the princess de Conti, who was sitting near Louis, “I would rather be mute for thirty years, than risk my life to regain my voice.” Boileau replied, “I am not surprised at the princess of Conti’s sentiment. If she lost her speech, she would still retain a million other charms to compensate to her for her loss, and she would still be the most perfect creature that for a long time nature has produced; but a wretch like me needs his voice to be endured by men, and to dispute with M. Charpentier. If it were only on the latter account one ought to risk something; and life is not of such value, but that one may hazard it for the sake of being able to interrupt such a speaker.”b These letters are very entertaining; they display the style of the times, and the vivacity and amiableness of Boileau’s disposition, in very pleasing colours. His vivacity was of the head, and of temper. He was exempt from vehemence of feeling; and did not suffer the internal struggles to which those are subject whose souls are impregnated with passion; nor was he satirical in conversation: as madame de Sevignè said of him, he was cruel only in verse; and Lord Rochester’s expression was applied to him – “The best good man, with the worst-natured muse.”c

Without pride, also, and without pretension, he could turn his own fame and labours into a jest. Going one day to present the order for his pension, which said that it was granted “on account of the satisfaction which the king derived from his works,” the clerk asked him what sort of works his were. “Masonry,” he replied: “I am an architect.” At another time, when, passing Easter at a friend’s house in the country, and being exact in fulfilling his religious duties, he made his confession to a country curate, to whom he was unknown, the confessor asked him what his usual occupations were? “Writing verses,” replied the penitent. “So much / the worse,” said the curate; “and what sort of verses?” “Satires.” “Still worse – and against whom?” “Against those who write bad verses, against the a e.g. in Racine to Boileau, 25 July 1687 and Boileau to Racine, 29 July 1687, in Daunou, III, pp. 115–22. The correspondence was first published with LRR (1747). b Racine to Boileau, 13 Aug. 1687, and Boileau to Racine, 28 Aug. 1687, in Daunou, pp. 140, 155–7. Marie-Anne de Bourbon, princesse de Conti (1666–1739), was an illegitimate daughter of Louis XIV. c John Wilmot, second earl of Rochester (1647–80), commenting on the poetry of Matthew Prior (1664–1721); Mary Shelley is quoting Des Maizeaux, p. 131, note. With the Sévigné reference Mary Shelley is almost certainly quoting LRR, p. 298 here, not directly quoting Mme de Sévigné’s letter of 15 Dec. 1673 to her daughter.

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vices of the times, against pernicious books, romances, and operas.” “Ah!” cried the curate, “that is not so bad, and I have nothing to say against it.”a His spirit of intolerance for “those who wrote bad verses,” or approved them, was excited to its height by Perrault’s* “Siècle de Louis Quatorze.” This poem was the origin of the famous dispute as to the ancients and moderns, which “Swift’s Battle of the Books” made known in this country. Perrault, with little Latin, and no Greek, undertook to depreciate Homer; and he had Fontenelle for his ally, who, with more learning and less taste, declared that, if the Greek bucolic writers had now first produced their pastorals, they would be scouted as wretched. Perrault did not content himself with the exposition of his opinion in his poem; he wrote a “Parallel between the Ancients and Moderns,” in which he not only praised the good writers of the day, but even Chapelain, Quinault, Cotin, and others on whom Boileau had set the seal of his irony.b The satirist could neither brook this rebellion against his fiat, nor the sort of blasphemy indulged in against those great masters of the art whom he was aware he but feebly imitated. He wrote several bitter epigrams against Perrault; and then, finding that by no explanation or translation could he make a mere French reader understand the sublimity of Pindar, he sought to imitate this poet in his ode on the taking of Namur. / This was a bold undertaking, and it cannot be said that he succeeded; for the French language was then far less capable than now of expressing the sub* Charles Perrault was a man of merit and imagination, though his want of learning led him into such deplorable literary errors. It was through his representations that Colbert founded the academies of painting, sculpture, and architecture; and he always exerted his influence in favour of the improvement of science and art. The work by which he has, however, obtained immortality, is his “Mother Goose’s Tales.” Perhaps he would have disdained a fame thus founded; but, while the fancy is the portion of the human mind, shared in common by young and old, which receives the greatest pleasure from works of intellect; while (in spite of Rousseau’s doctrine) children are singularly quick in discerning the difference between a lie and a fable, and that to interest their imaginations is the best method of enlarging their minds and cultivating their affections; Perrault’s name will be remembered with gratitude, and “Mother Goose’s Tales” remain the classic work of a child’s library.c a

Mary Shelley translates from LRR, pp. 294–5 and p. 299. Jonathan Swift (1667–1745) wrote his prose satire The Battle of the Books in 1697 in defence of his patron Sir William Temple’s essay on the relative merits of ancient and modern learning, which reflected the Parisian ‘quarrel’. Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle (1657–1757), polymath and philosopher, Perpetual Secretary of the Academy of Sciences, was a champion of the ‘Moderns’. Perrault’s Parallèle des anciens et des modernes (1688–97), was an imaginary dialogue between classicists and moderns. Philippe Quinault (1635–88), was a versatile and successful playwright, notwithstanding Boileau’s mockery. c Charles Perrault (1628–1703). His poem, Le Siècle de Louis le Grand (1687) (The Age of Louis XIV), a celebration of modern French culture and achievements, marked an important stage in the long running debate on the ‘Ancients’ and the ‘Moderns’. As Mary Shelley suggests, he is now best known for his anthology of fairy stories, translated into English throughout the 18th century under various titles including Mother Goose’s Fairy Tales. b

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lime; and Boileau’s talent was not of that elevated and daring kind which could invent new modes of expression, and force his language to embody the ideal and bold images that constitute the sublime. Still we must honour the attempt for the sake of its motive. “The following ode,” he says, in his preface, “was written on occasion of those strange dialogues, lately published, in which all the great writers of antiquity are treated as authors to be compared with the Chapelains and Cotins; and in which, while it is sought to do honour to our age, it is really vilifieda by the fact that there exist men capable of writing such nonsense. Pindar is the worst treated.” He goes on to say that, as it was exceedingly difficult to explain the beauties of Pindar to those who did not understand Greek, he attempted to write a French ode in imitation of his style, as the best mode of conveying an idea of it.b This war went on for some time; and various attacks, replies, and rejoinders appeared on both sides. At last a personal reconciliation took place between Boileau and Perrault; neither yielded his opinion, but they ceased to write against each other. At this time also he wrote other satires: – one on women, which rather consists of portraits of various faulty individuals than a satire against the sex in general.c It is by no means one of the best of his works. We may say otherwise, however, of the spirit that reigns in the satire addressed to Ambiguity, and which, from the boldness with which it attacks the jesuits, is at once one of the most useful of his works, and displays the independence of his soul. He wrote his epistle also on the Love of God, another jansenist production.d At this time he again awoke to the pleasures of composition, at the same time that he showed such a love for his works that he emptied his portfolios of every scrap of verse he had ever written, and placed them in the hands of the / booksellers.*e As he grew older he became more recluse in his habits, without losing any of the pleasure he always felt in the society of his intimate friends. The turn he had for personal enjoyment, which had shown itself in youth, in a love for social and convivial pleasures, became a sort of happy indolence, enlivened by the pleasures of friendship. His correspondence with Racine displays an affectionate disposition, an easy carelessness as to money, and a quiet sort of wit, which turned to pleasantry the ordinary routine of life, and bespeaks a mind at ease, and a well-balanced disposition. The expenses

* Racine’s Letters. a

Cheapened. Pindar (c. 522–443 BC), Greek lyric poet known for his victory odes occasioned by the Greek games. Boileau’s ‘Ode sur la prise de Namur’ (1693) was his attempted imitation. Mary Shelley follows closely Des Maizeaux pp. 74–5, using its quotes from Boileau’s ‘Discours sur l’Ode’ (Preface to the Ode). c Satire X. d Epistle XII. e Mary Shelley’s sources seem confused here, as Boileau’s letters to Racine do not apparently mention his dealings with booksellers, i.e. publishers. b

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of his wars caused Louis XIV. to reduce the pensions he had granted, and those of Boileau and Racine suffered with the rest. Racine was then at court; and he wrote to his friend to inform him, that their salaries as historiographers were fixed at 4000 livres a year for himself and 2000 for Boileau; the health of the latter not permitting him to follow the army being the cause of his receiving the smaller sum. Racine adds, “You see everything is arranged as you yourself wished, yet I am truly annoyed that I appear to receive more than you; but, besides the fatigue of the journeys, which I am glad that you are spared, I know that you are so noble and friendly that I feel sure you will rejoice at my being the best paid.” Boileau replied, “Are you mad with your compliments? Do you not know that I myself prescribed the mode in which this affair should be settled; and can you doubt but that I am satisfied with an arrangement by which I receive all I asked?”a His friendship for Racine seems to have been the warmest feeling of his heart; and growing deaf as he grew old, and leading a more and more retired life, the tragedian, his family, and a few others, formed all his society. There is something simple and touching in the mention Racine makes of their visits in his letters to his eldest son.b The bitter satirist adapting his talk to the younger children of his / friend, while he was so deaf that he could not hear their replies, and his eager endeavours to amuse them, gives zest to Racine’s exclamation, “He is the best man in the world!”c Sometimes the spirit of composition revived in him, but it quickly grew cold again*;d yet, while it lasted, it furnished occupation and amusement. He did not live wholly at Paris. He had saved 8000 livres, and with this sum he purchased a country house at Auteuil. Charmed with his acquisition, he at first spent a good deal on it; he embellished the grounds, and delighted to assemble his friends together. Racine often retired there to repose from his attendance at court, and from his fatigues in following the army in various campaigns. Boileau, fastidious in all things, knew well how to choose his company. The conversations were either enlivened by sallies of wit, or rendered interesting by his sagacity and good taste. He had long renounced his more equivocal modes of amusing, such as mimicry, as unworthy. In the heyday of youth sallies of this sort are indulged in under the influence of high animal spirits; and it is whimsical to remark how the slothful spirit of age gravely denounces that as wrong which it is no longer capable of achieving. Boileau, however, had many other resources. His guests delighted to * Lettres à Racine. a Letters exchanged between Racine and Boileau, 8 and 9 Apr. 1692 in Daunou, III, pp. 174–5. b Jean-Baptiste Racine, at that time in the Hague with the French Ambassador. c A mistranslation by Mary Shelley. Speaking of the way Boileau had entertained his young family, Racine’s eldest son actually said ‘he regaled them perfectly’ (‘M. Despréaux régala le mieux du monde’) (Letter of 31 Oct. 1698, in Racine, vol. VII, p. 293). d Mary Shelley possibly means Boileau’s letters to Racine of (undated) June and 4 June, 1693, about his ‘Ode sur Namur’, Daunou, vol. III, pp. 213–20.

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gather his opinions, and hung upon his maxims. He criticised the works of the day, and the favourite authors. He admired La Bruyere, though he called him obscure, and justly remarked that he spared himself the most difficult part of a work when he omitted the transitions and links of one portion with another. No one dared praise St. Evremond before him, though he had become the fashionable author of the day. He detested low pleasantry. “Racine,” he said, “is sometimes silly enough to laugh over Scarron’s travestie of Virgil, but he hides this from me.”a Thus tranquil and esteemed, surrounded by friends, and without a care, he lived long, notwithstanding the weakness of his constitution and bad health. A few days after the death of Racine, he appeared at court to / take the king’s commands with regard to the task of historiographer, which had now devolved entirely on himself. He spoke to the king of the intrepidity with which his friend viewed the approaches of death. “I am aware of this,” replied Louis, “and somewhat surprised, for he feared death greatly; and I remember that at the siege of Gand you were the more courageous of the two.” The king afterwards added, “Remember, I have always an hour in the week to give you when you like to come.” Boileau, however, never went to court again. His friends often entreated him to appear from time to time, but he answered, “What should I do there? I cannot flatter.”b No doubt he felt admiration for all Louis’s great qualities, and gratitude for the kindness shown to himself; but he was too penetrating an observer, and too impartial a judge, not to be aware that the court paid to a king, amounting in those days almost to idolatry, renders him a factitious personage, and only fit to be approached by those who, either through long habit, or by having some point to gain, accommodate themselves to that sort of watchful deference and self-immolation which is intolerable to persons accustomed to utter spontaneously what they think, and to enjoy society so far as they are unshackled by fears of offending a master. Boileau survived Racine several years: this period was spent in retirement, and his health grew weaker and weaker. He lived either at Paris or Auteuil. There Louis Racine, the son of the poet, from whom we gather these details, often visited him. He was a youth at that time; he and Boileau played at skittles together; the poet was a good player, and often knocked down all nine at one bowling. “It must be confessed,” he said, “that I possess two talents equally useful to my country; I play well at nine-pins, and write verses.” Louis Racine was then at school at Beauvais. He wrote an elegy on a dog; and his mother, a good but narrowminded woman, took it to Boileau, and begged him to dissuade her son from following the a The account of Boileau’s house purchase, life and opinions at Auteuil is taken selectively from LRR, pp. 329–30. La Bruyère: see ‘Molière’, p. 12; Charles de Marguetel de Saint-Denis, sieur de Saint-Evremond (1613–1703), aristocratic occasional writer celebrating urbanity, sociability and Epicureanism; Paul Scarron wrote Virgil Travestie (Virgil Parodied), 7 vols (1648–52). b From ‘Thus tranquil’ to this point is translated almost verbatim from LRR, p. 346.

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career of a poet. / The youth went trembling to hear his fiat; and Boileau, who saw no eminent talent in the production of his young friend, told him that he was very bold, with the name he bore, to attempt poetry. “Perhaps,” he said, “you might one day write well; but I am incredulous as to extraordinary events, and I never heard of the son of a great poet turning out a great poet. The younger Corneille has merit, but he will always be a minor Corneille; take care that the same thing does not happen to you.”a Thus it is that in age we look back on the career we boldly enter on in youth; and aware of the dangers we ran, and forgetting the enthusiasm and passion that then raised us above fear, and promised us success, we endeavour to impart to our juniors the prudence and experience we have gained. In vain. Life would be far other than it is, did the young, at the dictum of the old, divest themselves of errors and passions, desires and anticipations, and see as plainly as those advanced in life the nothingness of the objects of their wishes. It is the scheme of the Creator, for some unknown purpose, that each new generation should go over the same course; and each, reaching the same point of rest, should wonder what the impulse is that drives successors over the same dangerous ground. To return to Boileau: not long before his death he somewhat changed his habits. Though not in want of money, he was induced, by the solicitations of a friend, to sell him his house at Auteuil, it being promised that a room should always be reserved for him, and that he should continue as much its master as when he actually possessed it. Fifteen days after the sale he visited the place, and, going into the garden, looked about for a little grove, beneath whose shade he was accustomed to saunter and indulge in reverie; it was no longer there: he called for the gardener, and heard that, by order of the new proprietor, his favourite trees had been cut down: he paused for a moment, and then went back to his carriage, saying, “Since I am no longer master, what business have I here?” He returned instantly to Paris, and never revisited Auteuil.b / Boileau was a pious man; he fulfilled strictly his religious duties. It is told of him that, dining with the duke of Orleans on a fast-day, nothing but flesh being served at table, Boileau confined himself to bread: the duke, perceiving this, said, “The fish has been forgotten, so you must be content to forego the fast as we do.” “Yet,” said Boileau, “if you were but to strike the ground with your foot, fish would rise from the earth.” A witty and happy adaptation of Pompey’s boast.c In his latter years he congratulated himself on the purity of his poems. “It is a great consolation,” he said, “to a poet about to die, to feel that he has never written any thing injurious to virtue.” a From ‘Boileau survived’ to this point is translated almost verbatim from LRR, p. 348–9. The rest of the paragraph recalls reflections on the unwisdom of trying to instil premature wisdom in the young in Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), ch. V, § v. b Mary Shelley translates this paragraph almost verbatim from LRR, p. 351 and the next from p. 352. c This was that one stamp of his foot anywhere in Italy would raise an army (Plutarch).

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His last days were employed in correcting a complete edition of his works. This was to include his “Dialogue on the Romances,” which so pleasantly ridicules the language which mademoiselle Scuderi puts in the mouths of Cyrus, Horatius Cocles, and Clelia.a Out of respect for the authoress he had hitherto refrained from printing it; but it had been read in private: the marquis de Sévigné had written it down from recollection; and it had been printed in a pirated edition of the works of St. Evremond. Mademoiselle Scuderi being dead, Boileau resolved on publishing it. But the chief addition to his edition was his “Epistle to Ambiguity.” Already was the publication in progress when the jesuits took alarm. They gave it in charge to père le Tellier, the king’s confessor, to speak to Louis, and to induce him to stop the publication. The monarch was docile to the voice of his confessor: he not only forbade Boileau to publish the satire, but ordered him to give up the original into his hands, informing him, at the same time, that with this omission his edition might appear. But Boileau, feeling himself about to die, disdained to temporise, and preferred suppressing the whole edition rather than truckle to the jesuits.b His death was christian and catholic, yet not so strictly devout as that of Racine. To the last he maintained his literary tastes, and was alive to critical / remark. A friend thought to amuse him during his last illness by reading a new and popular tragedy: “Ah! my friend,” he cried, “am I not dying in time? the Pradons, whom we laughed at in our youth, were suns in comparison with these authors.” When he was asked how he felt, he replied by a verse from Malherbe, “Je suis vaincu du temps, je cède à ses outrages”c

As he was expiring, he saw M. Coutardd approach; he pressed his hand, saying, “Bon jour, et adieu – c’est un long adieu.” He died of dropsy on the chest, on the 13th of March, 1711, in the seventyfifth year of his age. He was buried in the lower chapel of the Sainte Chapelle, immediately under the spot which, in the upper chapel, is immortalised by his “Lutrin.” Numerous friends attended the funeral; and one among them overheard a woman say, “He had many friends, it seems, yet I have heard that he spoke ill of everybody.”e This is an exaggeration of what may be considered as the only flaw in Boileau’s character: – generous and charitable; simple and natural in his manners; full of friendship, kindness, and integrity; we almost hesitate to pronounce severity of criticism against bad books a fault; but we cannot avoid perceiving that the a

Dialogue des Héros de roman, composed in 1666 but published posthumously. Mary Shelley closely follows the account in Boileau (1746) vol. I, pp. 123–4. c François de Malherbe (1555–1628), ‘reformer’ of French poetry, urging clarity and evenness of diction. ‘I am vanquished by time, I yield to its outrages’, from ‘Ode pour le Roi allant châtier la rébellion des Rochelois’. d A lawyer in the Paris Parlement. e This and the preceding paragraph are taken almost verbatim from LRR, pp. 353–4. b

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ridicule he has attached to the names of Chapelain, Cotin, and others, however well deserved by their writings, might have been spared to the men. It reminds us too strongly of the anonymous critics of the present day not to be held in detestation.a It is not necessary to enter at length on the subject of his works. He possessed to a high degree the faculty of wit; generally speaking wit simply, not humour*: point the most acute, expressions the most happy, embody and carry home his meaning. He is not as elegant as Horace, nor as bitter nor as elevated as Juvenal:b / he indeed resembles the former more than the latter; but he has vivacity and truth, and a high tone of moral and critical feeling, which give strength to his epigrams; his principal defect being the want of a playful fancy, which caused a sort of aridity to be spread over his happiest sallies. He laboured to polish his verses diligently; and their apparent ease results from the justness of taste that taught him to retrench every superfluity of expression. The “Lutrin” rises superior to his other productions; and in these days, and for posterity, his fame will chiefly rest upon that poem. /

* There is humour, certainly, in the description of the bishop, in the “Lutrin,” escaping from his enemies by forcing them to receive his blessing. a Literary reviewers were customarily anonymous. Between 1817–23 the Shelleys, Leigh Hunt and Keats were harshly attacked by The Quarterly Review and Blackwood’s Magazine while The Last Man was generally brutally reviewed in 1826. b Decimus Junius Juvenalis (c. AD 60–c. 136), most celebrated of classical Latin satirists, known for his savage invective. Mary Shelley here follows a traditional division of satirists into Horatian and Juvenalian, made familiar by Dryden.

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RACINE. 1639–1699. B ORN under not very dissimilar circumstances from Boileau – running, without great variation, the same literary career – sometimes associated in the same labours, always making a part of the same society, and, throughout, his dearest friend, yet the texture of their minds caused Racine to be a very different person from the subject of the foregoing sketch. The lives of both were unmarked by events; but while the one calmly and philosophically enjoyed the pleasures of life, unharmed by its pains, the more tender and sensitive nature of Racine laid him open to their impression. Censures, that only roused Boileau to bitter replies, saddened and crushed his friend. The feelings of religion, which made the former a good and pious man, rendered the other, to a great degree, a bigot. The one was independent of soul, the other sought support: yet, as the faults of Racine were combined with tenderness and amiability of disposition, and as he possessed the virtues of a warm heart, it is impossible not to regard his faults with kindness, while we deplore the mistakes into which they betrayed him. To trace out the different natures of men, to account for the variation, either from innate difference, or the influence of dissimilar circumstances, is, perhaps, one of the most useful objects of a biographer. We all vary one from another, yet none of us tolerate the difference in others: the haughty and independent spirit disdains the pliant and tender, while this regards its opposite as unfeeling and lawless. The conviction, on the contrary, ought to be deeply impressed / of the harmony of characters – that certain defects and certain virtues are allied, and ever go together. We should not ask the sheep for fleetness, nor wool from the horse; but we may love and admire the gifts that each enjoy, and profit by them, both as matter of advantage and instruction. Racine was born of a respectable family of Fertè-Milon, a small town of Valois. His father and grandfather both enjoyed small financial situationsa in their native town. His father, Jean Racine, married Jeanne Sconin, whose father occupied the same sort of position in society. This pair had two children, whom their deaths left orphans in infancy. The wife died in 1641, and her husband survived her only two years.

a i.e. official positions. Racine’s father was probably a minor salt-tax official; La Ferté was in the Valois region, 50 miles north-east of Paris. Mary Shelley relies on LRR, p. 207.

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1655. Ætat. 16.

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The two children, a boy and a girl, were brought up by their maternal grandfather. The daughter passed her life at Fertè-Milon, and died there at the advanced age of ninety-two. The son, named Jean, was born on the 21st of December, 1639. We have few traces of his childhood. It was not, apparently, a happy one; at least we are told that, when all the family of Sconin assembled at his house, on those festive anniversaries which the French celebrate with so much exactitude, his orphan grandchildren were wholly disregarded*; and the gentle sensitive heart of Racine must have felt this neglect severely. His first studies were made at Beauvais. At this time the civil war of the fronde was raging in France. The scholars at Beauvais were also divided into parties; and “Vive Mazarin,” or “A bas Mazarin,” became the rallying cries of their mimic wars;a yet not so mimic but that the little combatants encountered perils. Racine himself received a wound on his forehead, of which he ever after bore the mark. The master of the school used to show the scar to everybody as a token of the boy’s courage; a quality of which, in after life, he made no great display. His grandfather died while he was still a child, and he fell to the care of / his widowed grandmother.b Two of this lady’s daughters were nuns in the abbey of Port Royal, and she took up her abode with them; which was, doubtless, the cause that, on leaving the school at Beauvais, Racine was received a pupil in the seminary of that convent. At this time, in France, the education of young people was chiefly committed to the clergy. The jesuits did all they could to engross an employment full of promise of power – the great aim of that society. Their principal rivals were the teachers of the abbey of Port Royal, whose methods were admirable, and whose enthusiasm led them to diligence and patience in their task. Theoretically it seems an excellent plan to commit the bringing up of youth to those who dedicate their lives to the strictest practices of virtue, as the recluses of Port Royal at that time undoubtedly did. But, in fact, the monkish spirit is so alien to the true purposes of life, and men who sacrifice every pleasure and affection to the maintenance of ascetic vows must naturally give so preponderating an importance to the objects that influence them, that such teachers are apt rather to trouble the conscience, and plunge youth in extravagant devotion; inspiring rather a polemical spirit, or a dream of idleness, than instilling that manly and active morality, and that noble desire to make a right use of the faculties given us by God, which is the aim of all liberal education. The effects of a monkish tutelage * Life by Louis Racine. The authentic accounts of Racine are chiefly founded on this sketch, and on his correspondence. a The collège at Beauvais was controlled by the Abbey of Port-Royal. Pupils shouted ‘Long live Mazarin’ or ‘Down with Mazarin’ (i.e. the first minister Cardinal Mazarin). LRR, p. 209. b Marie des Moulins; she was joined by two other relatives: her sister Claude de Moulins, mother of Racine’s uncle Nicolas Vitart, and her daughter Agnès de Sainte Thècle Racine, professed as a nun at Port Royal in 1648, and abbess from 1689. Though only thirteen years older than Racine, Agnès acted as a mother to him.

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spread a sinister influence over the ductile disposition of Racine; the faults of his character were all fostered; the independence and hardihood he wanted were never instilled. As a school for learning it succeeded admirably. Greek and Latin were assiduously cultivated by the tutors, and Racine’s wonderful memory caused him to make swift progress. M. de Sacy took particular pains with him: discerning his talents, and hoping that he would one day distinguish himself, he took him into his own apartments, and gave him the name and treatment of a son. M. Hannon, who succeeded to M. de Sacy, on the death of the latter, continued the same / attentions.a Racine was poor: he could not purchase good copies of the classics, and he read them in the Basle editions without any Latin translation. His son tells us that he still possessed his father’s Plutarch and Plato, the margins of which were covered with annotations which proved his application and learning.b It is impossible not to be struck by the benefit derived from the Greek writers by a child of genius, who was indebted to the respect which the priests showed for ancient authors for the awakening of his mind to poetry and philosophy. But for this saving grace the monks would probably have allowed him to read only books of scholastic piety. Racine, young as he was, drank eagerly from the purest fountains of intellectual beauty and grace, opened by the Greeks, unsurpassed even to this time. His imaginative spirit was excited by the poetry of the Greek tragedians; and he spent many a day wandering in the woods of Port Royal with the works of Sophocles and Euripides in his hands.c He thus obtained a knowledge of these divine compositions which always remained; and in after years he could recite whole plays.* It happened, however, that he got hold of the Greek romance of the loves of Theagines and Chariclea. This was too much for priestly toleration. The * M. de Valincour says, “I remember one day at Auteuil, when on a visit to Boileau, with M. Nicole and other friends of distinguished merit, that we made Racine talk of the Œdipus of Sophocles, and he recited the whole play to us, translating it as he went on.” Racine often said that he treated subjects adopted by Euripides, but he never ventured to follow in the steps of Sophocles.d a Louis-Isaac Le Maître de Sacy (1613–84), former lawyer, confessor at Port Royal and translator of the New Testament; Jean Hamon (not Hannon) (1618–87), medical officer and devotional writer at Port Royal. b Account drawn from LRR, p. 210. Plutarch: see ‘Sévigné’, p. 116, note b; known not only for Parallel Lives, but also for Opera moralia, a collection of 60-odd miscellaneous essays. Plato: Greek philosopher (427–347 BC ), founder of philosophical idealism, author of 25 dialogues, e.g. The Republic (375 BC ) and The Symposium (384 BC ). Mary Shelley was speaking from personal knowledge in her strictures on the Basel editions. P. B. Shelley owned in Italy a 16th-century Basel folio Plato which tormented him with its ‘incredible contractions & abominable inaccuracy’ (PBSL, II, p. 361). The better editions of Plato would have contained Ficino’s Latin translations. c Sophocles (496–406 BC ) author of over 100 Greek plays, notably Oedipus and Antigone. Euripides (484–407 BC ); his plays include Medea and Electra. d LRR, pp. 211–12.

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sacristan discovered the book and devoted it to the flames; another copy met the same fate.a Racine bought a third, learnt the romance by heart, and then took the volume to the monk, and told him he might burn that also. It would appear that Racine was happy while at Port Royal. He was loved by his masters: his gentle amiable nature led him to listen docilely to their lessons; and the tenderness of his disposition was akin to that piety which they sedulously sought to inculcate. The peculiar tenets of the Port Royal, which fixed the / foundations of all religion in the love of God, found an echo in his heart; but how deeply is it be regretted, that he imbibed that narrow spirit along with it that restricted the adoration of the Creator to the abstract idea of himself, rather than a warm diffusive love of the creation. Poetry was the very essence of Racine’s mind – the poetry of sentiment and the passions; but poetry was forbidden by the jansenists, except on religious subjects, and Racine could only indulge his tastes by stealth. His French verses, composed at the Port Royal, are not good; for his native language, singularly ill-adapted to verse, had not yet received that spirit of harmony with which he was destined to inspire her.* His biographers have preserved some specimens of his Latin verses, which have more merit. They want originality and force, but they are smooth and pleasing, and show the command he had of the language. At the age of nineteen he left the Port Royal to follow his studies in the college of Harcour, at Paris.b The logic of the schools pleased him little: his heart was still set on verse; and his letters, at this period, to a youthful friend, show the playfulness of his mind, and his desire to distinguish himself as a writer. An occasion presented itself. The marriage of Louis XIV. caused every versifier in France to bring his tribute of rhymes. Racine was then unknown. He had, indeed, written a * Racine polished French poetry, and inspired it with harmony, though, even in his verses, we are often annoyed by trivialities induced by the laws of rhyme. It was left for La Martinec to overcome this difficulty – to put music into his lines, and bend the stubborn material to his thoughts. Some of the earlier poems, in particular, of this most graceful and harmonious poet make you forget that you are reading French – you are only aware of the perfection of his musical pauses, the expressive sweetness of his language, and feel how entirely his mind can subdue all things to its own nature, when French verse, expressing his ideas, becomes sublime, flowing, and graceful. We cannot believe, however, that any poet could so far vanquish its monotony as to adopt it to heroic narrative; it is much that it has attained this degree of excellence in lyrics. a ‘Theagines and Chariclea’, also known as the Aethiopa, by Heliodorus, was one of five surviving complete novels from the Hellenistic period, composed 3rd or 4th century BC ; it tells the story of a priestess of Delphi beloved of a Thessalian. The sacristan was Claude Lancelot (1616– 95), distinguished Hellenist, and author of textbooks for teaching classical and modern languages. Mary Shelley draws on LRR, pp. 11–12. b Collège d’Harcourt, part of the University at Paris; cf. LRR, p. 215. c Alphonse de Lamartine (1790–1869), leading French Romantic poet and later a political leader of the 1848 Revolution, whose books include Méditations Poétiques (1820), and Harmonies Poétiques (1830). Mary Shelley’s compliment may stem from personal acquaintance; Lamartine and herself attempted to meet in Paris in 1840 (MWSL, III, p. 332 and n.).

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sonnet to his aunt, Madame Vitart,a to compliment her on the birth of a child, which sonnet, becoming known at Port Royal, awoke a holy horror throughout the community. His aunt, Agnes de Sainte Thecle Racine, then abbess, who had been his instructress, wrote him letter after letter, “excommunication after excommunication,” / he calls it, to turn his heart from such profane works. But the suggestions of the demon were too strong; and Racine wrote an ode, entitled “Nymphes de la Seine,”b to celebrate his sovereign’s nuptials. His uncle, M. Vitart, showed it to M. Chapelain, at that time ruler of the French Parnassus. Chapelain thought the ode showed promise, and suggested a few judicious alterations. “The ode has been shown to M. Chapelain,” Racine writes to a friend: “he pointed out several alterations I ought to make, which I have executed, fearful at the same time that these changes would have to be changed. I knew not to whom to apply for advice. I was ready to have recourse, like Malherbe, to an old servant, had I not discovered that she, like her master, was a jansenist, and might betray me, which would ruin me utterly, considering that I every day receive letters on letters, or rather excommunication on excommunication, on account of my unlucky sonnet.”c The ode, however, and its alterations, found favour in the sight of Chapelain. It deserves the praise at least of being promising – it is neither bombastic nor tedious, if it be neither original nor sublime. The versification is harmonious, and, as a whole, it is unaffected and pleasing. Chapelain carried his approbation so far as to recommend the young poet and his ode to his patron, M. Colbert, who sent him a hundred louis from the king, and soon after bestowed on him a pension of six hundred livres, in his quality of man of letters. Still, as time crept on, both Racine and his friends deemed it necessary to take some decision with regard to his future career. His uncle, M. Vitart, intendant of Chevreux,d gave him employment to overlook some repairs at that place: he did not like the occupation, and considered Chevreux a sort of prison. His friends at Port Royal wished him to apply to the law; and, when he testified his disinclination, were eager to obtain for him some petty placee which would just have maintained him. Racine appears to have been animated by no mighty ambition. His son, indeed, tells us that, when young, he had an ardent desire for glory, suppressed / afterwards by feelings of religion.f But these aspirations probably awoke in their full force afterwards, when success opened the path to renown. There are a Marguerite Le Mazier, wife of Nicolas Vitart (1627–83), Racine’s uncle and member of a prominent legal family in Paris. b ‘La Nymphe de la Seine’ (1660). Mary Shelley follows LLR, p. 216. c Quoted from LRR, p. 216. François de Malherbe (1555–1628), poet and critic who consolidated the reform of French poetry toward clarity and common polite usage. d Vitart was the chief administrator for the duc de Luynes, a Jansenist sympathiser, who later inherited the title duc de Chevreuse from his step-father after one of the family estates in the Chevreuse valley, where the convent of Port-Royal was situated. Based on LRR, p. 218. e i.e. minor official post. f LRR, p. 203.

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no expressions in his early letters that denote a thirst for fame: probably his actual necessities pressed too hardly on him: he thought, perhaps, more of escape from distasteful studies than attaining a literary reputation, and thought that he might indulge his poetical dreams in the inaction of a clerical life. Whatever his motives were, he showed no great dislike to become in some sort a member of the church; and, when an opening presented itself, did not turn away. He had an uncle, father Sconin, canon of St. Geneviève at Paris, and at one time general of that community. He was of a restless, meddling disposition; so that at last his superiors, getting tired of the broils in which he involved them, sent him into a sort of honourable banishment at Uzés, where he possessed some ecclesiastical preferments. He wished to resign his benefice to his nephew. Racine did not much like the prospect; but he thought it best, in the first place, to accept his uncle’s invitation, and to visit him.a Uzés is in Provence. Racine repaired to Lyons, and then down the Rhone to his destination. In the spirit of a true Parisian, he gives no token of delight at the beauties of nature: he talks of high mountains and precipitous rocks with a carelessness ill-befitting a poet; and shows at once that, though he could adorn passion and sentiment with the colours of poetry, he had not that higher power of the imagination which allies the emotions of the heart with the glories of the visible creation, and creates, as it were, “palaces of nature”b for the habitation of the sublimer passions. We have several of his letters written at this period. They display vivacity, good humour, and a well-regulated mind: scraps of verses intersperse them; but these are merely apropos of familiar or diverting events. There is no token of the elevated nor the fanciful – nothing, in short, of the poet who, if he did not, like his masters the Greeks, put a soul into rocks, / streams, flowers, and the winds of heaven, yet afterwards showed a spirit true to the touch of human feeling, and capable of giving an harmonious voice to sorrow and to love. One of his chief annoyances during this visit was the patois of the people. He was eager to acquire a pure and elegant diction; and he feared that his ear would be corrupted by the jargon to which he was forced to listen. “I have as much need of an interpreter here,” he writes, “as a Muscovite in Paris. However, as I begin to perceive that the dialect is a medley of Spanish mixed with Italian, and as I understand these two languages, I sometimes have recourse to them; yet often I lose my pains, asking for one thing and getting another. I sent a servant for a hundred small nails, and he brought me three boxes of allumettes.”c “This is a most tiresome town,” he writes, in another letter: “the inhabitants amuse themselves by killing a

Mary Shelley follows the Mémoires here. Sconin was more accurately the vicar-general of the diocese of Uzés. LRR, p. 219. b Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, III (1816), lxii. 2, referring to Alps; a favourite phrase of Mary Shelley, quoted also in Frankenstein and Rambles (MWSN, vol. 1, p. 53; vol. 8, p. 137). c Provençal is a Romance language with affinities to Spanish and Italian; allumettes are (in this context) probably wax tapers. Letter to La Fontaine of 11 Nov. 1661 (Racine, vol. VI, p. 414; not found in LRR).

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each other, and getting hanged. There are always lawsuits going on, wherefore I have refused all acquaintance; for if I made one friend I should draw down a hundred enemies. I have often been asked, unworthy as I am, to frequent the society of the place; for my ode having been seen at the house of a lady, every one came to visit the author: but it is to no purpose – mens immota manet.a I never believed myself capable of enduring so much solitude, nor could you have ever hoped so much from my virtue. I pass all my time with my uncle, with St. Thomas,b and Virgil. I make many notes on theology, and sometimes on poetry. My uncle has all sorts of kind schemes for me – but none are yet certain: however, he makes me dress in black from head to foot, and hopes to get something for me; when I shall pay my debts, if I can; for I cannot before. I ought to think on all the dunning you suffer on my account – I blush as I write; erubuit puer; salva res est.”c Obstacles, however, continued to present themselves to the execution of any of his uncle’s plans. Racine, as he grew hopeless of advancement, turned his thoughts / more entirely to composition. He wrote a poem called “The Bath of Venus,”d and began a play on the subject of Theagines and Chariclea, the beloved romance of his boyhood. After three months’ residence at Uzés he returned to Paris. He returned disappointed and uncertain. Poetry – even the drama – occupied his thoughts; but the opposition of his friends, and the little confidence in himself which marked his disposition, might have made him tremble to embark in a literary career, had not a circumstance occurred which may be called an accident*, but which was, indeed, one of those slight threads which form the web of our lives, and compose the machinery by which Providence directs it. Molière, having established a comic company in Paris, grew jealous of the actors of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, who prided themselves on the tragic dignity of their representations.e Having heard that a new piece was about to be represented at that theatre, he was desirous of bringing out one himself, on the same day, in rivalship. A new tragedy, secure of success, was not easy to acquire. Racine had, on his return from * Grimarest, Vie de Molière. a

The mind remains unmoved.’ Thomas Aquinas (1224/5–74), Dominican theologian who interpreted Aristotle, the Greek philosopher, to accord with Christian teaching. c ‘The boy blushed, all is well.’ Adapted from the Roman comic dramatist Terence (Publius Terentius Afer, c. 190/189–159 BC ): ‘Erubuit; salva res est?’ (Adelphoe, IV. v. 9). Racine’s general sense appears to be that he is ashamed of getting into debt, but basically optimistic. The preceding paragraph (including translations, which lightly expand the originals) is taken from LRR, pp. 218–19. d This should be ‘The Baths of Venus’ (‘Les bains de Vénus’). The play is lost. e Hôtel de Bourgogne: town house where the theatrical company, the Comédiens du Roi, founded in 1628 and specialising in tragedy, performed under royal patronage. The incident is told in Grimarest, pp. 54–6. b

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Provence, sent his “Theagines and Chariclea” to Molière. The latter saw the defects of the piece, but, penetrating the talent of the author, gave him general encouragement to proceed. At this crisis he remembered him. Molière had a design of the “Frères Ennemis”a in his portfolio, which he felt incapable of filling up: he resolved to devolve the task on Racine, but knew not where to find him. With some difficulty he hunted him out, and besought him to write, if possible, an act a week; and they even worked together, that greater speed might be attained. Well acquainted as Molière was with the conduct of a drama, and the trickery of actors,b no doubt his instructions and aid were invaluable to the young author. The piece was brought out, and succeeded – its faults were pardoned on the score of its being a first production. When it was afterwards published, Racine altered and corrected / it materially. It cannot be said, indeed, that, as some authors have done, he surprised the world at first with a chef d’œuvre;c elegance and harmony of versification being his characteristics, he continued to improve to the end, and his first piece may be considered as a coup d’essai.d The subject was not suited to him, whose merit lay in the struggle of passion, and the gushing overflowings of tenderness. However, it went through fifteen representations. It was speedily followed by his “Alexandre.”e Neither in this play did he make any great progress, or give the stamp of excellence which his dramas afterwards received. It is said that he read his tragedy to Corneille, who praised it coldly, and advised the author to give up writing for the stage. The mediocrity of “Alexandre” prevents any suspicion that the great tragedian was influenced by envy; and as Racine, in this play, again attempted a subject requiring an energy and strength of virile passion of which he was incapable, and in which Corneille so much excelled, we may believe that the old master of the art felt impatient of the feebleness and inefficiency of him who afterwards became a successful rival. When we regard these first essays of Racine, we at once perceive the origin of his defects, while we feel aware that a contrary system would have raised him far higher as a dramatist. He was, of course, familiar with Corneille’s master-pieces; and he founded his ideas of the conduct of a tragedy partly on these, and partly on the Greek. He did not read Spanish nor English, and was ignorant of the original and bold conceptions of the poets of those nations; and was hampered by an observance of the unities,f which had become a law on the French stage, and was recognised and confirmed by himself. He felt that the Greek drama is not adapted to modern times: he did not feel that the Greeks, in taking national subjects, warmed the hearts of their audience; and that the religion, the scenery, the a

La Thébaide, ou, Les Frères Ennemis (1664) (‘The Enemy Brothers’). i.e. tricks of the actor’s trade. c Masterpiece. d First attempt. e Alexandre Le Grand (1665) (‘Alexander the Great’). f The rules of classical drama followed by French dramatists required unity of action, place and time, as well as preventing the mixture of comic and tragic figures seen in English and Spanish drama; see ‘Corneille’, vol. 2. b

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poetry, the allusions – all Greek, and all, therefore, full of living interest to / Greeks, ought to serve as a model whereby modern authors might form their own national history and traditions into a dramatic form, not as ground-works for cold imitations. Racine, from the first, fell into those deplorable mistakes which render most of his plays – beautiful and graceful as they are, and full of tenderness and passion – more like copies in fainter colours of his sublime masters, than productions conceived by original genius, in a spirit akin to the age and nation to which he belonged. Another misfortune attended the composition of his tragedies, as it had also on those of his predecessor. The Greek drama was held solemn and sacred – the stage a temple: the English and Spanish theatres, wild, as they might be termed, were yet magnificent in their errors. An evil custom in France crushed every possibility of external pomp waiting on the majesty of action. The nobles, the petit maîtres, all the men of what is called the best society in Paris, were accustomed to sit on the stage, and crowded it so as not to allow the author room to produce more than two persons at a time before the scene. All possibility, therefore, of reforming the dull undramatic expedient of the whole action passing in narration between a chief personage and a confidant was taken away; and thus plays assumed the form rather of narrative poems in dialogue than the native guise of a moving, stirring picture of life, such as it is with us – while the assembly of dandy critics,a ever on the look-out for ridicule, allowed no step beyond conventional rules, and termed the torpor of their imaginations, good taste. We only wonder that, under such circumstances, tragedies of merit were produced. But to return to Racine’s “Alexandre.” This tragedy was the cause of the quarrel between Racine and Molière. It was brought out at the theatre of the Palais Royalb – it was unsuccessful; and the author, attributing his ill success to the actors, withdrew it, and caused it to be performed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne: to this defalcation he added the greater injury of inducing Champmélé,c the best tragic actress of the time, to quit Molière’s company for that of the rival / theatre. Molière never forgave him; and they ceased to associate together. Madame de Sévigné alludes in her letters to the attachment of Racine for Champmélé, but his son denies that such existed;d and the mention which Racine makes in his letters of this actress, when she was dying, betray no trace of tender recollection; yet, as these were addressed to his son, he

a

Amateur critics, men of fashion rather than of taste. Shorthand for the theatrical company, the Illustre Théâtre, founded by Molière at the Palais Royal in Paris. c Marie Desmares de Champmeslé (1642–98), wife of the actor and playwright Charles Cheullet de Champmeslé; leading actress and first interpreter of many of Racine’s tragic heroines, including Phèdre and Bérénice. d In, e.g., her letters of 18 Mar. 1671 and 1 and 8 Apr. 1671 to her daughter (Sévigné (1820), vol. I, pp. 295 and 314, vol. II, pp. 6–7). Champmeslé was certainly the mistress of Racine, and also of Mme de Sévigné’s son Charles. The denial of Racine’s involvement is found in LRR, pp. 256–7. b

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might carefully suppress the expressions of his regret. He taught Champmélé to recite; and she owed her reputation to his instructions. The criticisms freely poured on his two tragedies were of use to the author. He was keenly alive to censure, and deeply pained by it; but, when accompanied by such praise as showed that correction and improvement were expected, he readily gave ear to the suggestions of his fault-finders. Boileau boasted that he taught Racine to rhyme with difficulty – easy verses, he said, are not those written most easily. Racine, as he went on, also began to feel the true bent of his genius, while his desire to write parts suited to Champmélé induced him to give that preponderance to the chief female part that produced, in the sequel, his best plays. While he was employing himself on “Andromaque”a he sustained an attack, which roused him to some resentment. Nicole,b in a letter he published against a new sect of religionists, asserted that “a romance writer and a theatrical poet are public poisoners – not of bodies, but of souls – and that they ought to look on themselves as the occasion of an infinity of spiritual homicides, of which they are, or might be, the cause.” Racine felt this censure the more bitterly from his having been excluded from visiting the Port Royal on account of his tragedies*; and he answered it by a letter, addressed. / “To the author of imaginary reveries.”c This letter is written with a good deal of wit and pleasantry: we miss the high tone of eloquent feeling that it might be supposed that an author, warmed with the dignity of his calling, would have expressed. His letter was answered, and he was excited to write a reply, which he showed to Boileau.d The satirist persuaded him to suppress it; telling him that it would do not honour to his heart, since he attacked, in attacking the Port Royal, men of the highest integrity, to whom he * His aunt, a nun of Port Royal, wrote him a letter to intimate this, which may well be called an excommunication: – “I have learnt with grief,” she says, “that you more than ever frequent the society of persons whose names are abominable to the pious; and with reason, since they are forbidden to enter the church, or to partake in the sacraments, even at the moment of death, unless they repent. Judge, therefore, my dear nephew, of the state I am in, since you are not ignorant of the affection I have always felt for you; and that I have never desired any thing except that you should give yourself up to God while fulfilling some respectable employment. I conjure you, therefore, my dear nephew, to have pity on your soul, and to consider seriously the gulf into which you are throwing yourself. I should be glad if what I am told proves untrue; but, if you are so unhappy as not to have given up an intercourse that dishonours you before God and man, you must not think of coming to see us, for you are aware that I could not speak to you, knowing you to be in so deplorable a state, and one so contrary to christianity. I shall, moreover, pray to God,” &c.e a

First performed 1667 (with Champmeslé in the title role). Nicole (see ‘Sévigné’) made this attack in his Visionnaire (1665); quoted in LRR, p. 230. c i.e. Lettre à l’auteur des hérésies imaginaires, published 1 Jan. 1666; ‘reveries’ for ‘heresies’ appears to be Mary Shelley’s slip, or perhaps the compositor’s. d It was probably Nicolas Vitart who urged his nephew to desist from further publication (LRR, pp. 233–4). e A partial quotation of the aunt’s letter in LLR, p. 231. b

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was under obligations. Racine yielded, declaring that his letter should never see light; which it did not till after his death, when a stray copy was found and printed. The conduct of the poets was honourable. It is probable that Racine did not, in his heart, believe in the goodness of his cause; for he was deeply imbued with the prejudices instilled by the jansenists in his early youth. He was piqued by the attack, but his conscience sided with his censurers; and the degraded state to which clerical influence brought French actors in those days might well cause a devout catholic to doubt the innocence of the drama. A higher tone of feeling would have caused Racine to perceive that the fault lay with the persecutors, not the persecuted; but though an amiable and upright man, and a man of genius, he was in nothing beyond his age. As Racine continued to write, he used his powers with more freedom and success. “Andromache,” “Britannicus,” and “Berenice”a succeeded one to the other. The first, we are told, had a striking success; and it was said to have cost the life of Montfleuri,b a celebrated actor, who put so much passion into the part of Orestes that he fell a victim to the excitement. “Berenice” was written at the desire of Henrietta of England, duchess of Orleans. It was / called a duel, since she imposed the same subject, at the same time, on Corneille.c Racine’s was the better tragedy, and must always be read with deep interest; for to its own merit it adds the interest of commemorating the struggles of passion that Louis XIV. experienced, when, in his early days, he loved that charming princess. The subject, however, is too uniform, and the catastrophe not sufficiently tragic. Boileau felt its defects; and said that, had he been by, he would have prevented his friend’s accepting the princess’s challenge to write on such a subject. When Chapelle was asked what he thought of Berenice, he summed up the defects of the play in a few words. “What I think?” he said, “why, Marion weeps; Marion sobs; Marion wants to be married.”d That Racine should have excelled Corneille on this subject is not to be wondered; but Corneille had still many adherents who disdained, and tried to put down, his young rival. He had habituated the French audiences to a more heroic cast of thought than Racine could portray. The eager eloquence, the impetuous passions, and even the love of the elder poet were totally unlike the softness and tenderness of the younger. Racine, therefore encountered much criticism, which rendered him very unhappy. He told his son, in after years, that he suffered far more pain from the faults found with his productions than he ever a

The last two were first performed 1669 and 1670, respectively. Zacharie Jacob Montfleury (1600–67). Orestes kills Pyrrhus at the urging of the jealous Hermione, is denounced by her and goes mad. c While Henriette d’Orléans probably suggested the subject to Racine, it is likely that Corneille wrote on the same subject from commercial rivalry; plays on the common pool of classical subjects were not uncommon. Louis was indeed attracted to his sister-in-law. d Implying that the play was a common song-and-dance about nothing. Mary Shelley translates ‘Marion pleure, Marion crie, Marion veut qu’on la marie’, perhaps the refrain of a traditional children’s ring-game or folk-song. Lhuillier’s (i.e. Chapelle’s) remark is cited in LRR, p. 247. Louis Racine asserts that the comment was quoted in relation to other failed plays. b

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experienced pleasure from their success. This avowal at once displays the innate weakness of the man.* Madame de Sévigné was among / the partisans of Corneille; and her criticism shows the impression made on such by the new style of the young poet. “I send you ‘Bajazet,’” she writes to her daughter: “I wish I could also send you Champmélé to animate the piece. It contains agreeable passages, but nothing perfectly beautiful; nothing that carries one away; none of those tirades of Corneille that make one shudder. Racine can never be compared to him. Let us always remember the difference. The former will never go beyond ‘Andromache;’ he writes parts for Champmélé, and not for future ages. When he is no longer young, and has ceased to be susceptible of love, he will cease to write as well as he now does.”a This opinion is at least false. The tragedies of Racine still live, or at least did so while Talma and the classic theatre survived in France. And “Athalie,” written in his more advanced years, is the best of his works.b

* Boileau’s virile and independent mind was far above the weakness of his friend, and doubtless deplored it. At once to console, and to elevate him to a higher tone of feeling, he addressed an epistle to him, in which are the following line:– “Toi donc, qui t’elevant sur la scene tragique, Suis les pas de Sophocle, et seul de tant d’Esprits, De Corneille vielli sait consoler Paris, Cesse de t’étonner, si l’envie animée, Attachant à ton nom sa rouille envenimée, La calomnie en main, quelquefois te poursuit. En cela, comme en tout, le ciel qui nous conduit, Racine, fait briller sa profonde sagesse; Le mérite en repos s’endort dans la paresse: Mais par les envieux un genie excité, Au comble de son art est mille fois monté. Plus on veut s’affloiblir, plus il croit et s’élance; Au Cid persécuté, Cinna doit sa naissance: Et peut-être ta plume aux censeurs de Pyrrhus Doit les plus nobles traits dont tu peignis Burhus.”c a Taken, with a few omissions, from de Sévigné’s letter of 16 Mar. 1672 as quoted in LRR, p. 250; part of this is also quoted in ‘Corneille’, slightly differently. b François-Joseph Talma (1763–1826), leading actor, an innovator in performance, staging and costume. Athalie was first performed in 1690. c ‘Cease thou then to be astonished, who, exalting thyself upon the tragic stage, followest the footsteps of Sophocles and who alone among so many Wits canst console Paris for the aged state of Corneille, if animated envy, attaching its poisonous rust to thy name, armed with calumny, sometimes pursues thee. In this, Racine, as in everything, the Heaven which guides us makes its profound wisdom shine forth. Merit in repose sleeps in idleness: but a genius aroused by the envious is raised to the summit of his art a thousandfold. The more they wish to weaken him, the more he grows and soars upwards. [Corneille’s] Cinna owes its birth to the attacks on [his] Cid; and perhaps thy pen owes the noblest strokes with which it depicted Burhus to the critics of [Andromache’s] Pyrrhus.’ (Burhus, usually spelled Burrhus, is a character in Racine’s Britannicus.)

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In the interval between “Andromaque” and “Britannicus” his comedy of “Les Plaideurs” appeared. A sort of lay benefice had been conferred on him, but he had scarcely obtained it when it was disputed by a priest; and then began a lawsuit, which, as he says, “neither he nor his judges understood.” Tired out by law proceedings, weary of consulting advocates and soliciting judges, he abandoned his benefice, consoling himself meanwhile by writing the comedy of “Les Plaideurs,” which was suggested by it.a We have spoken, in the preceding pages, of the suppers where Racine, Boileau, Molière, and others met; in which they gave full play to their fancy, and gaiety and wit were the order of the day. At these suppers the plot of the projected comedy was talked over. One guest provided him with the proper legal terms. Boileau furnished the idea of the dispute between Chicaneau and the countess: he had witnessed / a similar scene in the apartments of his brother, a scrivener, between a well-known lawyer and the countess de Crissé, who had passed her life, and dissipated her property, in lawsuits.b The parliament of Paris, wearied by her pertinacious litigiousness, forbade her to carry on any suit without the consent of two advocates, who were named. She was furious at this sentence; and, after wearying judges, barristers, and attorneys by her repinings, she visited Boileau’s brother, where she met the person in question. This man, a Paul Pryc by inclination, was eager to advise her: she was at first delighted, till he said something to annoy her, and they quarrelled violently. This character being introduced into the comedy, the actress, who took the part, mimicked the poor countess to the life, even to the wearing a faded pink gown, such as she usually wore. Many other traits of this comedy were anecdotes actually in vogue; and the exordium of Intimé, who, when pleading about a capon, adopted the opening of Cicero’s oration, “Pro Quintio,” – “Quæ res in civitate duæ plurimum possunt, hæ contra nos ambæ faciunt hoc tempore, summa gratia et eloquentia,”d had actually been put to use by an advocate in a petty cause between a baker and a pastrycook. The humour of this piece shows that Racine might have succeeded in comedy: it is full of comic situation, and the true spirit of Aristophanic farce.e Yet it did not at first succeed, either because the audience could not at once enter into its spirit, or because it was opposed by a cabal of persons who considered themselves a

‘The Litigants’; first performed 1668, loosely based on Aristophanes’ comedy The Wasps (422 BC). b Chicaneau is a bourgeois character in the play; the comtesse de Crissé was a member of the household of the dowager duchesse d’Orléans. c An inquisitive busy-body in the play of that name (1825) by John Poole. d Refers to Intimé’s speech in Les Plaideurs, III. iii (735–42). The reference is to the opening sentence of Cicero’s oration Pro Publius Quinctio: ‘The two things that exercise the greatest power in the state – influence and eloquence – are both ranged against us on this occasion’. (This is reputed to have been Cicero’s first oration in the courts; his opponent, Hortensius, was the finest advocate of the day.) e Aristophanes (c. 445–385 BC), the greatest of the Greek comic dramatists, whose plays featured a lot of knockabout action as well as verbal wit.

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attacked; and it was withdrawn after the second representation. Molière, however, saw its merits; and, though he had quarrelled with the poet, he said aloud, on quitting the theatre, “This is an excellent comedy; and those who decry it deserve themselves to be decried.”a A month afterwards the actors ventured to represent it at court. The king entered into the spirit of the fun, and laughed so excessively that the courtiers were astonished. The actors, delighted by this unhoped-for piece of good / fortune, returned to Paris the same night, and hastened to wake up the author, to impart the news. The turmoil of their carriages in his quiet street, in the middle of the night, awoke the neighbourhood: windows were thrown open; and, as it had been said that a counsellor of state had expressed great indignation against “Les Plaideurs,” it was supposed that the author was carried off to prison, for having dared to ridicule the judges on the public stage; so that, while he was rejoicing at his success, the report in Paris the next morning was that he had been carried off in the night by a lettre-de-cachet.b In 1673 Racine was elected into the French academy. The speech he made on taking his seat was brief and courteous, but not humble, and delivered in so low a voice that only those near him could hear it. Meanwhile he continued to add to his reputation by bringing out his tragedies of “Bajazet,” “Mithridates,” “Phædra,” and “Iphigenia.”c Each improving in his peculiar excellence, each found warm admirers and bitter enemies. Pradon brought out a tragedy on the subject of Phædra on the same day as Racine; and he had many partisans. Among them was the duke de Montauzier, and all the clique of the Hôtel de Bouillon.d They carried their measures so far as to take the principal boxes, on the first six nights of each piece, and thus filled the theatre, or kept it empty, as they pleased. The chief friend of Pradon was madame des Houlieres;e who favoured him, because she patronised all those poets whom she judged incapable of writing as well as herself. She witnessed the representation of Racine’s play; and returned afterwards to a supper of select friends, among whom was Pradon. The new tragedy was the subject of conversation, each did their best to decry it; and madame des Houlieres wrote a mediocre sonnet enough, beginning – “Dans un fauteuil doré, Phèdre, tremblante et blême,”f a

The preceding account including quotation is from LRR, pp. 238–9. A form of administrative arrest often used by well-placed families to imprison unruly family members, seen by the time of the French Revolution as characteristic of the arbitrary nature of French government. c Bazajet (1672); Mithridate (1673); Phèdre (1677); Iphigénie (1674). d Godefroy Maurice, duc de Bouillon (1642–1721), Grand Chamberlain to Louis XIV, was married to Marie-Anne Mancini, niece of Cardinal Mazarin, patron of La Fontaine and maintainer of a brilliant Paris salon. e Antoinette de Ligier de la Garde (1653–94), wife of Guillaume de Lafon de Boisguérin des Houlières, especially proficient in pastoral poetry; she received the first poetry prize ever awarded by the Académie Française. Her opposition represented the views of the ‘moderns’ allied against the ‘ancients’ in the literary ‘quarrel’ of the day. f ‘Phaedra, seated in a gilded armchair, trembling and deathly pale’. Quoted in LRR, p. 254. b

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to turn it into ridicule. This sonnet had vogue in Paris. No one knew who wrote it: it was attributed to / the duke de Nevers, brother of the celebrated duchess de Mazarin.a The partisans of Racine parodied the sonnet, under this idea; the parody beginning “Dans un Palais doré, Damon jaloux et blême,” and even attacked the duchess, as “Une sœur vagabonde, aux crins plus noirs que blonds.”b This reply was attributed to Racine and Boileau. The duke de Nevers, highly irritated, threatened personal chastisement in revenge. The report spread that he meant to have them assassinated. They denied having written the offending sonnet; and the son of the great Condéc went to them, and said, “If you did not write it, come to the Hôtel de Condé, where the prince can protect you, as you are innocent. If you did write it, still come to the Hôtel de Condé, and the prince will take you under his protection, as the sonnet is both pleasant and witty.” An answer was reiterated to the parody, with the same rhymes, beginning “Racine et Desprèaux, l’air triste et le teint blême.”d

The quarrel was afterwards appeased, when it was discovered that certain young nobles, and not the poets, were the authors of the first parody. This last adventure, joined to other circumstances, caused Racine to resolve on renouncing the drama. The opinions of the recluses of the Port Royal concerning its wickedness were deeply rooted in his heart. Though in the fervour of youth, composition, and success, he had silenced his scruples, they awoke, after a suspension, with redoubled violence. He not only resolved to write no more, but imposed severe penances on himself in expiation for those he had already written, and even wished to turn chartreux.e Religion with him took the narrowest priestly form, redeemed only by the native gentleness and tenderness of his disposition. These qualities made him listen to his confessor, who advised him, instead of becoming a monk, to marry some woman of a pious turn, who would be his companion in working out his salvation. He followed this counsel, and married / Catherine de Romanet,f a lady of a position in life and fortune similar to his own. This marriage decided his future destiny. His wife had never read nor seen his a Julien, duc de Nevers (1631–1707), nephew of Cardinal Mazarin; Hortense Mancini, sister of Marie-Anne, duchesse de Bouillon, married in 1661 to the marquis de la Meillaraye, who took the title duc de Mazarin. She was celebrated for her beauty, her unhappy marriage and her tempestuous affairs with, inter alia, Charles II of England. b ‘In a gilded palace, Damon, jealous and deathly pale’ … ‘A vagabond sister, with hair more black than blond’. c Henri Jules III (1643–1709). Originally just ‘Si vous êtes innocents, venez-y; & si vous êtes coupables, venez-y encore’, LRR, p. 255. Mary Shelley elaborates her translation slightly to make the meaning clearer. d ‘Racine and Despréaux, with sad looks and deathly pale complexions’. e i.e. to join the Charterhouse or Carthusian monastic order. f An orphan and small heiress (b. 1651) she came from a legal family related to his aunt, Mme de Vitart; see LRR, p. 268.

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tragedies; she knew their names but by hearsay; she regarded poetry as an abomination; she looked on prayer and church-going as the only absolutely proper occupations of life. She was of an over-anxious disposition, and not a little narrow-minded. But she was conscientious, upright, sincere, affectionate, and grateful. She gave her husband good advice, and, by the calmness of her temper, smoothed the irritability of his. His letters to his son give us pleasing pictures of his affection for his wife and children; melancholy ones of the effects of his opinions. The young mind is timid: it is easily led to fear death, and to doubt salvation, and to throw itself into religion as a refuge from the phantasmal horrors of another world. One after the other of Racine’s children resolved to take monastic vows. His sons lost their vocation when thrown into active life;a but the girls, brought up in convents, of gentle, pliant, and enthusiastic dispositions, were more firm, and either took the vows in early youth – which devoted them to lives of hardship and self-denial – or had their young hearts torn by the struggles between the world and (not God) but the priests.b Racine, on the whole, acted kindly and conscientiously, and endeavoured to prove their vocation before he consented to the final sacrifice; but the nature of their education, and his own feelings, prevented all fair trial; and his joy at their steadiness, his annoyance in their vacillation, betrays itself in his letters. His income, derived from the king’s pensions and the place of historiographer, was restricted; and though the king made him presents, yet these were not more than commensurate to his increased expenses when in attendance at court. He had seven children: he found it difficult, therefore, to give doweries to all the girls; and worldly reasoning came to assist and consolidate sentiments which sprang originally from bigotry. One of the first acts of Racine, on entering on this / new life, was to reconcile himself to his friends of the Port Royal. He easily made his peace with M. Nicole, who did not know what enmity was, and who received him with open arms. M. Arnaud was not so facile:c his sister, mother Angelica, had been ridiculed by Racine, and he could not forgive him. Boileau endeavoured in vain to bring about a reconciliation: he found M. Arnaud impracticable. At length he determined on a new mode of attack; and he went to the doctor, taking the tragedy of “Phædra” with him, with the intention of proving that a play may be innocent in the eyes a In fact Jean-Baptiste Racine (b. 1678) was groomed by his father to succeed him in his position as Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber and for an administrative role in the Foreign Department. Remembering his own youth, the father urged him to curb his worldly inclinations; he became a confirmed Jansenist and resigned his court post not long after his father’s death. Louis Racine (1692–1763) was a staunch Jansenist, first a barrister, then a priest, who finally left the priesthood, married and devoted himself exclusively to letters. He wrote religious poems and translated Milton’s Paradise Lost in 1755. b Marie-Catherine (b. 1680) ardently desired to be a nun, but her health broke down. Her vocation wavering, her parents arranged a marriage for her to a barrister. Anne (b. 1682) and Elisabeth (b. 1684) both became nuns at 16 though Racine had made Elisabeth delay until her vocation was thoroughly tested. Neither Jeanne-Nichole-Françoise (b. 1686) nor Madeleine (b. 1688) married; both devoted themselves to good works. c Pliable.

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of the severest jansenist. Boileau, as he walked towards the learned and pious doctor’s house, reasoned with himself: – “Will this man,” he thought, “always fancy himself in the right? and cannot I prove to him that he is in the wrong? I am quite sure that I am in the right now; and, if he will not agree with me, he must be in the wrong.” He found Arnaud with a number of visitors: he presented the book, and read at the same time the passage from the preface in which the author testifies his desire to be reconciled to persons of piety. Boileau then went on to say that his friend had renounced the theatre; but at the same time he maintained, that, if the drama was dangerous, it was the fault of the poets; but that “Phædra” contained nothing but what was morally virtuous. The audience, consisting of young jansenist clergymen, smiled contemptuously; but M. Arnaud replied, “If it be so, there is no harm in this tragedy.”a Boileau declared he never felt so happy in his life as on hearing this declaration: he left the book, and returned a few days afterwards for the doctor’s opinion: it was favourable, and leave was given him to bring his friend the following day. Louis Racine’s account of the interview gives a singular picture of manners. “They (Boileau and Racine) went together; and, though a numerous company was assembled, the culprit entered, with humility and confusion depicted on his countenance, and threw himself at M. Arnaud’s feet, who followed his example, and they embraced. M. Arnaud / promised to forget the past, and to be his friend for the future – a promise which he faithfully kept.”b This same year Racine was named historiographer to the king, together with his friend. In some sort this may be considered fortunate; since, having renounced poetry, he might have neglected literature, had not this new employment given him a subject which he deemed exalted in its nature. How strangely is human nature constituted. Racine made a scruple of writing tragedies, or, indeed, poetry of any kind that was not religious. He believed that it was impious to commemorate in lofty verse the heroic emotions of our nature, or to dress in the beautiful colours of poetry the gentle sorrows of the loving heart: from such motives he gave up his best title to fame, his dearest occupation; but he had no scruple in following his sovereign to the wars, and in beholding the attack and defence of towns. “I was at some distance,” he writes to Boileau, “but could see the whole assault perfectly through a glass, which, indeed, I could scarcely hold steady enough to look through – my heart beat so fast to see so many brave men cut down.”c Still there was no scruple here, though the unjustifiable nature of Louis XIV.’s wars afforded no excuse for the misery and desolation he spread around. a For this anecdote, Mary Shelley follows LRR, p. 273, but compresses and modifies the meaning. In the original, Boileau argues that the rules of drama prescribe a moral end, that Racine’s drama follows these rules and that it is therefore morally virtuous. By ‘the poets’ is meant Racine’s classical sources. The young Jansenists regard Boileau’s arguments as the paradoxes of a morally uninstructed poet. b LRR, p. 274, but Mary Shelley omits Arnauld’s query as to why the character Hippolyte should be in love. c Source unlocated

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This contradiction strikes us yet more forcibly in his letters to his son, which are full of moral precepts, and just and enlightened advice on literary subjects. Had he been a soldier, it had made a natural portion of the picture; but that a man at once of a lively imagination, tender disposition, and pious sentiments, and who, we are told, evinced particular regard for his own person, should, day after day, view the cruelties and ravages of war en amateura shocks our moral sense. Racine was servile. This last worst fault he owed, doubtless, to his monkish education, which gave that turn to his instinctive wish to gain the sympathy and approbation of his associates. His devotion was servile. He deserves the praise, certainly, of preferring his God to his king; for he continued a jansenist, though the / king reprobated that sect and upheld the jesuits, as his own party; yet he never blamed Racine for his adherence to the Port Royal, so he was never tempted to abandon it. His veneration for the king – his fear, his adulation – were carried to a weakness. It is true that it is difficult for a bold, impossible for a feeble, mind to divest itself of a certain sort of worship for the first man of the age; and Louis was certainly the first of his. Racine also liked the refinements of a court; he prided himself on being a courtier. He succeeded better than Boileau, who had no ambition of the sort; yet he could never attain that perfect self-possession, joined to an insinuating and easy address, that marks the man bred in a court, and assured of his station in it. “Look at those two men,” said the king, seeing Racine and M. de Cavoie walking together; “I often see them together, and I know the reason. Cavoie fancies himself a wit while conversing with Racine, and Racine fancies himself a courtier while talking to Cavoie.”b It must not be supposed, however, that he carried his courtier-like propensities to any contemptible excess. His affectionate disposition found its greatest enjoyment at home; and he often left the palace to enjoy the society of his wife and children. His son relates, that one day, having just returned from Versailles to enjoy this pleasure, an attendant of the duke came to invite him to dine at the Hôtel de Condé. “I cannot go,” said Racine; “I have returned to my family after an absence of eight days; they have got a fine carp for me, and would be much disappointed if I did not share it with them.”c In the life of Boileau there is mention of the poet’s first campaign, and the pleasantries that ensued. Boileau never attended another; but Racine followed the king in several; and his correspondence with his friend from the camp is very pleasing. Whatever faults might diminish the brightness of his character, he had a charming simplicity, a warmth of heart, a turn for humour, and a modesty, that make us love the man. His life was peaceful: his attendance at court, domestic peace, / the open-hearted intimacy between him and Boileau, were the chief incidents of his life. “The friends were very dissimilar,” says Louis Racine; “but they a

As a dilettante. LRR, p. 291. Louis d’Oger, marquis de Cavoie (1640–1716), was a dashing soldier, patron of letters, and an adroit, ambitious courtier, but was well regarded for his probity and loyalty. c LRR, p. 292, loosely translated. b

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delighted in each other’s society: probity was the link of the union.”a He attended the academy also. It fell to him to receive Thomas Corneille, when he was chosen member in place of the great Corneille.b Racine’s address pleased greatly. His praise of his great rival was considered as generous as it was just. To this he added an eulogium on the king, which caused Louis to command him to recite his speech afterwards to him. At one time he was led to break his resolution to write no more poetry, by the request of the marquis of Seignelay, who gave a fête to the king at his house at Sceaux; and on this occasion Racine wrote his “Idyl on Peace.”c In a biography of this kind, where the events are merely the every-day occurrences of life, anecdotes form a prominent portion, and a few may here be introduced. Racine had not Boileau’s wit, but he had more humour, and a talent for raillery. Boileau represented to him the danger of yielding to this, even among friends. One day, after a rather warm discussion, in which Racine had rallied his friend unmercifully, Boileau said composedly, “Did you wish to annoy me?” “God forbid!” cried the other. “Well, then,” said Boileau, “you were in the wrong, for you did annoy me.” On occasion of another such dispute, carried on in the same manner, Boileau exclaimed, “Well, then, I am in the wrong; but I would rather be wrong than be so insolently right.”d He listened to his friend’s reprimand with docility. Always endeavouring to correct the defects of his character, he never received a reproof but he turned his eyes inward to discover whether it was just, and to amend the fault that occasioned it. He tells his son in a letter, that accustomed, while a young man, to live among friends who rallied each other freely on their defects, he never took offence, but profited by the lessons thus conveyed. Such, however, is human blindness, that he / never perceived the injurious tendency of his chief defect – weakness of character. He displays this amusingly enough in some anecdotes he has recorded of Louis XIV., in which the magnanimity of the monarch is lauded for the gentleness with which he reproved an attendant for giving him an unaired shirt.e Much of Racine’s time was spent at court – the king having given him apartments in the castle and his entrèes.f He liked to hear him read. He said Racine had the most agreeable physiognomy of any one at court, and, of course, was pleased to see him about him. He was a great favourite of madame de Maintenon, whom, in return, he admired and respected. There was a good deal of similarity in their a

Source unlocated in LRR. Thomas Corneille (1625–1709), lexicographer and dramatist, the younger brother of the famous tragedian; the occasion refers to his reception into the Académie Française. c Jean-Baptiste Colbert, marquis de Seignelay (1651–90), Secretary of State for the Navy and son of the famous finance minister Colbert, who purchased and enlarged the estate at Sceaux, near Paris. ‘Idyl’ is an alternative spelling. d Taken from LRR, p. 297. e Source unlocated. f Entrées, i.e. permission to attend at court and come in at certain entrances. b

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characters, and they could sympathise readily with each other. It is well known how, at this lady’s request, he unwillingly broke his resolve, and wrote two tragedies, with this extenuation in his eyes, that they were on religious subjects; indeed, he had no pious scruple in writing them; but, keenly sensitive to criticism, he feared to forfeit the fame he had acquired, and that a falling off should appear in these youngest children of his genius. The art of reciting poetry with ease and grace was considered in France a necessary portion of education. Racine was remarkable for the excellence of his delivery. At one time he had been asked to give some instructions in the art of declamation to a young princess; but, when he found that she had been learning portions of his tragedy of “Andromaque,” he retired, and begged that he might not again be asked to give similar lessons. In the same way, madame de Brinon, superior of the house of Saint Cyr,a was desirous that her pupils should learn to recite; and, not daring to teach them the tragedies of Corneille and Racine, she wrote some very bad pieces herself. Madame de Maintenon was present at the representation of one of these, and, finding it insufferable, she begged that it might not be played again, but that a tragedy of Corneille or Racine should be / chosen in which there was least love. “Cinna” was first got up, and afterwards “Andromaque.” The latter was so well played that madame de Maintenon found it ill suited for the instruction of young ladies: she wrote to Racine on the subject, saying, “Our little girls have been acting your “Andromaque,” and they performed it so well that they shall never act either that or any other of your tragedies again;” and she went on to beg that he would write some sort of moral or historical poem fit for the recitation of young ladies.b The request is certainly what we, in vulgar language, should call cool. Racine was annoyed, but he was too good a courtier to disobey – he has had his reward. He feared to decrease his reputation. In this he showed too great diffidence of his genius. The very necessity of not dressing some thrice-told heroic fable in French attire was of use; and we owe “Athalie,”c the best of all his dramas, to his demi-regal command. His first choice, however, fell naturally upon Esther. There is something in her story fascinating to the imagination. A young and gentle girl, saving her nation from persecution by the mere force of compassion and conjugal love, is in itself a graceful and poetic idea. Racine found that it had other advantages, when he imaged the pious and persuasive Maintenon in the young bride, and the imperious Montespan in the fallen Vashti. When the play was performed applications were found for other personages, and the haughty Louvois was detected in a

An Ursuline nun, protégée of Mme de Maintenon near St Cyr and headmistress of the girl’s school founded by the latter. b LLR, p. 306, citing letter of Marthe-Marguerite La Vallois de Villette-Mursay, comtesse de Caylus (1673–1727), daughter of Mme de Maintenon’s cousin and treated in French custom as her niece. c First performed 1690.

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Haman.a The piece pleased the lady who commanded it; but she found her labours begin when it was to be acted, especially when the young duchess of Burgundy took a part.b She attributed to the court the discontent about the distribution of parts, which flourishes in every green-roomc in the world, though it appertain only to a barn; however, success crowned the work. Esther was acted again and again before the king; no favour was estimated so highly as an invitation to be present. Madame de Caylus, niece of madame de Maintenon, was the best actress; and even the choruses, sung by the young pure / voices of girls selected for their ability, were full of beauty and interest. Charmed by the success, madame de Maintenon asked the poet for yet another tragedy. He found it very difficult to select a subject. Ruthd and others were considered and rejected, till he chose one of the revolutions of the regal house of Judah*, which was at once a domestic tragedy, and yet enveloped in all the majesty of royalty, and the grandeur of the Hebrew worship. Athaliah, on the death of her son Ahaziah, destroyed all the seed royal of the house of Judah, except one child, Joash, who was saved by Jehosheba, a princess of Israel, wife of Jehoiada the priest, and brought up by the latter till old enough to be restored to his throne, when he was brought out before the people, and proclaimed king, and the usurping queen, Athaliah, slain.e The subject of this drama, concerning which he hesitated so long and feared so much, he found afterwards far better adapted to the real development of passion than “Esther.” “Esther,” after all, is a young ladies’ play; and the very notion of the personages having allusion to the ladies of the court gives it a temporary and factitious interest, ill adapted to the dignity of tragedy. Racine put his whole soul in “Athalie.” His piety, his love of God, his * Vide 2 Kings, chap. xi., 2 Chronicles, chap. xxiii. a Esther, first performed 1689 (see de Sévigné’s account on p. 130), tells the Biblical story of the Jewish Queen, second wife of the Persian King Ahasuerus, who intercedes successfully to save her people. Vashti, the beautiful, proud first wife, was repudiated for refusing to appear before the king. Haman: King Ahasuerus’ chamberlain who tried to destroy the Jewish people; Louvois: François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois (1641–91), Minister of War. b Marie-Adélaïde de Savoie, duchesse de Bourgogne (1685–1712), wife of Louis de France, duc de Bourgogne (1682–1712), eldest son of Louis de France (1661–1711), the son and heir of Louis XIV. c Room used by actors for rehearsal or recreation. A few late 17th-century theatre records suggest that actors’ rooms were sometimes lined with green baize. Many travelling theatrical troupes in Mary Shelley’s day still performed in barns. d In the Book of Ruth, a Moabitish widow of a Jew adopts his faith and accompanies her widowed mother-in-law Naomi back to Bethlehem-Judah, where they are rescued from penury by a wealthy kinsman of Naomi’s. e At this period of Jewish history, ten of the twelve tribes of Israel formed the kingdom of Judah. Jehosheba was the sister of the murdered Ahaziah. A drama on the theme of restored legitimate rule was appealing to a royal court whose legitimacy rested on direct hereditary rule. Mary Shelley follows LRR, p. 315, in this account of Racine’s choices.

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reverence for priests, which caused him to clothe the character of Jehoiada in awful majesty; his awe for the great name of Jehovah, and his immediate interference with the affairs of the Jewish nation; his power of seizing the grandeur of the Hebrew conception of the Almighty gave sublimity to his drama, while the sorrows and virtues of the young Joash gave, so to speak, a virgin grace to the whole. He had erred hitherto in treading with uneasy steps in the path which the Greeks had trod before; but here a new field was opened. And, to enhance the novelty and propriety of the story, he added a versification more perfect than is to be found in any other of his plays. / Yet it was unlucky. It had been represented to madame de Maintenon, that it was ill fitted for the education of noble young ladies to cause them to act before a whole court; and that the art of recitation was dearly purchased by the vanity, love of display, and loss of feminine timidity thus engendered. “Athalie” was, therefore, never got up like “Esther.” It was performed, before the king and a few others, in madame de Maintenon’s private apartment, by the young ladies, in their own dresses. Afterwards it was performed at Paris with ill success. The author was deeply mortified, while Boileau consoled him by prophesying “le public reviendra;”a a prophecy which, in the sequel, was entirely fulfilled. Many letters of Racine to his family are preserved; which show us the course of his latter years. It was uniform: though a large family brought with it such cares as sometimes caused him to regret his having given up his resolution to turn monk. At home he read books of piety, instructed his children, and conversed with his friends. Boileau continued the most intimate. Often the whole family repaired to Auteuil, where they were received with kindness and hospitality: at other times he followed the king to Fontainebleau and Marli.b He had the place of gentleman in ordinary to the king (of which he obtained the survivancec for his son), and was respected and loved by many of the chief nobility. Racine, however, was not destined to a long life; and, while eagerly employed on the advancing his family, illness and death checked his plans. His son thinks that he pays him a compliment by attributing his death to his sensibility, and the mortification he sustained from the displeasure of the king. We, on the contrary, should be glad to exonerate his memory from the charge of a weakness which, carried so far, puts him in a contemptible light; and would rather hope that the despondency, the almost despair, he testified, was augmented by his state of health, as his illness was one that peculiarly affects the spirits. Like every person of quick and tender feelings, he was, at times, inclined to melancholy, and given a

‘The public will come again.’ Cited by LRR, p. 317, again quoting Mme de Caylus. Royal residences, the former a Renaissance palace built by François I south-west of Paris. Marly was a small hunting pavilion near Versailles built by Louis XIV as a truly private retreat; to be invited there was a mark of extreme royal favour. c Racine obtained permission for his eldest son to inherit this post, which would have cost 50,000 livres to purchase, in return for paying 10,000 livres to the previous holder’s widow. It was common to ensure that posts could be inherited. b

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to brood over / his anxieties and griefs. He rather feared evil than anticipated good; and these defects, instead of lessening by the advance of age and the increase of his piety, were augmented through the failure of his health, and the timid and cowardly tendency of his faith.a The glories of Louis XIV. were fast vanishing. Added to the more circumscribed miseries, resulting to a portion of his subjects from the revocation of the edict of Nantes, was the universal distress of the people, loaded by taxation for the purpose of carrying on the war.b Madame de Maintenon felt for all those who suffered. Her notions of religion, though not jansenist, yet rendered her strictly devout. To restore Louis to the practice of the virtues she considered necessary to his salvation, she had thrown him, as much as possible, into the hands of the jesuits. When the question had been his personal pleasures, she had ventured far to recal him to a sense of duty; but she never went beyond. If she governed in any thing, it was with a hidden influence which he could not detect: she never appeared to interfere; and her whole life was spent in a sacrifice of almost every pleasure of her own to indulge his tastes and enjoyments. Madame de Maintenon was very partial to Racine. His conversation, his views, his sentiments, all pleased her. One day they conversed on the distress into which the country was plunged. Racine explained his ideas of the remedies that might be applied with so much clearness and animation, they appeared so reasonable and feasible to his auditress, that she begged him to put them in writing, promising that his letter should be seen by no eyes but her own. He, moved somewhat by a hope of doing good, obeyed. Madame de Maintenon was reading his essay when the king entered and took it up. After casting his eyes over it, he asked who was the author; and madame de Maintenon, after a faint resistance, broke her promise – and named Racine. The king expressed displeasure that he should presume to put forth opinions on questions of state: – “Does he think / that he knows every thing,” he said, “because he writes good verses? Does he wish to be a minister of state, because he is a great poet?” A monarch never expresses displeasure without giving visible marks of dissatisfaction. Madame de Maintenon felt this so much that she sent word to Racine of what had passed, telling him, at the same time, not to appear at court till he heard again from her. The poet was deeply hurt. He feared to have displeased a prince to whom he owed so much. He grew melancholy – he grew ill: his malady appeared to be a fever, which the doctors treated with their favourite bark; but an abscess was formed on the liver, which they regarded lightly.

a In the next six paragraphs Mary Shelley follows closely (and criticises) Louis Racine’s interpretation of his father’s decline (LRR, pp. 334–42, especially pp. 336–7 and 339–40, including all quotations). b The revocation of the Edict of Nantes instigated an exodus of economically valuable Protestant artisans and merchants. This paragraph explaining French distresses is interpolated by Mary Shelley in what is otherwise close following of Louis Racine’s exposition.

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Being somewhat embarrassed in his means at this time, he was desirous of being excused the tax with which his pension was burdened; he made the request. It had been granted on a former occasion – now it was refused; yet with a grace: for the king, in saying “It cannot be,” added, “If, however, I can find some way of compensating him I shall be very glad.” Heedless of this promise, discouraged by the refusal, he brooded continually over the loss of royal favour. He began to fear that his adherence to the tenets upheld by the Port Royal might have displeased the king: in short, irritated by illness, depressed by his enforced absence from court, he gave himself up to melancholy. He wrote to madame de Maintenon on this new idea of being accused of jansenism. His letter does him little honour – it bears too deeply the impress of servility, and yet of an irritation which he ought to have been too proud to express. “As for intrigue,” he writes, “who may not be accused, if such an accusation reaches a man as devoted to the king as I am: a man who passes his life in thinking of the king; in acquiring a knowledge of the great actions of the king; and in inspiring others with the sentiments of love and admiration which he feels for the king. There are many living witnesses who could tell you with what zeal I have often combatted the little discontents which often rise in the minds of / persons whom the king has most favoured. But, madame, with what conscience can I tell posterity that this great prince never listened to false reports against persons absolutely unknown to him, if I become a sad example of the contrary?” Madame de Maintenon was touched by his appeal: she wished to, yet dared not, receive him. He wandered sorrowfully about the avenues of the park of Versailles, hoping to encounter her – and at last succeeded: she perceived him, and turned into the path to meet him. “Of what are you afraid?” she said. “I am the cause of your disaster, and my interest and my honour are concerned to repair it. Your cause is mine. Let this cloud pass – I will bring back fair weather.” – “No, no, madam,” he cried, “it will never return for me!” “Why do you think so?” she answered; “Do you doubt my sincerity, or my credit?” – “I am aware of your credit, madam,” he said, “and of your goodness to me; but I have an aunt who loves me in a different manner. This holy maiden prays to God each day that I may suffer disgrace, humiliation, and every other evil that may engender a spirit of repentance; and she will have more credit than you.” As he spoke there was the sound of a carriage approaching. “It is the king!” cried madame de Maintenon – “hide yourself:” and he hurried to conceal himself behind the trees. What a strange picture does this conversation give of the contradictions of the human heart. Here is a man whose ruling passion was a desire to attain eternal salvation and a fear to miss it; a man who believed that God called men to him by the intervention of adversities and sorrow; and that the truly pious ought to look on such, as marks of the Saviour’s love: and yet the visitation of them reduced him to sickness and death. He had many thoughts of total retirement; but he felt it necessary, for the good of his family and the advancement of his sons, to continue his attendance at court: for, though not allowed to see the king and 194

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madame de Maintenon privately, he still appeared at the public / levees. The sadness he felt at the new and humiliating part he played there, rendered this, however, a task from which he would gladly have been excused. The abscess on the liver closed, and his depression and sense of illness increased. One day, while in his study, he felt so overcome that he was obliged to give over his occupation and go to bed. The cause of his illness was not known: it was even suspected that he gave way pusillanimously to a slight indisposition – while death had already seized on a vital part. He was visited by the nobles of the court, and the king sent to make inquiries. His devotion and patience increased as his disease grew painful, and strength of mind sprang up as death drew near. He occupied himself by recommending his family to his friends and patrons. He dictated a letter to M. de Cavoie, asking him to solicit for the payment of the arrears of his pension for the benefit of the survivors. When the letter was finished, he said to his son, “Why did you not include the arrears due to Boileau in the request? We must not be separated. Write your letter over again; and tell Boileau that I was his friend till death.” On taking leave of this dear friend he made an effort to embrace him, saying, “I look on it as a happiness that I die before you.”a When it was discovered that an internal abscess was formed, an operation was resolved on. He consented to undergo it, but he had no hopes of preserving his life. “The physicians try to give me hope,” he said, “and God could restore me; but the work of death is done.”b Hitherto he had feared to die – but its near approach found him prepared and courageous. The operation was useless – he died three days after its performance, on the 21st of April, 1699, in his sixtieth year. It will be perceived that we have not said too much in affirming, that the qualities of his heart compensated for a certain weakness of character, which, fostered by a too enthusiastic piety, and the gratitude he owed to him whom he considered the greatest of monarchs, led him to waste / at court, and in dreams of bigotry, those faculties which ought to have inspired him, even if the drama were reprehensible, with the conception of some great and useful work, redounding more to the honour of the Creator (since he gifted him with these faculties) than the many hours he spent in his oratory. It is plain from his letters that something puerile was thus imparted to his mind, which, from the first, needed strengthening. Yet one sort of strength he gained. He had a conscience that for ever urged him to do right, and a mind open to conviction. Under the influence of his religious system, he was led rather to avoid faults than to seek to attain virtues. He had an inclination for raillery, which, through the advice of Boileau, he carefully restrained: he was fond of pleasure; religion caused him to prefer the quiet of his home: and, as the same friend said, “Reason brings most men to faith – faith has a

LRR, p. 342. More accurately Racine said to his son ‘And you too my son, do you want to do as the doctors and humour me?’ LRR, p. 343. b

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brought Racine to reason.”a Fearful of pain himself, he was eager to avoid causing it to others. In society he was pliant; striving to draw others out rather than endeavouring to shine himself. “When the prince of Condé passes whole hours with me,” he said to his son, “you would be surprised to find that I perhaps have not uttered four words all the time; but I put him into the humour to talk, and he goes away even more satisfied with himself than with me. My talent does not consist in proving to the great that I am clever, but in teaching them that they are so themselves.”b His faithful friendship for Boileau is one of the most pleasing circumstances of his life. His letters show the kindly nature of the intimacy. His wife and family often visited Auteuil; and Boileau, grown deaf, yet always kind, exerted himself to amuse or instruct, according to their ages, the children of his friend. Of his tragedies the most contradictory opinions will, of course, be expressed. We cannot admire them as the French do. We cannot admit the superior excellence of their plan, because they bring the most incongruous personages into one spot; and, crowding the events of years into a few hours, call that unity / of time and place: generally we are only shocked by the improbabilities thus presented; and when the author succeeds, it seems at best but a piece of legerdemain. Grandeur of conception is sacrificed to decorum, and tragedy resembles a dance in fetters. To this defect is added that of the choice of heroic subjects; which, while it brought the author into unmeet comparison with his masters, the Greeks, rendered his work a factitious imitation, leaving small space for the expression of the real sentiments of his heart; and he either fell into the fault of coldness, by endeavouring (vainly) to make his personages speak and feel as Greeks would have done, or incurred the censure applied to him of making his ancient heroes express themselves like modern Frenchmen. “Phædra” is the best of his heroic tragedies; and much in it is borrowed from Euripides. “Berenice” and “Britannicus” must always please more, because the conception is freer, as due solely to their author. “Athalie” is best of all; most original in its conception, powerful in its execution, and correct and beautiful in its language. There is, indeed, a charm in Racine’s versification that wins the ear, and a grace in his characters that interests the heart. There is a propriety thrown over all he writes, which, if it wants strength, is often the soul of grace and tenderness. Had he, at the critical moment when he threw himself into the arms of the priests, and indulged the notion that to fritter away his time at court was a more pious pursuit than to create immortal works of art, had he, we repeat, at that time, dedicated himself to the strengthening and elevating his mind, and to the composition of poetry on a system at once pure and noble, and yet true to the real feelings of our nature, “Athalie” had, probably, not been his chef d’œuvre; and, on his death-bed, he might have looked a

LRR, p. 298. This passage, from ‘When the Prince of Condé’ is taken from LRR, p. 292, but Mary Shelley has reversed the sentence order. The Prince of Condé is not named in the passage, but her identification is probably correct. b

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back with more pride on these testimonies of gratitude to God, for having gifted him with genius, than on the multitudinous times he had counted his rosary, or the many hours loitered away in the royal halls of Versailles. /

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FÉNÉLON. 1651–1715. T HERE is no name more respected in the modern history of the world, than that of Fénélon. In the ancient, that of Socrates competes with him. It might be curious and useful to compare christian humility with pagan fortitude in these illustrious men. The death of Socrates crowned his life with undying fame.a Fénélon suffered no martyrdom for his faith, but he was unchanged by the temptations of a court, and bore injustice with cheerful resignation. Amidst the roughness and almost rusticity of Socrates, there was something majestic and sublime, that inspired awe:* the gentleness and charity of Fénélon, so simple and true in all its demonstrations, excites a tender reverence. The soul of both was love. Socrates mingled wisdom with his worship of the beautiful, which to him typified the supreme Being. Fénélon, in adoring God, believed, that to love the supreme Being was the first, and, if properly accomplished, the only duty of human beings. François de Salignac de la Mothe Fénélon, was born at the château of Fénélon, in Perigord,b on the 6th of August, 1651. His family was ancient and illustrious. His father had been previously married, had several children, and was advanced in years; which caused his relations to oppose his second marriage, especially as the lady of his choice had but small fortune. She was, however, of a high family, being of the same, though a younger branch, as the countess of Soissons, wife of the / famous prince Eugène’s elder brother.c Mademoiselle de la Cropte added * Plato’s Symposium.d a Socrates, archetype of the pagan martyr for truth, was condemned to drink hemlock because his teachings allegedly corrupted Athenian youth. His exemplary death is recounted in Plato’s Phaedo. He was much admired by the 18th-century French philosophes such as Diderot, and by both Shelleys. b Province in the south-west of France. c Eugène, Prince of Savoy (1663–1736), leading general for the Austrian Habsburgs in the War of Spanish Succession. His elder brother, Louis-Thomas de Savoy, comte de Soissons (1657–1704) married Uranie de la Copte-Beauvais. Mary Shelley is probably following Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 10–11 here. d The reference is to Alcibiades’ speech in Plato’s Symposium, saying that Socrates has the outward form of a satyr, but a nature within so wonderful ‘that every thing which Socrates commands surely ought to be obeyed, even like the voice of a God’ (P. B. Shelley’s translation, which Mary Shelley had transcribed in 1818 and which she was to publish, with excisions, in 1839).

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349775-8

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beauty and merit to her distinguished birth. As the child of his old age, the count de Fénélon educated his younger son carefully; his gentle, affectionate nature soon displayed itself, and caused him to be beloved. His constitution was delicate, even to being weakly; but such care was taken to fortify it, that he became capable of great bodily and mental labour. His lively, just, and penetrating mind, – his upright, generous, and feeling heart, – his peculiarly happy dispositions, were perceived by his father in childhood, and cultivated: he was early taught to aspire to regulate his conduct by virtuous principles; and the natural instinct for justice which distinguished him, inclined him to listen and obey. His disposition being flexible and mild, he soon took pleasure in fulfilling his duties, in order, and in attention. Anecdotes are told of his display of reason and his gentleness, during childhood. Religiously and kindly educated, he early learnt to examine his own motives, and to restrain himself; docility was natural to him; but added to this, he already showed toleration for the faults of others. His health being delicate, it was resolved not to send him to any school; a tutor was engaged, happily formed for the task. The young Fénélon was treated neither with severity nor caprice; his lessons were made easy and agreeable, and his capacity rendered the acquisition of knowledge agreeable. At the age of twelve he wrote French and Latin with elegance and facility, and was well advanced in Greek. He had studied with care, and even imitated, the historians, poets, philosophers, and orators of the ancient world. His mind was thus refined and enriched, and he never lost his taste for ancient learning, while he carried into religious studies the good taste, grace, and variety of knowledge he acquired. Being early destined for the ecclesiastical state, no doubt care was taken to direct his studies in such a way as best accorded with a taste for retirement; and that submission and docility were inculcated as virtues of the first order. Submission / and docility he had, but they were based on nobler principles than fear or servility. They arose from a well-regulated mind, from charity, gentleness, and a piety that animated rules and obedience with the warm spirit of love of God. It was necessary for the purposes of a clerical education, that he should quit his paternal roof. There was a university at Cahors,a not far distant, and the abbé de Fénélon (as he was then called) was sent there, at the age of twelve. He did not at first enter on the course of philosophy; although sufficiently advanced, it was feared that his young mind was not as yet capable of the attention that it required, and that he might be disgusted by its dryness, and the difficulties presented. He began, therefore, with a course of rhetoric, which forced him to retread old ground, and to relearn what he already knew. Being so well advanced, he was, of course, greatly superior in knowledge to his equals in age: but this excited no vanity; he felt that he owed the distinction to the cares bestowed on his early years.

a Cahors was a university town in the north-west of the province of Languedoc, in the southwest of France.

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By the age of eighteen, he had finished his course of theology; he took his degree in the university of Cahors, and returned to his family.a The marquis de Fénélon, his uncle, invited him to his house in Paris, and treated him as his son. The marquis was lieutenant-general of the armies of the king, a man of distinguished valour, and a friend of the great Condé, who said of him, that “he was equally qualified to shine in society, in the field, and in the cabinet.”b He added piety to his more worldly qualities, and soon perceived and took pride in the admirable dispositions of his nephew. At the age of nineteen, the abbé preached sermons that were generally applauded. This success alarmed his uncle. He perceived the pure and upright character of his nephew; but, aware of his sensibility, he feared that public applause might spoil him, and substitute vanity for the holy love of duty that had hitherto actuated his conduct. From these reasons, he counselled him to retire from the world, and to / enter a seminary, where in solitude and silence he might cultivate the virtues best suited to an ecclesiastic. Fénélon yielded; he entered the seminary of Saint Sulpice, and put himself under the direction of the abbé Tronson, who was its superior-general.c The house was celebrated for its piety, its simple manners, its pure faith, and, added to these, its studious and laborious pursuits. He passed five years in this retreat, devoted to his duties and to the acquirement of knowledge. Thus were the ardent years of early youth spent in religious silence and obedience – in study and meditation. There was no worldly applause to flatter, no fame to entice; his happiness consisted in loving his companions, and being attached to his duties. His mind became strengthened in its purposes by example, and his virtues confirmed by habit. At the age of twenty-four he entered holy orders; and his future destiny as a priest was unalterably fixed. A catholic priest’s duties are laborious and strict. Fénélon fulfilled them conscientiously; he visited the sick, he assisted the poor. He was attentive at the confessional, and in catechismal examinations; the obscure labours which, when sedulously followed up, amount to hardships, but which are the most meritorious and useful of an ecclesiastic’s duties, were so far from being neglected, that Fénélon devoted himself to them with zeal and assiduity. He had an exalted notion of the sacred office which he had taken on himself, looking on it as that of mediation between God and man. Humble, gentle, and patient, he never sought the rich, nor disdained the poor; nor did he ever refuse his counsel and assistance to any one who asked them. Content to be in the most useful, but the humblest class of priests, he neither sought to rise, nor even to be known.d His zeal, however, was not satisfied by his exertions in his native country. He resolved to emigrate to Canada, and to devote his life to the conversion of the a

Cf. Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 11–13. Quotation from Butler, p. 5. The marquis de Fénelon-Magnac (1625–95) was a noted Catholic layman. c Louis Tronson (1622–1700). d The preceding two paragraphs appear to be based on Fénelon, vol. I, 15–18. b

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savages; and when considerations of health prevented the fulfilment of this plan, he turned his eyes to the / East. We read with interest his fervent expressions on this subject, which show how deeply he was imbued with the love of the good and the beautiful. “All Greece opens itself to me,” he wrote to a friend; “the sultan retires in affright; the Peloponnesus already begins to breathe in freedom; again will the church of Corinth flourish; again will she hear the voice of her apostle. I feel myself transported to these delightful regions; and while I am collecting the precious monuments of antiquity, I seem to inhale her true spirit. When will the blood of the Turks lie mingled with the blood of the Persians on the plains of Marathon, and leave Greece to religion, to philosophy, and the fine arts, which regard her as their native soil! – ‘Arva beata! Petamus Arva divites et insulæ!’”a

He was turned from this project by objects of infinite importance in his native country. M. de Harlay, archbishop of Paris, heard of his merits, and named him Superior to the convent of new converts in Paris.b The spirit of proselytism was abroad in France, as the only excuse for the persecution of the Huguenots; and missions were sent into various provinces. It was important to select for missionaries men suited to the task, well versed in controversy, benevolent, patient, and persuasive. Louis XIV. was informed of the peculiar fitness of Fénélon to the office through his sweetness and sincerity, and appointed him to the province of Poitou.c Fénélon accepted the office, making the sole request, that the military should be removed from the scene of his mission. With a heart penetrated by a love of God, and reverence for the church, he devoted himself to his task with zeal and ability, treating his proselytes with a gentleness and charity that gained their hearts. He listened to their doubts and their objections, and answered all; consoling and encouraging, and adopting, for their conversion, a vigilance, an address, and a simplicity that charmed and persuaded. Do we not find in this occupation / the foundation for his toleration for all religious sects? While hearing the ingenuous and sinless objections to catholicism raised by his young and artless converts, he a

Let us seek the Fields, the Happy Fields, and the Islands of the Blest’ (Horace, Epodes, XVI. 41–2, Loeb tr.). This paragraph, including the quoted letter, is based on Butler, pp. 21–3. Fénelon is envisaging the liberation of Greece from Turkish rule, including the south-west peninsula of the Peloponnesus and the city of Corinth, just as the Greeks defeated the Persian army at Marathon in 490 BC . Mary Shelley’s selection of this passage is particularly pointed in view of the support given among herself and her circle (by P. B. Shelley, Byron and Trelawny especially) to the ultimately successful Greek war of Independence (1821–9); see vol. 4, ‘Cry of War to the Greeks’; she implies, here, that fervent pro-Hellenism and devout Christianity are not necessarily incompatible. b François de Champvallon (1625–95), Archbishop of Rouen, then Paris, appointed Fénelon to preach to French Protestants newly converted to Catholicism under government pressure. c The region surrounding Poitiers in western France.

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must have felt that God would not severely condemn a faith to which no blame could be justly attached, except (as he believed) that it was a heresy. During the exercise of this office, he became acquainted with the celebrated Bossuet.a This great man began his career by an engagement of marriage with mademoiselle des Vieux, a lady of great merit, who afterwards, impressed with a sense of the career which his eloquence would procure him in the church, consented to give up the engagement. As a priest, he became celebrated for his sermons, till his pupil Bourdaloue surpassing him, he yielded his place to him.b His reputation as an orator rests on his funeral orations: these bear the impress of a lofty and strong mind, and are full of those awful truths which great men ought to hear and mark.* Louis XIV. named him governor of the dauphin, on which he resigned his bishopric of Condom, that he might apply himself more entirely to so arduous a task as the education of the heir to the throne of France.c He wrote his Discourse on Universal History, which Voltaire and D’Alembert both pronounce

*Among such, how beautifully is the following thought expressed: “On voit tous les dieux de la terre dégradés et abimés dans l’éternité, comme les fleuves demeurent sans nom et sans gloire, mêlés dans l’océan avec les rivières les plus inconnues.” More known is the apostrophe on the sudden death of Henrietta of England, duchess of Orleans, when his audience wept, as he exclaimed, “O nuit désastreuse, nuit effroyable, où retentit tout-à-coup, comme un éclat de tonnerre, cette accablante nouvelle, madame se meurt, madame est morte!” D’Alembert praises yet more the conclusion of his oration on the great Condé, when he took leave for ever of the pulpit, and, addressing the hero whom he was celebrating, said, “Prince, vous mettrez fin à tous ces discours. Au lieu de déplorer la mort des autres, je veux désormais apprendre de vous à rendre la mienne sainte; heureux, si averti par ces cheveux blancs du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration, je réserve au troupeau, que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes d’une voix qui tombe, et d’un ardeur qui s’eteint.” “The touching picture,” says D’Alembert, “which this address presents of a great man no more, and of another great man about to disappear, penetrates the soul with a soft and profound melancholy, by causing us to contemplate the vain and fugitive splendour of talents and reputation, the misery of human nature, and the folly of attaching ourselves to so sad and short a life.”d a Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704), preacher, cleric, political theorist and historian as well as tutor to the Dauphin, successively Bishop of Condom, then of Meaux, a diocese east of Paris. b Based on Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, pp. 172–5. c Bossuet’s bishopric was in Gascony, in the south-west of France; his pupil was Louis ‘the Grand Dauphin’ (1661–1711), at the time heir to Louis XIV. d ‘One beholds all the gods of the earth degraded and plunged into the abyss of eternity, like the rivers which dwell without name or glory, mingled in the ocean with the most unknown streams.’ ‘Oh disastrous night, oh terrible night, when there rang out the cry, all of a sudden like a clap of thunder, this overwhelming news, Madame is dying, Madame is dead!’. ‘Madame’ was the honorary title of Henrietta d’Orleans; her death was so sudden that poison was suspected. This is also quoted in Voltaire, Siècle, vol II, p. 174. ‘Prince, you will put an end to all these speeches. In place of mourning the death of others, I would henceforth learn from you to make my own holy; happy if, warned by these white hairs of the reckoning I must give of my tenure, I keep for my flock, which I must nourish with the Word of Life, the remains of a failing voice, and a dying flame.” All quotes from Éloges, pp. 145, 147–8.

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to be a sketch bearing the stamp of a vast and profound genius.a He / describes the manners and government, the growth and fall of empires, with majestic force, with a rapid pen, and an energetic conception of truth. When the education of the dauphin was completed, the king made him bishop of Meaux; and he employed himself in writing controversial works against the protestants. Fénélon became at once the friend and pupil of this great man. He listened to him with docility: he admired his erudition and his eloquence; he revered his character, his age, his labours. He visited him at Germigny, his country residence; where they had stated hours of prayer, meditation, and conversation; and passed their days in holy and instructive intercourse. Fénélon lived also in society with the most distinguished and excellent men of the age. The duke de Beauvilliers,b governor of the duke of Burgundy, had begged him to write a treatise on the education of girls; of which task Fénélon acquitted himself admirably. His first chapters, which relate equally to both sexes, are the foundation of much of Rousseau’s theory on the subject of education.c He insists on the importance of the female character in society, and the urgent reasons there are for cultivating their good sense, and giving them habits of employment. “Women,” he says, “were designed by their native elegance and grace to endear domestic life to man; to make virtue lovely to children, to spread around them order and grace, and give to society its highest polish. No attainment can be above beings whose aim it is to accomplish purposes at once so useful and salutary; and every means should be used to invigorate, by principle and culture, their native elegance.”d In addition to this treatise, he wrote one on the ministry of pastors,e the object of which was to prove the superiority of the Roman catholic institution of pastors over the ministers of the reformed religion. The duke de Beauvilliers was fully aware of the greatness of his merit. He was the governor of the sons of the dauphin; the elder, and apparent heir to the crown, the duke of Burgundy, was a child of / ardent temperament and great talents; but impetuous, haughty, capricious, and violent. The duke was a man of virtue; he added simplicity of mind to a love of justice, a gentle temper, and persuasive manners; he felt the importance of his task, and was earnest to procure the best assistance; at his recommendation, Fénélon was named preceptor to the princes.* Men of the first talent were associated in the task of education; the duke * D’Alembert well remarks, that the criterion by which to judge of kings, is the men in whom they place confidence. He enumerates those most trusted and favoured by Louis XIV. a The exact words are from D’Alembert’s Éloges, p. 152; Voltaire’s praise for the book is to be found in his Siècle, vol. II, pp. 172–5. b Paul, duc de Beauvillier (or Beauvilliers) (1648–1714), son of a famous courtier, known for his integrity and devoutness, a general and minister without portfolio, as well as Governor of the three eldest grandsons of Louis XIV. His pupil, Louis, Duke of Burgundy (1682–1712) was the eldest son of the Grand Dauphin. c This paragraph follows Ramsay, pp. 6–7. See also ‘Rousseau’. d Almost certainly cited, slightly changed, from Butler, pp. 35–6. e Traité du ministère des pasteurs.

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de Beauvilliers was governor; the abbé de Langeron reader; he was a man of lively and amiable disposition, friendly and kind, with a mind enlightened by study. The abbé de Fleury, under-preceptor, is celebrated by his works.a These men, and others, all united in a system which had the merit of success, and was founded on a knowledge of the human heart, joined to that of the peculiar disposition of their pupil: pupil we say, because, though there were three princes, the eldest, who was just seven years of age, was the chief object of their labours. They excited his curiosity in conversation, and awakened a desire to become acquainted with some portion of history, which led also to a geographical knowledge of various countries. He was taught the principal facts of ancient and modern history by dialogues; the knowledge of morals was inculcated by fables. As at first the vehemence of / his temper frequently led him to deserve punishment, they contrived that the privation of a walk, an amusement, or even of his accustomed tasks, should take that form; added to these, when he transgressed flagrantly, was the silence of his attendants; no one spoke to him; till at last this state of mute loneliness became intolerable, and he confessed his fault, that he might again hear the sound of voices. Candour, and readiness to ask forgiveness, were the only conditions of pardon; and to bind his haughty will more readily, all those who presided over his education frankly acknowledged any faults which they might commit towards him; so that the very imperfections of his masters served as correctives of

The dukes de Montausier and Beauvilliers, governors to his son and grandson; Bossuet and Fénélon, their preceptors; with Huet and Fleury, men of learning and rare merit, under them.b Added to these selections for one especial object, we may name Turenne, Condé, Luxembourg,c Colbert, and Louvois, as his generals and ministers; and when we also recollect the appreciation he displayed for Boileau, Racine, Molière, and others, we may conclude that this monarch deserved much of the applause bestowed on him. Had madame de Maintenon been a woman of enlightened and noble mind, and added to her persuasive manners and the charms of her intellect a knowledge of the true ends of life, and have induced Louis to seek right in the study of good, instead of the dicta of churchmen, his latter days had been as glorious as his first, and it would not have remained for evermore a stain on the French church, that his persecutions and bigotry sprung from his confidence in its clergy. We are told, indeed, that she exerted herself meritoriously on occasion of the choice of Fénélon. Louis did not perceive the merit of this admirable man, calling him a mere bel-esprit. Madame de Maintenon advocated his being chosen preceptor, from his being the most virtuous ecclesiastic at court; a consideration which persuaded the king.d a Claude Fleury (1640–1723), historian and educational theorist, author of 20 of the 36 volumes of the Histoire ecclésiastique, begun 1691. b The preceding is based on Éloges, p. 149, slightly adapted. Huet: Pierre-Daniel Huet (1630–1721), polymath considered the most learned man of his age; an outstanding Hellenist and Hebraist as well as apologist for the new novel. c François-Henri de Montmorency-Bouteville, duc de Luxembourg (1628–95), a key general. d Source unlocated.

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his own. This system was admirably adapted to the generous and fervent nature of the young prince. He became gentle, conscientious, and just. His love for his preceptor, under his wise fosterage, was extended to a love for his fellowcreatures. Fénélon had a deep sense of his responsibility to God and man in educating the future sovereign of France. He studied his pupil’s character; he adapted himself to it. Nature had done even more in fitting him: his enthusiasm, joined to his angelic goodness, excited at once the love and reverence of the prince, at the same time that he was the friend and companion of his hours of pastime. He conquered his pride by gentleness, by raillery, or by a dignified wisdom, which convinced while it awed. When the boy insolently asserted his superiority, Fénélon was silent; he appeared sad and reserved, till the child, annoyed by his change of manner, was brought to a temper to listen docilely to his remonstrances. His disinterestedness and truth gave him absolute power, and the boy eagerly acknowledged his error. He spared no labour or pains.a We owe his fables, many of his dialogues, and his great work, Telemachus, to his plan of forming the mind and character of his pupil.*b Religion, / of course, formed a principal portion * Voltaire asserts that this idea is a mistake. He assures us (Siècle de Louis XIV., chap. 32) that the marquis de Fénélon, the archbishop’s nephew, declared the contrary, and related that the writing of Telemachus was his uncle’s recreation, when exiled at Cambray. Voltaire considers this statement supported by his notion that no priest would have made the loves of Calypso and Eucharis the subject of a work to be placed in a young prince’s hands.c His assertion, however, is liable to many objections. Fénélon was exiled in 1697. Telemachus was put into a printer’s hands in Paris in 1698; and was published in Holland in 1699, the year in which the brief of the pope, condemning the Maxims of the Saints, was issued. This interval, which did not include, when the months are numbered, more than a year and a half, was employed by the archbishop in composing replies to Bossuet’s attacks; and we discover no moment of leisure for Telemachus. Nothing can be more futile than Voltaire’s other objection. The loves of Calypso and Eucharis are, indeed, touched with the tenderness and warmth that characterised Fénélon, but are such as he would consider exemplifying the temptations and corruptions of a court, and suited both to warn his pupil against them, and to show him the path of escape. Fénélon was in the habit of composing fables for the instruction of the prince, while a child, and dialogues for the same purpose, as he advanced in age. There is every reason to believe that he prepared Telemachus to be put into his hands at the dawn of manhood. This idea is the great charm of the work. It excuses its monitorial tone; it explains the nature of the instruction it conveys. It is a monument of the principles of government and morals which he deemed adapted to the sovereign of a great kingdom. As merely a work written to amuse himself, it is pedantic, and, in a Preceding material, from the reference to the Abbé Fleury to this point, is based on Ramsay, pp. 10–13. Cf. Godwin’s treatment of his protégé, Thomas Cooper (vol. 4, pp. 32–9). b Les Aventures de Télémaque (1699), many times translated and reprinted in the 18th century. Mary Shelley read it in childhood (see MWSN, vol. 8, p. 382) and also in 1816 and 1822. Telemachus is the story of the son of Homer’s legendary hero, Ulysses, and his travels around the classical world in the company of his wise tutor, Mentor. c Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, p. 176. In Greek mythology, the siren Calypso inhabited the island of Cythera (Cyprus); she represents the effeminising danger of erotic passion which the young prince must withstand. Eucharis is Calypso’s rival for Telemachus’ affections, whom he also eventually rejects.

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of his system. He often said that kings needed religion more than their subjects; that it might suffice to the people to love God, but that the sovereign ought to fear him. The duke of Burgundy grew devout, and the charity that formed the essence of his preceptor’s soul passed into his. It is impossible to say what France would have become if this prince had reigned. The energy of his character gave hope that he would not have been spoilt by power, which, in the course of nature, he would not have inherited till he was more than thirty; when his views would have been enlightened by experience, and his virtues confirmed by habit. He had none of the ordinary kingly prejudices in favour of war and tyranny. He was highminded, yet humble; full of talent, of energy, and respect for virtue. His early death destroyed the hope of France; and hence ensued the misrule which the revolution could alone correct.a Fénélon continued long unrecompensed. The king bestowed a small benefice on him; but he was passed over when other preferment presented itself. On the death of Harlay, it was expected that he would be / named archbishop of Paris; but it was bestowed, on the contrary, on Noailles, whose nephew had married madame Maintenon’s niece.b Soon after, however, he was named archbishop of Cambray. Madame de Coulanges, writing to madame Sévigné, says that Fénélon appeared surprised at his nomination; and, on thanking the king, represented to him that he could not regard that gift as a reward, whose operation was to separate him from his pupil; as the council of Trent had decided that no bishop could be absent more than three months in the year from his diocese, and that only from affairs important to the church. The king replied, by saying that the education of

parts, almost childish; as a manual for the young and ardent prince, who was destined to succeed Louis XIV., to consult when entering into life, it is the best book that was ever written.c a

Mary Shelley attributes the 1789 revolution to royal misgovernment, and also implicitly endorses its necessity. b Louis-Antoine de Noailles (1651–1729), became Cardinal-Archbishop of Paris; his nephew Andrieu-Maurice married Françoise-Charlotte d’Aubigné. Cambrai was in the northeast of France near the border with the Spanish Netherlands (approximately present-day Belgium). c Godwin’s Political Justice (1793) had argued that given the choice of saving a chambermaid or Fénelon from a fire, Fénelon should be saved, even if the chambermaid were one’s mother, because of the immeasurably greater benefit to mankind diffused by the thousands who had been cured of vice and error through reading Telemachus. His 1796 revision modified the theoretical choice to Fénelon and a valet while his Thoughts on […]Dr Parr’s Spital Sermon (1800) went further in conceding the moral claims of the ‘culture of the heart’ and the domestic affections. He also there admitted that the elder Brutus and Bonaparte would have been more persuasive examples of persons upon the preservation of whose lives depended the liberties of nations, whereas ‘the benefit to accrue from the writing of books is too remote an idea, to strike and fill the imagination’. Unlike Godwin, Mary Shelley foregrounds its value as a manual for a ruler, to whom it teaches the primary duty of making his people happy, and thereby carefully defines in what sense Telemachus can be regarded as the best book ever written.

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the prince was of the greatest importance to the church, and gave him leave to reside nine months of the year at Cambray, and three at court.a Fénélon, at the same time, gave up his two abbeys, having a scruple of conscience with regard to pluralities.*b We have now arrived at the period when Fénélon’s career was marked by persecution instead of reward; and he himself became immersed in controversies and defence, which, though admirable in themselves, absorbed a talent and a time that might have been far more usefully employed. We must go back a short time, to trace the progress of circumstances that led to his disgrace and exile. The characteristic of the French church during the reign of Louis XIV. was its spirit of controversy and persecution. We do not speak of the Huguenots; they were out of the pale of the church. But first came jansenism, which declared that faith and salvation depended on the immediate operation of the grace of God. This doctrine was supported by the sublime genius of Pascal – by the logic and virtues of Arnaud; and boasted of the first men of the kingdom, Racine, / Boileau, Rochefoucauld, &c., as its disciples. The king was taught by the jesuits to believe that the sect was dangerous, its supporters intriguers, and the whole system subversive of true piety. Fénélon declared himself the opposer of jansenism. He looked upon the free will of man as the foundation of religion, and considered the elective gracec of the jansenists as contradictory of the first principles of christianity. In his opinion, love of God was the foundation of piety; and he found in the writings and doctrines of madame Guyond the development and support of his ideas. Madame Guyon, a lady of irreproachable life, who from the period of an early widowhood had devoted herself to a life of piety, was an enthusiast. Her soul was penetrated with a fervent love of God, and so far she merited the applause of christians; but by considering that this heavenly love was to absorb all earthly affection, she impregnated the language, if not the sentiment of divine love, with expressions of ecstasy and transport that might well shock the simple-minded. In exposing this objectionable part of her writings, Bossuet apostrophises the * Le Tellier, archbishop of Rheims, remarked on this, that Fénélon did right, thinking as he did; and he did right, with his opinions. The worldly-mindedness of Le Tellier was so open as to cause him to say good things himself, and to be the cause of them in others. It was he who said of our James II., “There is a good man, who lost three kingdoms for a mass.” He said no man could be honest under five hundred a year. Inquiring of Boileau concerning a man’s probity, the satirist replied, “He wants an hundred a year of being an honest man.”e a

Mary Shelley paraphrases Sévigné (1820), vol. X, pp. 59–60, letter of 22 Feb. 1695. i.e. the practice of combining several ecclesiastical positions and their associated income. This account is based on Ramsay, pp. 14–15. c i.e. the doctrine that, foreseeing man’s propensity to sin because of the Fall of Adam, God had also predestined (elected) some to be given the grace to achieve salvation. d Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de la Mothe-Guyon (1648–1717), the central figure in French Quietism. e Source unlocated. b

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seraphs, and entreats them to bring burning coals from the altar of heaven to purify his lips, lest they should have been defiled by the impurities he is obliged to mention.a The language of love is fascinating; and Fénélon, who believed the love of God to be the beginning and end of wisdom and virtue, might well use expressions denoting the dedication of his whole being to the delightful contemplation of divine perfection; but that he should approve expressions that diverge into bombast and rhapsody, is inexplicable, except as a proof that the wisest and best are liable to error. It is true that the catholic religion is open to such sentiment and phraseology. Nuns, who are declared the spouses of Jesus, are taught to devote the softer feelings of their hearts to their celestial husband; but certainly a well-regulated mind will rather avoid mingling questionable emotions and their expression with piety, even in their own persons; / and, above all, they ought to be on their guard against misleading others, by inciting them to replace a reasonable sense of devotion and gratitude to the supreme Being by ecstatic transports, which defeat the chief aim of religion, which is to regulate the mind. Madame Guyon thought far otherwise; at least, as regarded herself. Living in solitude, and in distant provinces, she indulged her enthusiastic turn, and wrote down effusions dictated by emotions she believed to be praiseworthy. She wrote simply, and without art; but her works were full of ardour. She allowed others to read them, and a portion was copied and published. Some of her readers were edified; others naturally recoiled from a style of sentiment and expression which, however we may love God, is certainly not adapted to any spiritual state of feeling. Her faith was, that we ought to love God so entirely for himself alone, that our salvation or damnation becomes indifferent to us, since we should be willing gladly to endure eternal misery, if such were the will of God. A notion of this kind confounds at once all true religion, since we ought to love God for his perfection; and the infliction of pain on the just, cannot be the work of a perfect Being. However, by reasoning on our imperfect state of ignorance and error, madame Guyon was able to make some show of argument, while her expressions are in many parts incomprehensible. She says, that “the soul that completely abandons itself to the divine will, retains no fear or hope respecting any thing either temporal or eternal,” – a doctrine subversive of the christian principle of repentance. She asserts that man is so utterly worthless, that it scarcely deserves his own inquiry whether he is to be everlastingly saved or not; that the soul must live for God alone, insensible to the turpitude and debasement of its own state. Added to this heresy, was her notion of prayer, which she made consist, not in the preferment of our requests to God, such as Jesus Christ taught, but in a state of mind / embued with the sense of God’s presence, and an assimilation of the soul with God’s perfection. Her health suffered from the constant excitement of her mind. It was considered that the climate of the province where she resided was injurious, and she visited Paris to recover. She became acquainted with the dukes de Beauvilliers a

Bossuet’s comment is quoted from Butler, p. 80.

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and Chevreuse;a her doctrines became known and discussed in Paris; madame de Maintenon was struck and attracted; Fénélon, his own heart full of love, became almost a convert; madame Guyon herself was full of talent, enthusiasm, and goodness; Fénélon became her friend, and denied the odious conclusions which her enemies drew from her doctrines.b As the doctrine gained ground, it met opposition. Des Marais, the bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese was Saint Cyr, the scene of these impassioned mysteries, became alarmed at its progress; and, with the deceit which a priest sometimes thinks he is justified in using in what he deems a righteous cause, he made use of two ladies of great repute for piety, as spies, and from their accounts of what passed in the society of Quietists, found sufficient cause of objection to the sect. Madame de Maintenon listened to his censures, and withdrew her favour. Fénélon saw the danger that threatened madame Guyon, and, steady in his attachment to one whom he considered worthy his friendship, he assisted her by his counsel. Following his advice, and secure in her own virtue, she applied to Bossuet. His manly and serious mind, strengthened by age, rejected at once her mysticism, while her personal merits won his esteem and condescension. It is a singular circumstance, and shows her candour, that she confided her thoughts and her writings far more unreservedly to Bossuet than to Fénélon. Bossuet saw her, explained his objections; and she acquiescing in every thing he suggested, he administered the sacrament to her; a token at once of her submission and his good opinion.c / Bossuet penetrated the real piety of the lady, and was unwilling to distress her by opposition, as long as her tenets were confined to her own mind. For what would be highly injurious if spread abroad, was innocuous while it related solely to herself. He therefore recommended retirement and quiet, to which she for a time adhered; but as she had the spirit of proselytism awake in her, she soon grew weary of obscurity, and applied to madame de Maintenon to prevail on the king to appoint commissioners to inquire into her doctrines and morals. The bishops of Meaux and Chartres, and M. Tronson, were accordingly named. For six months they held conferences, and discussed the subject. Bossuet admitted that he was little conversant with the writings of the mystical saints, whose doctrines and expressions were the model of those of madame Guyon; and Fénélon made a variety of extracts, at his request, which were to serve as authorities for the lady’s writings. At the conclusion of the conferences, thirty articles were drawn up, to which Fénélon added four; in which, without direct allusion to madame Guyon, the commissioners expressed the doctrines of the church of Rome on the disputed points. In these they name salvation as the proper subject of a christian’s desire a Charles-Honoré d’Albert de Luynes, duc de Chevreuse (1646–1712), soldier and politician, brother-in-law of the duc de Beauvillier. b This paragraph, and the exposition of Mme Guyon’s ideas in the preceding paragraph, draws on Butler, pp. 81–2. c This paragraph draws on Butler, pp. 82–3

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and prayer; and assert, that prayer does not consist in a state of mind, but in an active sense of resignation: they do not reprobate passive prayer; but they regard it as unnecessary; while they agree in the propriety of direct addresses to the Deity, and frequent meditation on the sufferings of the Saviour. Although these articles subverted her favourite doctrine of the holy state of mind being the life in God necessary to a christian, Madame Guyon, as a dutiful daughter of the church, signed the articles without hesitation.a Bossuet’s mind, however, was now awakened to the evils of quietism; and perceiving that it gained ground, he wrote his “Instruction sur les Etâts de l’Oraison,”b which he wished Fénélon to approve. The latter declined, as it denied in too unqualified a manner his belief in the / possibility of a pure and disinterested love of God, and denounced madame Guyon in too general and severe a manner. His refusal was not censured by his fellow bishops; but he was required to publish some work that should prove his adhesion to the thirty-four articles before mentioned. For this purpose he wrote his “Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la Vie intérieure.”c The style of this work is pure, animated, elegant, and winning; the principles were expressed carefully and with address. But this very act occasioned contradictions: he feared at once to be accused of giving too much to charity, too little to hope; of following Molinos, or of abandoning St. Theresa.d The bishops approved of his book in manuscript, declaring it, in energetic terms, to be a “book of gold:”e but the moment it was printed, the outcry against it was violent. Bossuet had not seen it previous to publication. Looking on false mysticism as injurious to true religion and morals, he thought that nothing should be written on the subject, except to condemn it; and that the true mystic, whose state was peculiar and unattainable by the many, should be left in peace with God.f So far we consider Bossuet to be in the right. Love of God being a duty, all that exalts and extends the sentiment into a passion, is at once fascinating and hurtful. The gentle and tender soul of Fénélon could see no evil in love: he thought to soften and purify the heart by spiritual passion; but Bossuet knew human nature better, and its tendency to turn all good to evil, when not tempered by judgment and moderation. He did well, therefore, to oppose the doctrines of madame Guyon; and, if possible, to enlighten his friend. Yet, even in reasoning, he was uncharitable; so that it has been said, comparing his harshness with Fénélon’s benignity, that Bossuet was right most revoltingly, and Fénélon in the wrong with sweetness.g This was the more apparent, when his conduct on the publication of a

The preceding draws on Butler, pp. 84–8, selectively. ‘Instructions for the States of Mind for Prayer.’ c ‘Explication of the Maxims of the Saints concerning the Inner Life.’ d Miguel de Molinos (1628–96), founder of Spanish Quietism. St Theresa: Theresa of Avila (1515–82), the famous Carmelite nun and mystic, and reformer of her order. e Ramsay, p. 44. f The preceding draws on Butler, pp. 89–92. g Source unlocated. b

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the book showed the cloven foot of intolerance and persecution. Henceforward, we love Fénélon, and condemn / his opponent. The latter had right on his side, on the question of doctrine; in conduct, he was entirely and deplorably in the wrong. French writers impute to him the base motives of envy and jealousy.a These passions exercise so covert an influence when they spring up in conscientious minds, that Bossuet might fancy himself urged by purer feelings. Still he cannot be justified. Either from fear that the king, who abhorred novelties in religion, would blame him severely, or wishing to make a deep impression, he threw himself at Louis’s feet, and besought “his pardon for not having sooner informed him of the fanaticism of his brother.”b Louis did not like Fénélon.* His elevation of character appeared to him pretension; and in the principles he instilled into his royal pupil he saw the condemnation of himself. These principles were so moulded by the spirit of christianity, that he could not object; but he gladly availed himself of the archbishop’s error, to destroy, as much as he could, the general esteem in which he was held, and to visit him with heavy penalties. Madame de Maintenon also became unfriendly: in matters of religion, she always adopted the views of Louis. Her good sense made her see the evil of quietism; and now that Fénélon was accused of it, she withdrew her kindness and support.c / Louis XIV. angrily denounced all the adherents of madame Guyon; he upheld Bossuet in demanding a formal retractation of the doctrines inculcated in the Maxims of the Saints; he refused to permit Fénélon to repair to Rome; his work having been referred to the pope, for a decision on it; but at once exiled him; that is, ordered * A letter of Fénélon is preserved, addressed to Louis XIV., and written before he was made archbishop. This letter predicts all the disasters that afterwards befell France; it speaks of the wrongs and sufferings of the people, and the misrule of the ministers, with freedom, vigour, and truth. There can be no doubt that the king never saw it. He would never have forgiven such interference with his measures or censures of the people about him. The language of truth would have been so odious that the speaker of it would never have been archbishop. The dislike of the king arose from another circumstance. After his elevation to the see of Cambray, Louis heard his peculiar sentiments discussed, and began to fear that the lessons of so good and pious a man would form a prince whose austere virtue and contempt for vain-glory would be a censure on his own reign – so filled with useless sanguinary wars – and magnificent pleasures, paid for by the misery of his people. That he might form a judgment on the subject, he had conversation with the new prelate upon his political principles. Fénélon, full of his own ideas, disclosed to the king a portion of that theory afterwards detailed in Telemachus. The king, after this conversation, said he had discoursed with the most clever, but most chimerical author in his kingdom. This story is told by Voltaire in his “Age of Louis XIV.” It was related to him by cardinal de Fleury, and M. Malezieux. The latter taught geometry to the duke of Burgundy, and learnt from his pupil the judgment of his royal grandfather. The letter to the king, alluded to above, is to be found in the notes to D’Alembert’s “Eloge de Fénélon.”d a

For example, Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, p. 309. i.e. his brother bishop; based on Voltaire, Siècle, vol. II, p. 311. c The account of Louis’s and Mme de Maintenon’s attitude is based on Butler, pp. 93–6. d Voltaire’s account is in Siècle, vol. II, p. 313; the letter is paraphrased within D’Alembert’s text in Éloges, p. 300. b

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him to repair immediately to his diocese, and there to remain. Fénélon wrote to madame de Maintenon, to deplore the king’s displeasure; and declared his readiness to submit to the decision of the holy see with regard to his book. He then quitted Paris: he stopped before the seminary of St. Sulpice, where the years of his early manhood had been spent in seclusion and peace; but he would not enter the house, lest the king should manifest displeasure towards its inhabitants for receiving him. From Paris he proceeded at once to Cambray.a Although we may pronounce Fénélon’s principles to be erroneous, his conduct was in every respect virtuous and laudable. Circumstances had engaged him in the dispute, and he believed that neither honour nor conscience permitted him to yield. As a bishop, it derogated from his dignity to receive the law from his equals in rank. He esteemed madame Guyon; she was unfortunate and calumniated; and he felt that it would be treacherous to abandon her, and much more so to ally himself to her enemies. He founded his opinion and conduct on the writings and actions of saints and holy men, and believed himself to be in the right. No personal interest could bend him; on the contrary, delicacy of feeling and zeal caused his attachment to his cause to redouble in persecution; while at the same time he was firm in his resolution to abandon it, if condemned by the church, his first principle being obedience to the holy see; looking upon that as the corner stone of the Roman catholic religion. His exile found him firm and resigned. The duke of Burgundy was more to be pitied: he threw himself at the king’s feet, offering to justify his preceptor, and answering for the principles of / religion which he had inculcated. Louis coldly replied, that M. de Meaux understood the affair better than either he or his grandson; and that therefore he had no power to grant a favour on the subject. To pacify the duke, he allowed Fénélon to retain for a time the title of preceptor. With this barren honour he returned to Cambray. Not long before his palace had been burnt to the ground, together with all his furniture, books, and papers. When he heard the news, he simply remarked, that he was glad this disaster had befallen his palace rather than the cottage of a peasant. On arriving at Cambray, he wrote to his excellent friend the duke de Beauvilliers, expressing his submission to the holy see, and his hope that he was actuated by pious and justifiable motives: “I hold by only two things,” he continues, “which compose my entire doctrine. First, that charity is a love of God, for himself, independent of the motive of beatitude which is found in him: secondly, that in the life of the most perfect souls, charity prevails over every other virtue; animating them, and inspiring all their actions; so that the just man, elevated to this state of perfection, usually practises hope and every other virtue with all the disinterestedness that he does charity itself.”b There is a mysticism in all this which it is dangerous to admit into a popular religion; but while we read, we feel wonderstruck and saddened to think how a a

The preceding draws on Butler, pp. 100–1. Quoted in Ramsay, p. 54. In the paragraph above, the account of the Duke of Burgundy’s plea draws on Butler, p. 104; Fénelon’s reaction to the palace fire is taken from Éloges, p. 287. b

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man so heavenly good as Fénélon, and so noble minded as Bossuet, could have drawn matter for hate and pain out of such materials: charity, love of God, the welfare of man, – such were the missiles levelled at each other; and human passion could tip with poison these celestial-seeming weapons. Sir Walter Scott has, with the wisdom of a sage, remarked, that it is matter of sadness to reflect how much easier it is to inflict pain than communicate pleasure.*a The controversy of Bossuet and Fénélon is a melancholy gloss on so true a text. The cause was now carried to Rome. The tenets of Fénélon objected to by Bossuet were two: – 1st, that a / person may obtain an habitual state of divine love, in which he loves God purely for his own sake, and without the slightest regard to his own interests, even in respect to his eternal happiness. 2dly, that in such a state it is lawful, and may even be considered an heroic effort of conformity to the divine will, to consent to eternal reprobation, if God should require such a sacrifice.b Certainly no general good could arise from men entertaining the belief that God might eternally punish those submissive to his law; and if we add to these fundamental objections the exaggerated point of view in which madame Guyon placed them, and Fénélon in some degree approved, maintaining the possibility of a state of divine love dependent only on faith and a kind of mental absorption in the deity, from which prayer and meditation on divine blessings were absent, and which confounded resignation with indifference to salvation, and conjoin to this unnatural supposition, the high-flown and, we may almost say, desecrating expressions with which it was supposed right to address the Deity, we cannot help siding with Bossuet’s opinions, while we blame his conduct, and admire that of Fénélon. The former carried on his cause at Rome through his nephew, the abbé Bossuet, and the abbé de Phillippeaux, both attached to the bishop de Meaux, but both tainted by all the violence of party spirit, which is always most virulent in religious disputes. The abbé de Chanterac, a relation of Fénélon, and his most intimate and confidential friend, a man of probity, gentleness, and learning, and inspired by a sincere affection and veneration for the archbishop, was the agent of the latter at Rome. At first the king and the bishop de Meaux fancied that the pope would at once condemn a book they reprobated: but Innocent XII. appointed a commission.c The commissioners stated objections. Bossuet and Fénélon were called upon to deliver answers. These answers were printed; and hence arose a controversy, now forgotten, but to the highest degree exciting at the time, in which Bossuet displayed all his energy and / eloquence, and Fénélon poured forth the treasures of his intellect and his heart. His writings on this * Lockhart’s Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. vi. a J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh: Robert Cadell, 1837), vol. VI, p. 202. b The preceding draws on Butler, pp. 106–7. c Innocent XII was pope from 1691 to 1700.

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occasion are considered his best.* His heart and soul were in them; yet they are now usually omitted from the editions of his works, as regarding a question which the church has set at rest for ever. The delay of the pope, and the popularity which Fénélon gained by his candour and simplicity, enraged the king. His distaste for his theories, which were founded on a belief in virtue, grew into a positive dislike and even hatred for the man, whom he now looked on as dangerous. With his own hand he erased his name, which had remained on the list of the royal household as preceptor to the princes; he dismissed his friends, the abbés Beaumont and Langeron, from their employments as sub-preceptors; he forbade the court to all his relations and many of his friends; and, added to these mundane inflictions, was the clerical insult of the Sorbonne, when it condemned twelve propositions drawn from his book. Fénélon observed on these indignities, – “Yet, but a little, and the deceitful kingdom of this world will be over. We shall meet in the kingdom of truth, where there is no error, no division, no scandal; we shall breathe the pure love of God; and he will communicate to us his everlasting peace. In the mean time, let us suffer, let us suffer. Let us be trodden under foot; let us not refuse disgrace: Jesus Christ was disgraced by us; may our disgrace tend to his glory!”a Nor would he listen to any advice to turn the tables on Bossuet, by accusing him, in his turn, / of error; but earnestly replied, “Moriamur in simplicitate nostrâ?”b Great indeed were the indignities that were heaped on Fénélon; if the untainted can be said to receive indignity from insult. A miserable maniac, who pretended to an improper intercourse with madame Guyon, was brought forward. She, then imprisoned in the castle of Vincennes, heard the accusation with calm contempt, and the confirmed madness of the poor wretch soon caused it to fall to the ground. Bossuet then published his “Account of Quietism,” which brought * D’Alembert, in his Eloge de Fénélon, pronounces these works on quietism to be his best. “Let us pardon this active and tender mind,” he says, “for having lavished so much fervour and eloquence on such a subject. He spoke of the delight of loving; as a celebrated writer says, ‘I know not if Fénélon were a heretic in asserting that God deserved to be loved for himself, but I know that Fénélon deserves to be thus loved.’” Bossuet felt his power, and said of him, as Philip IV. had said of Turenne, “That man made me pass many a wakeful night.” And a lady having asked him if the archbishop of Cambray had the talents that were attributed to him, Bossuet replied, “Ah, madam, he has sufficient to make me tremble.” Nettled by this talent, Bossuet was driven to attack his adversary by abuse. “Monseigneur,” replied Fénélon, “why do you use insults for argument? Do you then consider my arguments insults?” We must in justice record a noble reply of Bossuet to the king: “What should you have done,” said Louis, “if I had not supported you in your outcry against Fénelon?” “Sire,” replied the bishop, “my cry would have been yet louder.”c a Quoted from Butler, p. 113. The preceding section, starting with ‘The former carried on his cause at Rome’ is based on Butler, pp. 110–13. b ‘Let us die in our simplicity’. Quoted in Butler, p. 134, but not in Latin. c This blends quotations from Éloges, pp. 296–8 and (last quote) p. 165.

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forward many private letters, papers, and conversations, which tended to throw light on the characters of the partisans, which entertained all Paris, and excited a curiosity which this great man ought to have despised. The work, however, is decisive as to the folly and injurious nature of Quietism. Bossuet said that he had long condemned Fénélon’s notions concerning prayer, and was glad when madame Guyon referred to him, as this would afford him an opportunity to express his own opinions.a She confided to him all her manuscripts, and a history of her life, which for some reason she kept back from Fénélon. Bossuet saw much in her ecstacies and enthusiasm to disapprove, especially when rendered public, as well as in her pretended spirit of prophecy and of working miracles. He saw still more to condemn in her principles with regard to prayer, when she said that it was contrary to her doctrine to pray for the remission of her sins. Bossuet expressed his disapprobation to Fénélon, who defended her; and the writer remarks, that he was astonished to see a man of so great talent admire a woman of such slender knowledge and small merit, who was deceived also by palpable delusions.b Bossuet then goes on to express his opinion of the dangerous tendency of the “Maxims of the Saints,” against which the outcry had been spontaneous and general. “Can it be said,” he continues, “that we wish to ruin M. de Cambray? God is witness! But without calling so great a testimony, the fact speaks. Before his book / appeared, we concealed his errors, even to meriting the reproaches of the king. When his work came out, he had ruined himself. My silence was impenetrable till then. How can we be accused of jealousy? Could we envy him the honour of painting madame Guyon and Molinos in favourable colours? We desire and we hope to see M. de Cambray soon acknowledge at least the inutility of his speculations. It was not worthy of him, nor of the reputation he enjoys, nor of his character, his position, nor understanding, to defend the books of a woman of this kind; and we continually hear his friends lament that he displayed his erudition, and employed his eloquence, on such unsubstantial subjects.”c Such an exposition confounded even Fénélon’s friends: they drooped till his answer came, whose gentle, unaffected, yet animated eloquence convinced the public, and prevented it from any longer confounding his cause with that of madame Guyon. He called to witness those eyes that enlighten earthly darkness, that he was attached to no person nor book, but to God and the church only, and that he prayed unceasingly for the return of peace and the shortening the period of scandal, and that he was ready to bestow on M. de Meaux as many blessings as he had heaped crosses on him. He declared that he had long ago rejected his book, and been willing to be thrown into the sea to calm the storm, had he thought that his work could foster illusion or occasion scandal; but that he could not allow himself to be disgraced for the sake of his sacred calling. He appealed to Bossuet a

The preceding draws on Butler, pp. 116–18. Cited from Fénelon, vol. I, p. 150. In this exposition, Mary Shelley appears to be blending Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 145–57, with Butler. c Quoted in edited form from Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 155–7. b

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against himself, and showed with dignity, how injuriously he was treated, on being held up as an impostor by a man who once had called him, “his dear friend for life, whom he carried in his heart.” He then proved that he had not supported madame Guyon*, nor approved her visions, concerning / which Bossuet knew much more than he; and asserted that he had excused the intention, not the text, of her works. He proceeds, “Whatever conclusion the holy pontiff may give to this affair, I await it with impatience, desirous only of obeying; not fearing to deceive myself, only seeking peace. I hope that my silence, my unreserved submission, my horror for delusion, my dislike for every suspected book or person, will make manifest that the evil you deprecate is as chimerical as the scandal created is real.”a He concludes by throwing himself upon the support of God alone: single and destitute of human help, oppressed by the sovereign of a great nation, and its hierarchy, he declared that he should stand firm till the word should be pronounced by which he promised to abide. That word came. The pope condemned his book. With all the childlike simplicity that he so earnestly recommended to others, the learned and wise archbishop yielded instant obedience to a fiat which it was a portion of his faith to deem infallible. He was in the act of ascending his pulpit to preach, when he received a letter from his brother, which conveyed intelligence of the pope’s brief. Fénélon paused for a few moments to recollect himself; and then, changing the plan of his sermon, preached on the duty of obedience to the church. His calm and gentle manner, the sentiments it expressed, the knowledge that was abroad of how sorely his adherence to his doctrine was about to be tried, deeply moved his audience, inspiring it at once with respect, regret, and admiration.b He did not delay a formal and public announcement of his obedience. He addressed a pastoral letter to all the faithful of his district, saying in it, “Our holy father has condemned my book, entitled the ‘Maxims of the Saints,’ and has condemned in a particular manner twenty-three propositions extracted from it. We adhere to his brief; and condemn the book and the twenty-three propositions, simply, absolutely, and without a / shadow of reserve.”†c He sent his pastoral let* Poor madame Guyon, thus thrown over by both, suffered much persecution, and was frequently imprisoned. After her liberation from the Bastile she lived in obscurity; but Fénélon always regarded her with affection and respect. She was an enthusiast, full of imagination and talent; and though in error, yet ever declared herself an obedient daughter of the catholic church. † His pastoral letter is, at length, as follows: – “Nous nous devons à vous sans réserve, mes très chers frères, puisque nous ne sommes plus à nous, mais au troupeau qui nous est confié: c’est dans cet esprit que nous nous sentons obligés de vous ouvrir ici notre cœur et de continuer à a Quoted in Fénelon, vol. I, p. 176; the above paragraph draws on Butler, pp. 127, 130, 140– 1 and Fénelon, pp. 163–76. b The above paragraph draws on Butler, p. 145. c Quoted from Ramsay, pp. 64–6.

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ter to the pope, and solemnly assured his holiness, that he could never attempt to elude his sentence, or to raise any objections with regard to it.a To render his obedience clear and universal to the unlettered and ignorant of his diocese, he caused to be made for the altar of his cathedral a sun borne by two angels, one of whom was trampling on several heretical books, among which was one inscribed with the title of his own.b There is something deeply touching in this humility and obedience.c We examine it carefully to discover its real merits; what the virtues were that dictated it, and whether it were clouded by any human error. We must remember that Fénélon opposed the jansenists, who had sought to elude the papal decrees; that he supported the infallibility of his church, and considered that the pure catholicism rested chiefly on the succession of pastors who had a right to exact obedience from all christians; that the language he thought due to the papal

vous faire part de ce qui nous touche sur le livre des Maximes des Saints. Enfin notre très saint père le pape a condamnè ce livrè avec les vingt-trois propositions qui en ont été extraites, par un bref daté du 12 Mars. Nous adhérons à ce bref, mes très chers frères, tant pour le texte du livre que pour les vingt-trois propositions, simplement, absolument, et sans ombre de restriction. “Nous nous consolerons, mes très chers frères, de ce qui nous humilie, pourvu que le ministere de la parole que nous avons reçu du Seigneur pour votre sanctification n’en soit point affoibli, et que non obstant l’humiliation du pasteur, le troupeau croisse en grace devant Dieu. “C’est donc de tout notre cœur que nous vous exhortons à une soumission sincére et à une docilité sans réserve, de peur qu’on n’altère insensiblement la simplicité de l’obéissance, dont nous voulons, moyennant la grace de dieu, vous donner l’exemple jusqu’au dernier soupir de notre vie. “A Dieu ne plaise qu’il ne soit jamais parlé de nous, si ce n’est pour se souvenir qu’un pasteur a cru dévoir être plus docile que la derniere brebis de son troupeau, et qu’il n’a mis aucune borne à son obéissance. Donné à Cambrai, ce 9 Avril, 1699.”d a

This sentence summarises Butler, pp. 145–6. Éloges, p. 299. c Cf. Voltaire, Siècle, p. 314. d ‘We are in debt to you unreservedly, dearly beloved brethren, since we no longer belong to ourselves, but to the flock confided to us: it is in this spirit that we feel ourselves here obliged to open our heart, and to continue to make you share in what touches us concerning the book on the Maxims of the Saints. Our very Holy Father the Pope has finally condemned this book, together with twenty-three propositions extracted from it, by a papal brief dated 12 March. We support this brief, dearly beloved brethren, in respect of the text as much as of the twenty-three propositions, simply, absolutely, and without the shadow of any limitation. ‘We console ourselves, dearly beloved brethren, with what abases us, provided that the ministry of the Word which we have received from the Lord for your sanctification be not weakened, and that, notwithstanding the abasement of the pastor, the flock may grow in grace in the sight of God. ‘It is therefore with all our heart that we exhort you to submit sincerely and with unreserved docility, lest the simplicity of this obedience be insensibly distorted, which, through the grace of God, we wish to exemplify to you, to the last breath of our life.’ Mary Shelley translates (p. 218) ‘A Dieu ne plaise […] troupeau’. The rest reads: ‘and that he set no bounds to this obedience. From Cambrai, 9 April, 1699.’ (Quoted from Ramsay, pp. 64–6, with accentual errors.) b

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authority was, “God forbid that I should ever be spoken of, except to have it said that a shepherd thought it his duty to be more docile than the last sheep of his flock.” Supporting these opinions, he had but one course to pursue, – unqualified and instant submission. This his / conduct displayed; yet it remains as a question, whether his heart acknowledged the justice of the condemnation of a book which he wrote in a fervent belief in its utility, and had defended with so much zeal. His meaning in his submission was this, – that the book contained nothing heretical, nothing that the saints had not said; and that he might adhere to the principles it enounced: but that the expression and effect of the book was faulty; and that he believed this in his heart ever since the pope’s brief had so declared it. His own account of his sentiments, rendered several years after to a friend, gives this explanation: – “My submission,” he said, “was not an act of policy, nor a respectful silence; but an internal act of obedience rendered to God alone. According to the catholic principle, I regarded the judgment of my superiors as an echo of the supreme will. I did not consider the passions, the prejudices, the disputes that preceded my condemnation; I heard God speak, as to Job, from the midst of the whirlwind, saying to me, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? And I answered from the bottom of my heart, What shall I answer thee? I will lay my hand upon my mouth. From that moment I have not entrenched myself in vain subterfuges concerning the question of fact and right; I have accepted my condemnation in its whole extent. It is true that the propositions and expressions I used, and others much stronger, and with much fewer correctives, are to be found in canonised authors, but they were not fit for a dogmatic work. A different style belongs to different subjects and persons. There is a style of the heart, and another of the understanding; a language of sentiment, another of reason. What is a merit in one is an imperfection in another. The church, with infinite wisdom, permits one to its untaught children, another to its teachers. She may, therefore, according to the variation of circumstances, without condemning the doctrine of the saints, reject their fanatic expressions, of which a wrong use is made.”* / Such was Fénélon’s explanation of his feelings several years after. His letters at the time are full of that gentle spirit of peace and resignation which was his strength and support in adversity. In general, however, he avoided the subject. He had struggled earnestly in the cause of his book, while its fate was problematical; but he considered the question decided, and he wished to dismiss the subject from his own thoughts and the minds of others. There were several accompanying circumstances to mitigate the disgrace of defeat. The expressions used by the pope in his condemnation were very gentle. His propositions and expressions were declared rather as leading to error, than * Histoire de la Vie de M. de Fénélon, par le chevalier Ramsay.a

a

Ramsay, pp. 68–9.

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erroneous; they were pronounced to be rash, ill sounding, and pernicious in practice; but not heretical. While condemning the book, the pope had learned to respect the author; and said of him, to his opponents, “Peccavit in excessu amoris divini; sed vos peccastis defectu amoris proximi;” an antithesis that caught the ear, and was speedily in every body’s mouth.a His enemies were nettled. They endeavoured to find flaws in his pastoral letter; they tried to induce the pope to condemn the various writings which Fénélon had published in defence of his work; but this Innocent XII. peremptorily refused. The king and the inimical bishops continued inveterate. The brief was received and registered according to form. The metropolitan assemblies applauded Fénélon’s piety, virtue, and talents: some of his own suffragans had the indecency and servility to make irrelevant objections to his pastoral letter; but these were overruled. Bossuet drew up a report of the whole affair, to be presented at the next assembly of the clergy. Considerable want of candour is manifest in his account. He does what he can to weaken the effect of Fénélon’s submission, while he insinuates excuses for his own vehemence. The report is remarkable with regard to the testimony it gives to the innocence of madame Guyon. “As to the abominations,” it said, / “which seemed the necessary consequences of her doctrine, they were wholly out of the question; she herself always mentioned them with horror.”b No reconciliation ever took place between Fénélon and Bossuet, who died in 1714.* Louis XIV. was inexorable. Fénélon continued in exile and his friends in disgrace; such displeasure was shown, that the servile courtiers, among whom we must rank, on this occasion, madame de Maintenon, kept aloof from him. His friends, however, were true and faithful. They took every opportunity of meeting together; it was their delight to talk of him, to regret him, to express their wishes for his return, and to contrive means of seeing him. * We cannot refrain from quoting Bourdaloue’s remarks on the disputes of these two prelates, which are quoted by Mr. Butler, in his life of Fénélon. “There is not a luminary in the heavens that does not sometimes suffer eclipse; and the sun, which is the greatest of them, suffers the greatest and most remarkable. Two circumstances in them particularly deserve our consideration; one, that in these eclipses, the sun suffers no substantial loss of light, and preserves its regular course; the other, that during the time of its eclipse, the universe contemplates it with most interest and watches its variation with most attention. The faults of Fénélon and Bossuet, in their unfortunate controversy, are entitled to the same benign consideration. The lustre of their characters attracted universal attention, and made their errors the more observable, and the more observed. But the eclipse was temporary, and the golden flood remained unimpaired.”c a ‘He has sinned because he loved God too much; but you have sinned because you loved your neighbour too little’. Butler (pp. 142–3) tells the story of the pope’s condemnation, but does not include the Latin sentence. b Based selectively on Butler, pp. 150–4. c Quotation not located in Butler.

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The circumstance that confirmed the king’s distaste to the virtuous archbishop, was the publication of Telemachus. Fénélon appears to have employed his leisure, while preceptor to the princes, on composing a work which hereafter would serve as a guide and instructor to the duke of Burgundy. The unfortunate affair of quietism led him from such studies; but Telemachus was already finished: he gave it to a valet to copy, who sold it to a bookseller in Paris. The spies, who watched every movement of the archbishop, gave notice of the existence of the book; and when the printing had advanced to the 208th page, the whole was seized, and every exertion to annihilate the work was made. Fortunately, motives of gain sharpened men’s wits for its preservation; a manuscript copy was preserved; it was sold to Adrian Moetjens, a bookseller at / the Hague, who published it in June, 1699, – incorrectly, indeed, as it remained during the author’s life; but still it was printed; editions were multiplied; it was translated into every European language, and universally read and admired.a In the work itself there was much to annoy Louis XIV., who, as he grew old and bigoted, lost all the generosity which he had heretofore possessed, and, spoilt by the sort of adoration which all writers paid, grasped at flattery more eagerly than in his earlier and more laudable career. The lessons of wisdom sounded like censure in his ear. The courtiers increased his irritability, by making particular applications of the personages in the tale*; but without this frivolous and unfounded interpretation, there was enough to awaken his sense of being covertly attacked. The very virtues fostered in the duke of Burgundy, were, to his haughty mind, proof of the archbishop’s guilt. He saw, in the mingled loftiness and humility of his heir, in his high sense of duty and love of * Most of the applications made of the personages are stupid enough, and we are convinced, that though Fénélon might have referred to the Dutch, when he wrote of the Phenicians, and even have shadowed forth an ideal likeness of Louis XIV, in Sesostris, and perhaps of Louvois in Protesilaus, and of Pomponne in Philocles, – he had no thought of the king’s mistresses, Montespan and Fontanges, nor of madame de Maintenon, when he wrote of Calypso, Eucharis, and Antiope. In addition to these allusions, we are told that Pygmalion meant Cromwell; Baleazer, Charles II.; Narbal, Monk; and Idomeneus, James II. The first of these is absurd. Still, as we have said, without pourtraying individuals, Fénélon very likely referred to certain questions of policy, and to the actual state of some neighbouring countries, in sketching the government and people of some of the lands which Telemachus visited.b a

Butler, pp. 164–5. Marie-Angélique d’Escorailles de Rousille, duchesse de Fontanges (1661–81), mistress of Louis XIV; she died in childbirth. The virtuous and modest Antiope is Telemachus’ eventual consort and, like Mme de Maintenon, very religious. The identifications with Louis, Louvois and Pomponne are made by Voltaire in Siècle, vol. II, pp. 176–7; interpretations also in Butler, pp. 165–7. Protesilaus is a corrupt minister who uses flattery, Philocles is honest and straightforward. Pygmalion in the story is the avaricious King of Tyre; the fictional Baleazar is rightful King of Tyre, proclaimed as such by Narbal, hence the possible comparison with General Monck (1608–70), who led the movement to restore Charles II to the English throne in 1660. Idomeneus is the father of Antiope, who has tried to re-establish rule in Salentum, whereas James II, brother of Charles II and King 1685–8, was forced to leave the kingdom because of his political misjudgements. b

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peace, a living criticism of his reign. From that moment Fénélon became odious; to visit, to love, to praise him, ensured disgrace at court. Telemachus was never mentioned, though Louis might have been aware that silence on such a subject, was to acknowledge the justice of the lesson which he believed that it conveyed. Meanwhile Fénélon looked upon his residence in his diocese as his natural and proper position. To cultivate internal calm, and to spread the blessings of peace around, were the labour of his day. On his first arrival, he had been received with transport. “Here I am,” he cried, “among my children, and therefore / in my true place.” And to the duke de Beauvilliers he wrote: “I work softly and gently, and endeavour, as much as I can, to put myself in the way of being useful to my flock. They begin to love me. I endeavour to make them find me easy of access, uniform in my conduct, and without haughtiness, rigour, selfishness, or deceit: they already appear to have some confidence in me; and let me assure you, that even these good Fleminders, with their homely appearance, have more finesse than I wish to put into my conduct towards them. They inquire of one another, whether I am really banished; and they question my servants about it: if they put the question to me, I shall make no mystery. It is certainly an affliction to be separated from you, and the good duchess and my other friends; but I am happy to be at a distance from the great scene, and sing the canticle of deliverance.” In accordance with this view, from this hour he devoted himself to his diocesians. Rich and poor alike had easy access to him. Disappointment and meditation had softened every priestly asperity. His manner was the mirror of his benevolent expansive heart. A curate wishing to put an end to the festive assemblies of the peasants on Sundays and other festivals, Fénélon observed, “We will not dance ourselves, M. le Curé, but we will suffer these poor people to enjoy themselves.” That he might keep watch over his inferior clergy, he visited every portion of his diocese; twice a week, during lent, he preached in some parish church of his diocese. On solemn festivals he preached in his metropolitan church; visited the sick, assisted the needy, and reformed abuses. He was particularly solicitous in forming worthy ecclesiastics for the churches under his care. He removed his seminary from Valenciennes to Cambray, that it might be more immediately under his eye. His sermons were plain, instructive, simple; yet burning with faith and charity. He lived like a brother with his under-clergy, receiving advice; and never used authority except when absolutely necessary.a / He slept little, and was abstemious at table. His walks were his only pleasure. During these, he conversed with his friends, or entered into conversation with the peasants he might chance to meet; sitting on the grass, or entering their cottages, as he listened to their complaints. Long after his death, old men showed, with tears in their eyes, the wooden chair which, in their boyhood, they had seen occupied by their beloved and revered archbishop. His admirable benevolence, his a The above paragraph, is based on Fénelon, vol. I, p. 28; Butler, pp. 190–1, 197–82, 13–14; Éloges, p. 287.

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unbounded sympathy and calm sense of justice, won the hearts of all. One man of high birth, who had been introduced into his palace, ostensibly as high vicar, but really as a spy, was so touched by the unblemished virtue he witnessed, that he threw himself at Fénélon’s feet, confessed his crime, and then, unable to meet his eye, banished himself from his presence, and lived ever after in exile and obscurity.a The duke of Burgundy had been commanded to hold no intercourse with his beloved and unforgotten preceptor; and the spies set over both were on the alert to discover any letters. When the duke of Anjou was raised to the throne of Spain, his elder brother conducted him to the frontier.b Soon after his return, he came to a resolution to break through the king’s restriction, and wrote to his revered teacher through his governor, the duke de Beauvilliers. His letter is unaffected and sincere; it laments the silence to which he had been condemned, and assures the archbishop that his friendship had been augmented, not chilled, by his misfortunes. It speaks of his own struggles to keep in the paths of virtue; and relates that he loved study better than ever, and was desirous of sending several of his writings to be corrected by his preceptor, as he had formerly corrected his themes.c Fénélon’s answer marks his delight in finding that his pupil adhered to the lessons he had taught him. He confirms him in his piety: “In the name of God,” he writes, “let prayer nourish your soul, as food nourishes your body. Do not make long prayers; let / them spring more from the heart than the understanding; little from reasoning – much from simple affection; few ideas in consecutive order, but many acts of faith and love. Be humble and little. I only speak to you of God and yourself. There need be no question of me: my heart is in peace. My greatest misfortune has been, not to see you; but I carry you unceasingly with me before God, into a presence more intimate than that of the senses. I would give a thousand lives like a drop of water, to see you such as God would wish you to be!”d In all Fénélon’s letters there is not a querulous word concerning his exile, although we perceive traces in the view he takes of the position of others, and in the advice he gives, of the pleasure he must have derived from the cultivated society then collected in Paris; but he could cheerfully bear absence from the busy scene. His simple and affectionate heart found food for happiness among his flock. To instruct his seminarists with the patience and gentleness that adorned his character; to watch over the affairs of his diocese; to teach by sermons, which flowed from the abundance of his heart; and in writing letters of instruction to various of the laity, who placed themselves under his direction, – were his occupations; and his time employed by these duties and by writing, was fully and a

Éloges, pp. 288–9. Philippe, duc d’Anjou (1683–1745), the younger brother of Louis, Duke of Burgundy. He inherited the throne of Spain in 1700 (see pp. 224, 248). c Based on Ramsay, pp. 182–3, and Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 237–42. d Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 240, quoting selectively. b

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worthily employed. He regretted his absence from some of his friends, with whom he corresponded; but he never complained. The peace of heaven was in his heart; and he breathed an air purged of all human disquietude. It was his religion not to make himself unhappy about even his own errors. He taught that we ought to deliver our souls into the hands of God, and submit, as to his pleasure, to the shame and annoyance brought on us by our imperfections; not only to feel as nothing before him, but not even to wish to feel any thing. “I adore you, infant Jesus,” he wrote, “naked, and weeping, and stretched upon the cross. I love your infancy and poverty: O! that I were as childlike and poor as you. O Eternal wisdom, reduced / to infancy, take away my vain and presumptuous wisdom; make me a child like yourself. Be silent, ye wise men of the earth! I desire to be nothing, to know nothing; to believe all, to suffer all, and to love all. The Word, made flesh, lisps, weeps, and gives forth infantine cries; – and shall I take pride in wisdom; shall I take pleasure in the efforts of my understanding, and fear that the world should not entertain a sufficiently high idea of my ability. No, no; all my delight will be to grow little; to crush myself; to become obscure; to be silent; to join to the shame of Jesus crucified, the impotence and lisping of the infant Jesus.”a When we reflect that this was written by a man who sedulously adorned his mind by the study of the ancients, and who added to his own language, books written with elegance and learning, and which display a comprehensive understanding and delicate taste, we feel the extent of that humility which could disregard all these human acquirements compared with the omniscience of God; and that as Socrates acknowledged that he knew nothing, and was therefore pronounced to be the wisest of men, so did the sense which Fénélon entertained of the nothingness of human wisdom, stamp him as far advanced in that higher knowledge which can look down on all human efforts as the working of emmets on an ant-hill.b Fénélon believed that man had no power to seek heavenly good without the grace of the Saviour. When man does right, he alleged that he only assented to the impulse of God, who disposed him through his grace so to assent. When he did ill, he only resisted the action of God, which produces no good in him without the co-operation of his assent, thus preserving his free will. He considered true charity, or love of God, to which he gave this name, as an intimate sense of and delight in God’s perfections, without any aspiration to salvation. He supposed that there was a love of the beautiful, the perfect, and the orderly, beyond all taste and sentiment, which may influence us when we lose / the pleasurable sense of the action of the grace of God, and which is a sufficing reason to move the will in all the pains and privations which abound on the holy paths of virtue.c He would a

Quoted in Ramsay, pp. 92–3. This paragraph condenses Ramsay, pp. 93–4. Socrates’ dictum, ‘I know nothing, except that I know nothing’, derives from Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers, II, § 32. c Based on Ramsay, pp. 95–100. b

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have carried this notion further, but was obliged to mould his particular notion by the faith of the church, which enforces what it calls a “chaste hope of salvation,” in contradiction to the quietists, who banish every idea of beatification, and profess to be willing to encounter perdition, if such were the Almighty’s will. He was more opposed to jansenism, which makes salvation all in all, while it confines it to the elect of God. Jansenism, indeed, he considered as peculiarly injurious, and destructive to the true love of God. But as bigotry made no part of his nature, he tolerated the jansenists, though he would gladly have converted them; he invited their chief, father Quesnell, to his palace, promising not to introduce any controversy unless he wished; but testifying his desire, at the same time, to prove that he mistook the meaning of St. Augustin, on whom Jansenius founded his doctrine.a Of Pascal’s Provincial Letters, he wrote to the duke de Beauvilliers, that he recommended that his royal pupil should read them, as the great reputation they enjoyed, would cause him certainly to desire to see them; and sent a memorial at the same time, which he considered as a refutation of the mistakes into which he believed Pascal had fallen. He was equally tolerant of protestants; and when M. Brunier, minister of the protestants dispersed on the frontiers of France, came to Mons to see him, Fénélon received him with his accustomed cordial hospitality, and begged him often to repeat his visit.b During the war for the Spanish succession,c Fénélon’s admirable character shone forth in all its glory. Living on a frontier exposed to the incursions of the enemy, he was active in alleviating the sufferings of the people. The nobles and officers of the French armies, who passed through Cambray, pointedly avoided him, out of compliment to their mistaken sovereign; while a contrary / sentiment, a wish to annoy Louis XIV., joined to sincere admiration of his genius and virtue, caused the enemy to act very differently. The English, Germans, and Dutch, were eager to display their veneration of the archbishop. They afforded him every facility for visiting the various parts of his diocese. They sent detachments to guard his fields, and to escort his harvest into the city. He was often obliged to have recourse to artifice to avoid the honours which the generals of the armies of the enemy were desirous of paying. He declined the visits of the duke of Marlboroughd and prince Eugene, who were desirous of rendering homage to his excellence. He refused the military escorts offered to ensure his safety; and, with the attendance only of a few ecclesiastics, he traversed countries devastated by war, carrying a

The foregoing exposition of Jansenism follows Butler, pp. 211–12. The information on Brunier follows Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 219–20; the source for Fénelon’s views on Pascal is untraced. c This war (1702–13) concerned whether the throne of Spain and its considerable overseas possessions should be inherited by Philippe of Anjou, according to the will of Carlos II (d. 1700), which was contested by his Austrian Habsburg relatives on behalf of Karl, younger son of Leopold I, in alliance with Britain, the Netherlands, and many German principalities. d John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough (1650–1722), diplomat and Commander-in Chief of the British forces in the War of the Spanish Succession. b

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peace and succour in his train, so that his pastoral visits might be termed the truce of God. The French biographers delight in recording one trait of his benevolence. During one of his journeys, he met a peasant in the utmost affliction. The archbishop asked the cause of his grief; and was told that the enemy had driven away his cow, on which his family depended for support, and that his life was in danger if he went to seek it. Fénélon, on this, set off in pursuit, found the cow, and drove it home himself to the peasant’s cottage.a Deserted and neglected by his countrymen, he took pleasure in receiving foreigners, and learning from them the manners, customs, and laws of their various countries. His philanthropy was of the most extensive kind: “I love my family,” he said, “better than myself; I love my country better than my family; but I love the human race more than my country.”b A German prince visited him, desirous of receiving lessons of wisdom. Him he taught toleration; satisfaction in a constitutional government; and a desire for the progress of knowledge among his subjects.c The duke of Orleans, afterwards the libertine regent of France, consulted him with regard to many sceptical doubts. He asked him how the / existence of God was proved; what worship the Deity approved, and whether he was offended by a false one. Fénélon replied by a treatise on the existence of God, which is characterised, as his theology always is, by a fervent spirit of charity.d In 1702 the duke of Burgundy headed the army in Flanders. He with difficulty obtained leave to see the archbishop, when he visited Cambray; his interview, when permitted, was restricted to being a public one. Fénélon, fearing to raise a painful struggle in his beloved pupil’s mind, had left Cambray, when the letter came to apprise him that they were allowed to meet. They met at a public dinner at the town-house of Cambray. It passed in cold ceremony and painful reserve: it was only at the close, when Fénélon presented the napkin to the prince, that the latter marked his internal feeling, when, on returning it, he said aloud, “I am aware, my lord archbishop, of what I owe you, and you know what I am.” They corresponded after this, and Fénélon’s letters are remarkable for the care he takes to check all bigotry, intolerance, and petty religious observances in his pupil; telling him that a prince cannot serve God as a hermit or an obscure individual. He informed him that the public regarded him as virtuous, but as stern, timid, and scrupulous. He endeavoured to raise him above these poorer thoughts, to the lofty height he himself had reached. He taught him to regard his rank in its proper light, as a motive for goodness and benevolence, and to desire to be the father, not the master of his people.e His opinions with regard to the duke are given in a

Based on Éloges, p. 288; also Butler, pp. 214–16. Quoted in Ramsay, p. 159. c From Éloges, pp. 292–4; the prince is not identified. d Based on Siècle, vol. II, pp. 315–16, and Ramsay p. 140; the treatise was entitled L’Existence de Dieu (The Existence of God). e The preceding paragraph is based on Butler, pp. 218–21, or Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 247–55, where the letter is cited in full. b

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1709. Ætat. 58.

1711. Ætat. 60.

1712. Ætat. 61.

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great detail in a letter of advice addressed to the duke Beauvilliers, in which we see that the priest has no sinister influence over the man; and that while Fénélon practised privation in his own person, he could recommend an opposite course to an individual differently placed. This intercourse was again renewed in 1708, when the duke again made a campaign in Flanders. The letters of his ancient preceptor on this occasion, are frank and manly: he tells him the public opinion; he advises him how / best to gain general confidence; and to sacrifice all his narrow and peculiar opinions to an elevated, unprejudiced view of humanity. The reply of the prince, thanking him for his counsels, and assuring him of his resolution to act upon them, is highly worthy of a man of honour and virtue. The effect of the war was to spread famine and misery throughout France: 1709 was a year marked by suffering and want; the army in Flanders was destitute of depôts for food. Fénélon set the example of furnishing the soldiery with bread. Some narrowminded men around him remonstrated, saying that the king had treated him so ill, that he did not deserve that he should come forward to assist his subjects. Fénélon, animated by that simple sense of justice that characterised him, replied, “The king owes me nothing; and in the evils that overwhelm the people, I ought, as a Frenchman and a bishop, to give back to the state what I have received from it.”a His palace was open to the officers who needed assistance and shelter; and after the battle of Malplaquet, that, as well as his neighbouring seminary, was filled with the wounded.b His generosity went so far as to hire houses to receive others, when his own apartments were full. His prudence and order afforded him the means of meeting these calls on his liberality, which he did not confine to the upper classes. Whole villages were emptied by the approach of the armies, and the inhabitants took refuge in the fortified towns: to watch over these sufferers – to console them, and prevent the disorders usually incident to such an addition to the population, was another task, which he cheerfully fulfilled, going about among them, and soothing them with his gentleness and kindness. When the dauphin, father of the duke of Burgundy, died, – men, supple in their servility, began to consider that, on the event of his pupil’s accession to the throne, Fénélon would become powerful; and the nobles and officers began to pay him court, when passing through Cambray: Fénélon received them with the same simplicity with which he regarded their absence. He was / far above all human grandeur; he only made use of the respect rendered him, for the benefit of those who paid it. It was a miserable reverse to his hopes for France when his royal pupil died. Fénélon received the intelligence of his death with that mingled grief and resignation that belonged to his character. He declared, that though all his ties were broken, and that nothing hereafter would attach him to earth, yet that he a

Source of quotation and of the preceding paraphrased quotations untraced. A French defeat, fought near Mons (in modern Belgium) with unusually high casualties (up to 40,000) on both sides. b

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would not move a finger to recal the prince to life, against the will of God. His last years were marked by the deaths of several of his dearest friends. The abbé de Langeron, banished from court for his sake, and who resided with him at Cambray, had died 1710, and with his death began the series of losses afterwards destined to afflict Fénélon deeply. In 1713 the dukes de Bouvilliers and de Chevreuse, both died. He felt his losses deeply; knowing that they came from the hand of God, he resigned himself, but grew entirely detached from the affections and interests of this world.a Louis at last learnt to appreciate the merits of the most virtuous and wisest man in his kingdom. His misfortunes, and the deaths, one after the other, of all his posterity, softened his heart; added to this, the death of Fénélon’s pupil took away the sting of envy; he no longer feared that he should be surpassed in glory and good by his successor; and he could love the teacher of those virtues, which existed no longer in the person of his grandson to eclipse his own. That such unworthy motives might actuate him, is proved by his act of burning all the papers and letters of Fénélon which were found among the effects of the duke of Burgundy after his death. Fénélon requested the duke de Beauvilliers to claim them, who made the request to madame de Maintenon. She replied: “I was desirous of sending you back all the papers belonging to you and M. de Cambray; but the king chose to burn them himself. I confess that I am truly sorry; nothing so beautiful or so good was ever written. If the prince whom we lament had some faults, it was not because the counsels given him were feeble, or because / he was too much flattered. We may say, that those who act uprightly are never put to confusion.” But though the king indulged a mean spirit in destroying these invaluable papers, the reading them led him to esteem the writer. Accordingly, he often sent to consult him, and was about to recal him to court, when the fatal event arrived, which robbed the world of him. We are told also that the pope, Clement XI., had destined for him a cardinal’s hat.b At the beginning of 1715 Fénélon fell ill of an inflammation of the chest, which caused a continual fever. It lasted for six days and a half, with extreme pain. During this period he gave every mark of patience, gentleness, and firmness. There were no unmanly fears, nor unchristian negligence. On the fifth day of his illness he dictated a letter to the confessor of the king, declaratory of his inviolable attachment to his sovereign, and his entire acquiescence in the condemnation of his book. He made two requests, both relating to his diocese: the one, that a worthy successor, opposed to jansenism, should be given him; the other regarded the establishment of his seminary. From this time he appeared insensible to what he quitted, and occupied only by the thought of what he was going to meet. He a The above paragraph is based on Ramsay, pp. 159–60 and 187–8, in that order. ‘Bouvilliers’: an error for ‘Beauvilliers’. b The above paragraph is based on Butler, pp. 224–7, while the letter is quoted on pp. 186– 7. Clement XI was Pope from 1700 to 1721.

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passed his last hours surrounded by his friends, and particularly by his beloved nephew, the marquis de Fénélon*; and breathed his last without a pang.a / Louis XIV. outlived him but a few months. The duke of Orleans became regent. France flourished in peace under his regency; while its aristocracy was corrupted by a state of libertinism and profligacy, unequalled except in the pages of Suetonius.b Had Fénélon lived, would he not have influenced the regent, whose perverted mind was yet adorned by talents, and regulated by a sense of political justice? – Would he not have fostered the child of his pupil, and engrafted virtue in the soul of Louis XV.? This is but conjecture; futile, except as it may teach us to make use of the example and precepts of the good and wise, while they are spared to us. Soon all but their memory is lost in the obscurity and nothingness of the tomb. In person, Fénélon was tall and well made; a paleness of countenance testified his studious and abstemious habits; while his expressive eyes diffused softness and gentle gaiety over his features. His manners displayed the grace and dignity, the delicacy and propriety, which belong to the well-born, when their understandings are cultivated by learning, and their hearts enlarged by the practices of virtue. Eloquent, witty, judicious, and pleasing, he adapted himself to the time and person with whom he conversed, and was admired and beloved by all. His character is sufficiently detailed in these pages; – his benevolence, generosity, and sublime elevation above all petty and self-interested views. It may be said, that his piety was too softening and ideal; yet in practice it was not so. His nephew, brought up under his care, and embued with his principles of religion, was a gallant soldier, and believed that it was the duty of a subject to die for his * The marquis de Fénélon was the archbishop’s great nephew. His uncle, who first brought him forward in Paris, left a daughter, who married a brother of Fénélon by his father’s first marriage. The marquis in question was the grandson of this pair. He was brought up at Cambray by his great uncle. The most affectionate and intimate of Fénélon’s letters are addressed to him. He was appointed ambassador to Holland, and second plenipotentiary under cardinal Fleury at the congress of Soissons. He was killed at the battle of Raucoux, October 11. 1746. Voltaire knew him well, and says on this occasion. “The only general officer France lost in this battle was the marquis de Fénélon, nephew of the immortal archbishop of Cambray. He had been brought up by him, and had all his virtue with a very different character. Twenty years employed in the embassy to Holland had not extinguished a fire and rash valour, which cost him his life. Having been formerly wounded in the foot, and scarcely able to walk, he penetrated the enemy’s entrenchments on horseback. He sought death, and he found it. His extreme devotion augmented his intrepidity. He believed that to die for his king was the act most agreeable to God. We must confess that an army composed of men entertaining this sentiment would be invincible.”c a

The account is based on Ramsay, pp. 188–91. Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, born c. AD 70; author of Lives of the Caesars, part-read by Mary Shelley in May 1817 (MWSJ, I, pp. 171–2). The prototype of subsequent biographers of public figures, it included salacious information on their private lives. The Regent, Philippe, duc d’Orléans (1674–1723), nephew of Louis XIV, was known for his profligacy. c Based on Fénelon, vol. I, pp. 13–14. b

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king; and, acting on this belief, fell at the battle of Raucoux. A religion that teaches toleration, active charity, and resignation, inculcates the lessons to which human nature inclines with most difficulty, and which, practised in a generous, unprejudiced manner, raise man to a high pitch of excellence. “I know not,” says a celebrated writer, “whether God ought to be loved for / himself, but I am sure that this is how we must love Fénélon.”a An infidel must have found piety amiable, when it assumed his shape. The artless simplicity of his character prevented his taking pride in his own virtues*: he felt his weaknesses; he scarcely deplored them; he laid them meekly at the feet of God; and, praying only that he might learn to love him better, believed that in the perfection of love he should find the perfection of his own nature. The chevalier Ramsay, a Scotch baronet, gives us, in his life, a delightful account of his intimate intercourse. Ramsay was troubled by scepticism on religious subjects, and applied to the archbishop of Cambray for enlightenment, which he afforded with a zeal, patience, and knowledge, both of his subject and human nature, which speedily brought his disciple over to catholicism. Ramsay delights to expatiate on the virtues and genius of his admirable friend. He penetrated to the depths of his heart, and read those internal sentiments which Fénélon never expressed in writing. “Had he been born in a free country,” Ramsay afterwards wrote to Voltaire, “he would have displayed his whole genius, and given a full career to his own principles, never known.”b That, of all men, Fénélon * Fénélon a caractérisé lui-même en peu de mots cette simplicité qui le rendoit si chèr à tous les cœurs. “La simplicite,” disoit-il, “est la droiture d’une ame qui s’interdit tout retour sur elle et sur ses actions. Cette vertu est different de la sincérité, et la surpasse. On voit beaucoup de gens qui sont sincères sans être simples. Ils ne veulent passer que pour ce qu’ils sont, mais ils craignent sans cesse de passer pour ce qu’ils ne sont pas. L’homme simple n’affecte ni la vertu, ni la vérité même; il n’est jamais occupé de lui, il semble avoir perdu ce moi dont on est si jaloux.” Dans ce portrait Fénélon se peignoit lui-même sans le vouloir. Il étoit bien mieux que modeste, car il ne songeoit pas même à l’être; il lui suffisoit pour être aimé de se montrer tel qu’il étoit, et on pouvoit lui dire: L’art n’est pas fait pour toi, tu n’en a pas besoin. – Eloge de Fénélon, par D’Alembert.c a

Quoted in Éloges, pp. 296–7; D’Alembert does not identify the original writer. Unlocated. c ‘Fénelon has himself characterised in a few words that simplicity which rendered him so dear to all hearts. “Simplicity,” he used to say “is that uprightness of soul which forbids all recourse to the self and its actions. This virtue differs from sincerity, and surpasses it. One often sees people who are sincere without being simple. They wish to seem to be only what they are, but they also constantly fear being taken for what they are not. The simple man affects neither virtue or even truth; he is never occupied with himself, he seems to have lost this me people are so obsessed with.” In this portrait Fénelon was depicting himself without being aware of it. He was therefore better than modest, for he did not even think he was being so; to be loved, it was enough for him to show himself just as he was, and one could say of him: “Art is not made for you, you have no need of it”.’ Éloges, pp. 286–7. b

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must have entertained feelings too sublime, in their abnegation of self, to please a despotism, both of church and state, we can readily believe.* / Kind and gentle to all, lending himself with facility to every call made on him; polite, from the pure source of politeness, benevolence of heart; – every one was welcomed, every one satisfied. A friend one day made excuses for interrupting him in a work he was desirous of finishing: “Do not distress yourself,” he replied: “you do more good to me by interrupting me, than I should have done to others by working.” Though of a sensitive and vivacious temperament, he was never betrayed into any show of temper. During the first years of his exile, when he severely felt his estrangement from the refined and enlightened society of the capital, and from friends dear to his heart, he was still equable and cheerful; always alive to the interests of others, never self-engrossed. He had the art of adapting himself to the capacities and habits of every one: – “I have seen him,” says Ramsay, “in a single day, mount, and descend all ranks; converse with the noble in their own language, preserving throughout his episcopal dignity; and then talk with the lowly, as a good father with his children, and this without effort or affectation.”a If he were thus to his acquaintance, to the friends whom he loved, he was far more. From the divine love which he cherished, as the source of every virtue, sprung a spirit of attachment pure, tender, and generous. His own sentiments with regard to friendship, when he expatiates on it, in a letter to the duke of Burgundy, are conceived in the noblest and most disinterested sense.b In practice, he was forbearing and delicate; he bore the faults of those around him, yet seized the happy moment to instruct and amend. He felt that self-love rendered us alive to the imperfections of another; and that want of sympathy arose from / being too self-engrossed. He knew it was the duty of a friend to correct faults; but he could wait patiently for years to give one salutary lesson. In the same spirit, he begged his friends not to be sparing in their instructions to him. His great principle was, that all was in common with friends. “How delightful it would be,” he sometimes said, “if every possession was a common one; if each man would no longer regard his knowledge, his virtues, his enjoyments, and his wealth, as his own merely. It * There is reason to think that the principles to which Ramsay alludes, regarded government. Bent upon destroying the power of the church, then at its height, Voltaire and the philosophers of that day regarded monarchical power with an eye of favour. Fénélon had much more enlightened opinions. “Every wise prince,” he said, “ought to desire to be only an executor of the laws, and to have a supreme council to moderate his authority.” D’Alembert’s remarks on this expression, show how totally he misapprehended its true meaning. Fénélon had conversed with Ramsay and other Englishmen; he knew the uses of a constitution; he was fully aware of the benefit a nation derived, when the legislative power was above the executive. c a

Quotations in the above paragraph from Ramsay, pp. 161, 162 (the last slightly adapted). Letter III in Fénelon, vol. X, pp. 6–12, especially pp. 9–10. c Quoted in Ramsay, pp. 175–6. D’Alembert’s interpretation, contested by Mary Shelley, is in Éloges, p. 299. b

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is thus, that in heaven, that the saints have all things in God, and nothing in themselves. It is a general and infinite beatitude, whose flux and reflux causes their fulness of bliss. If our friends below would submit to the same poverty, and the same community of all things, temporal and spiritual, we should no longer hear those chilling words thine and mine; we should all be rich and poor in unity.”a The death of one he loved could move him to profound grief; and he could say – “Our true friends are at once our greatest delight and greatest sorrow. One is tempted to wish that all attached friends should agree to die together on the same day: those who love not, are willing to bury all their fellow-creatures, with dry eyes and satisfied hearts; they are not worthy to live. It costs much to be susceptible to friendship; but those who are, would be ashamed if they were not; they prefer suffering to heartlessness.” Religion alone could bring consolation: – “Let us unite ourselves in heart,” he wrote, “to those whom we regret; he is not far from us, though invisible; he tells us, in mute speech, to hasten to rejoin him. Pure spirits see, hear, and love their friends in the common centre.”b Such are the soothing expressions of Fénélon; and such as these caused d’Alembert to remark, “that the touching charm of his works, is the sense of quiescence and peace which he imparts to his reader; it is a friend who draws near, and whose soul overflows into yours: he suspends, at least for a time, your regrets and sufferings. We may pardon many men who force us to / hate humanity, in favour of Fénélon who makes us love it.”c Most of his works are either pious or written for the instruction of his royal pupil. The duke de Beauvilliers had copies of most of those letters and papers, addressed to the duke of Burgundy, which Louis XIV. destroyed. Among these, his directions with regard to the conscience of a king, is full of enlightened morality. He had a great love for all classic learning. His Telemachus is full of traits which show that he felt all the charm of Greek poetry. He was made member of the French academy the 31st of March, 1693, in the place of Pelisson. His oration on the occasion was simple and short. He afterwards addressed his Dialogues on Eloquence to the academy. These prove the general enlightenment of his mind, and the justice of his views. His remarks on language are admirable. When he speaks of tragedy, he rises far above Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, in his conception of the drama; in that, as in every other species of composition, he tried to bring back his countrymen to simplicity and nature. He desired them to speak more from the heart, less from the head. He shows how what the French falsely deemed to be delicacy of taste, took all vivid colouring and truth from their pictures, giving us a high enamel, in place of vigorous conception and finished execution. He gives just applause to Molière; his only censure is applied to the Misanthrope: “I cannot pardon him,” he says, “for making vice graceful, and a b c

Adapted slightly from Ramsay, pp. 171–2. Source of these two quotations unlocated. Éloges, p. 295.

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representing virtue as austere and odious.”a All his works are essentially didactic; and they have the charm which we must expect would be found in the address of one so virtuous and wise, and calm, to erring passion-tost humanity. His Telemachus has become, to a great degree, a mere book of instruction to young persons. In its day, it was considered a manual for kings, inculcating their duties even too strictly, and with too much regard / for the liberties of the subject. In every despotic country, where it is considered eligible that the sovereign should be instructed and the people kept in ignorance, this work is still invaluable, if such a one can be found; but, in a proper sense, it cannot, except in Turkey and Russia. There is much tyranny, but the science of politics is changed: the welfare of nations rests on another basis than the virtues and wisdom of kings; – it rests on knowledge, and morals of the people. The proper task of the lawgiver and philanthropist is to enlighten nations, now that masses exert so great an influence over governments. A king, as every individual placed in a conspicuous situation, must be the source of much good and evil, happiness or misery, within his own circle; but in England and France the influence of the people is so direct as to demand our most anxious endeavours to enlighten them; while, in countries where yet they have no voice in government, the day is so near at hand when they shall obtain it, that it is even more necessary to render them fit to exert it; so that when the hour comes, they shall not be fierce as emancipated slaves, – but, like free men, just, true, and patient. This change has operated to cast Telemachus into shade; and the decay of catholicism has spread a similar cloud over Fénélon’s religious works; but the spirit of the man will preserve them from perishing. His soul, tempered in every virtue, transcends the priestly form it assumed on earth; and every one who wishes to learn the lessons taught by that pure, simple, and entire disinterestedness, which is the foundation of the most enlightened wisdom and exalted virtue, must consult the pages of Fénélon. He will rise from their perusal a wiser and a better man. / END OF THE FIRST VOLUME .

a

Paraphrased from Éloges, p. 291.

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This design was not original, but was copied by Corbould from a widely-circulated eighteenth-century print of Voltaire at work, in which he is depicted with characteristically gaunt features and smiling cheerfully (or mischievously, or cynically). This is the only volume among the titles to which Mary Shelley contributed where the engraved title-page design does not include a series of medallion portraits. However, this is not unusual for the Cabinet Cyclopaedia. In the Longman ledgers is a record of payment to Finden of £27. 6s for ‘Voltaire Fr. Lives’, dated 27 February, 1839. Finden was not always paid immediately, but the date suggests that the engraving was made only after Mary Shelley had written Voltaire’s life. Voltaire’s iconic figure was more instantly recognisable to a British nineteenth-century readership than that of any other eminent French writer, and his status as the sole author depicted here has a counterpart in his centrality to the French Lives and his leading position within the second volume in particular.

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CONTENTS.

Page VOLTAIRE

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ROUSSEAU

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CONDORCET

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MIRABEAU

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MADAME ROLAND

[260]

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MADAME DE STAEL

[295]

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LIVES OF

EMINENT LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN.

VOLTAIRE. 1694–1778. I T is impossible to commence the biography of this extraordinary man without feelings of apprehension as to our power of well executing the task. To write the life of Voltaire in a full and satisfactory manner, is to write not only the biography of an individual author, and the history of French literature during the course of nearly a century, but also of a revolution in the minds of men, in their opinions and rules of action, which, if not brought about entirely by him, was fostered and supported by his influence, in a manner the most singular and powerful. We are apt, as we read his letters, to laugh at the petulance which he evinced when attacked, and to reprove the vehemence with which he attacked others in return. But when we consider that an absolute monarch and a powerful hierarchy supported opinions which he and his friends struggled to subvert, we feel that it required all his dogmatic spirit, all his bitterness of sarcasm and vehemence of temper, to combat opposition, and to support both his own courage and that of his followers, in his attempt. / Voltaire has been called the Apostle of Infidelity. He denied the truths of revealed religion – he desired to subvert Christianity. He disbelieved its divine origin; he was blind to the excellence of its morality – insensible to its sublime tenets. It is easy to make his life one diatribe against the wickedness and folly of such principles and intentions – to intersperse the pages that compose his history with various epithets of condemnation of a man so lost to the knowledge of truth. But we do not intend to do this. We consider that Voltaire had many excuses, and he had also his uses. We do not mean, on the other hand, to write an elaborate defence of a system that cannot be defended; but we will mention the heads of those topics which we consider available for his justification to a certain limited extent. 241

DOI: 10.4324/9780429349775-10

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In the first place, Catholicism is not Christianity. Voltaire’s great war was against the church of Rome, and more particularly against the Gallican church,a which was one of great persecution, bigotry, and misused power. We turn to the pages that record the history of his country, during the years that immediately preceded him, and of his own age, and we find them stained with brawls and cruelties, excited and exercised by the priesthood. The quarrels of the Molinists, the Jansenists, the Quietists, and the disgraceful exhibitions of the convulsionaries, absorbed so much of the talent, and perverted so much the uprightness and charity, of men of first-rate genius, that we turn with pity and loathing from the history of the misuse of one of the best gifts of God. Voltaire had it deeply at heart to put an end to these discussions – to prevent such men as Bossuet and Fénélon from expending their vast talents on unworthy squabbles, and to prevent such men as Pascal and Racine from sacrificing their talents at the altars of superstition. He wished to redeem such of his countrymen as were slaves to the priests, from the miseries of bigotry and ignorance; and he most ardently desired to / liberate those, whose piety was enlightened, from persecution at the hands of bigots. The cruelties exercised on the Huguenots raised a tumult of generous indignation in his benevolent heart; the insolence and barbarity with which the French priesthood endeavoured to quell all rebellion to their authority roused his anger and pointed his sarcasms. Liberty for the soul was the aim of his endeavours. It was a noble and a useful one. He went too far. There are two classes of minds among men of education. Those who live for the affections – for the elegances of literature – for moral and intellectual purposes; who are virtuous and enlightened, but devoid of enthusiasm for truth or the dissemination of opinion. There is another class, to whom what they consider truth is the great all in all. It is vain to talk to them of a falsehood or mistake that has its good uses; they consider truth, that most glorious attribute of God, as the best of all things – the reformer of abuses – the sustainer of the unfortunate – the advancer of human excellence – the rock in which we ought to put our trust. To them, truth, or what they consider truth, is light; falsehood, darkness. Such a mind was Voltaire. He did not distinguish the truths of the Gospel from the multifarious, sometimes ridiculous, but always pernicious, impostures of papacy. He read of, and his heart revolted from, the series of intolerable evils brought upon the world by the Roman Catholic religion; he forgot the civilisation produced by the Gospel, and even the uses of the system of the church of Rome during days of feudal barbarism: he saw only the evil, and visited the whole with his reprobation, his ridicule, his unflinching and unwearied opposition. He fell into great and mischievous mistakes. As is often the case, he destroyed, but he could not construct.b France owed to his mighty labours and a

i.e. the Catholic Church in France. Mary Shelley may be here anticipating the terms of the contrast she will draw between Voltaire and Rousseau. In P. B. Shelley’s ‘The Triumph of Life’ (1824), the shade of Rousseau asserts that unlike those to whom power was given ‘But to destroy’ he is ‘one of those who have b

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powerful influence a great and swift advance in civilisation, and enfranchisement from political and priestly thraldom. But he went beyond the useful and right in his struggle; and, not contented with warring against superstition,a made / inroads into the blessed fields of rational piety. This must be admitted and censured. Let some among us rise to drive him back and barricade him from his invasion on revealed religion; but let us do this without rancour or scurrility, feeling grateful at the same time for the good he did achieve, and acknowledging our esteem for his motives and abilities. Let us, above all, in writing his life, show ourselves just and impartial. From the limited nature of this work, we can only present the reader with a sketch of his labours and their effects; it is our earnest desire that this sketch should be one drawn from undoubted sources, and prove itself to the minds of all, a fair, exact, and impartial account of so great a man. François-Marie Arouet was born at Chatenay, 20th of February, 1694.b His enemies, in after life, displayed their spite by promulgating that his father was a peasant – an assertion without foundation. His father was a notary by profession, and filled the situation of treasurer of the chamber of accounts; a lucrative place, which he occupied with such integrity as to save but a small fortune, where others amassed great riches. His mother was named Marguerite d’Aumont, of a noble family of Poitou. The child was so feeble at the time of his birth that he was not expected to survive; he was hastily baptized in the house, nor considered sufficiently strong to be carried to church until he was nine months old, when he was baptized over again by the parish curate, from whom his age was concealed. Condorcet, in his life, remarks the singularity that two illustrious men of letters of that day, Voltaire and Fontenelle,c were both born so feeble as not to be expected to survive, and yet lived to extreme age. He might have added the more curious instance of their contemporary, the marshal de Richelieu, a six months’ child, fostered in cotton and reared artificially, who enjoyed strong and robust health, and lived till a still more advanced age.d The child was quick and sprightly; he had an elder / brother, who was dull and sombre. The elder, in progress of time, became a Jansenist, a convulsionary,e and created’ (ll. 292–4). Voltaire is not listed among the destroyers, but in ‘A Defence of Poetry’ P. B. Shelley distinguished Rousseau (‘essentially a poet’) from Voltaire (one of the ‘mere reasoners’). a Word used in the Enlightenment specifically to denigrate certain religious traditions and practices as well as to denote ignorant credulity toward the supernatural and unknown. b Châtenay, near Sceaux, 6 miles from Paris. c Bernard le Bovier de Fontenelle (1657–1757), nephew and biographer of Corneille, Perpetual Secretary of the French Academy of Sciences, poet and dramatist, best known for his scientific popularisation, Entretiens sur la pluralité des mondes (Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds (1656). For this paragraph Mary Shelley relies on Condorcet, p. 4. d Louis-François-Armand Duplessis de Richelieu (1696–1788), Marshal of France. On 22 Feb. 1815 Mary Shelley gave birth to a child born after seven calendar months of pregnancy, according to MWSJ, I, p. 65, who did not survive. e Adherent of an extreme 18th-century Jansenist sect. Its members were famed for epileptictype seizures, prophecy and miracle-working.

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a bigot; the germ of his tendency to superstition existed even in childhood; and the brothers disputed, in prose and verse, to the amusement of the family. The abbé de Chateauneuf, godfather to François-Marie, took pleasure in educating him, and taught him some of La Fontaine’s fables. The boy got hold also of a deistical ode, attributed to J. B. Rousseau, called the “Mosaide,” a poem, which said – “Les hommes vains et fanatiques Reçoivent, sans difficulté, Les fables les plus chimériques; Un petit mot d’éternité Les rend bénins et pacifiques; Et l’on réduit ainsi le peuple hébété A baiser les liens dont il est garrotté.”a

1704. Ætat. 10.

This was a singular production to put into a child’s hand: it was more singular that a child should enter into its meaning. François-Marie quoted it against his brother in argument, and his father, frightened at the premature wit and freedom of speech his son betrayed, hastened to send him to school. He entered the college of Louis-le-Grand,b of which the Jesuits were the preceptors. Here the boy learned, not to take part with the Jesuits, but to despise the Jansenists, against whom, as an author, he showed himself hostile. The talents of the child rendered him a favourite with the greater number of his masters; father Porée, professor of rhetoric, saw the germ of remarkable talents, which he took great pleasure in developing; and, in after life, Voltaire always expressed gratitude for his master’s encouragement and kindness. Encouragement of a far different and of a pernicious sort he received from another professor, father le Jay, who entered into arguments with his pupil; was irritated by his wit and sophistry; and on one occasion, angrily exclaimed that he would become the “Choryphæus of Deism,”c – a prophecy which this very denunciation helped probably to fulfil. On all sides, the boy found admiration for his premature genius. His godfather / introduced him to Ninon de L’Enclos, then advanced in years, but still full of that warmth of intellect and feeling that distinguished her whole career. She perceived and appreciated the child’s genius, and no doubt her kindness and conversation tended to open his mind and refine his wit at a very early age. When she died, Ninon left him a legacy to buy books.d a Poet (1671–1741), known for his satirical and lyrical verse. The Mosaïde was a mock epic on the Biblical Moses, expressing the view of deists that revealed religion was an imposture foisted on the credulous by charismatic leaders such as Moses. ‘The vain and the fanatical Possess the great ability Of swallowing the fabulous With credulous facility; One whisper of the Word of God Instils a meek docility; And so the multitude, besotted, Kisses the cords by which it is garrotted.’ (free trans., N.C.). In the Spanish auto da fé, repentant heretics were strangled instead of being burnt, and were said to kiss the merciful noose in gratitude for its part in saving their souls from hell. b Louis-the-Great ( i.e. Louis XIV), situated in Paris. c i.e. ‘Chorus leader’ of the French deists. Paragraph based on Condorcet, p. 5. d Grimm, vol. VIII, p. 16. For Ninon, see ‘Molière’ and ‘Sévigné’. Paragraph based on Condorcet, p. 6.

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On leaving college the abbè de Chateauneuf introduced his godson into Parisian society. There had been a time when Louis XIV. assembled the most distinguished men of the kingdom at his court, and wit and refinement were almost confined to the circles of Versailles. In his old age, under the tutelage of madame de Maintenon and his confessors, Louis disregarded every merit but that of piety which bore the Molinist stamp. Catinat was disgraced, notwithstanding his virtues and military talents, because he was suspected of freethinking; the duke de Vendôme was reproached bitterly for not going daily to mass: bigotry, hypocrisy, and dulness reigned at Versailles.a But the king was old, and could no longer make his will the fashion of the day. Unfortunately, bigotry and hypocrisy are apt to beget their opposites. The society of Paris, throwing off the yoke of royal intolerance, gave itself up to pleasure and licence. The young Arouet was introduced to the circles whose members enjoyed pre-eminence for birth and talent; he became a favourite; he wrote verses; he meditated a tragedy: his whole heart was devoted to becoming a poet and man of letters.b When, on occasion of the dispute between Jean Baptiste Rousseau and Saurin,c the former was banished, the young Arouet took the part of the victim, and exerted himself to make a subscription in his favour. He was now known and admired by all the first people of Paris, though he failed when he wished to bring out a tragedy on the stage, and to be crowned by the academy. The actors rejected his play; the academicians preferred another poet. The disappointed youth revenged himself by writing a satire against his rival. / M. Arouet was deeply pained by the course his son was taking; he considered the career of a literary man that of disgrace and ruin. He proposed to him to accept the office of counsellor to parliament;d his son replied, that he would not buy, but earn, distinction. His attempt with the academy, and the literary quarrels that ensued, raised his father’s inquietudes to the greatest height; he threatened his son with various marks of his severity, and the quarrel was becoming critical, when the marquis de Chateauneuf, ambassador to Holland, offered to take him with him to that country in the quality of page.e His father readily consented to a plan which removed him from a scene where his literary ambition was excited by rivalship, and fostered by admiration. It is, as it appears to us, a most interesting task to inquire into the early days of such a man as Voltaire; to find the exterior circumstances that influenced his mind, and the passions that were excited in his unformed character. The atmosphere of wit and gaiety which Voltaire carried with him wherever he went made a Nicolas de Catinat (1637–1712), Marshal of France; Louis-Joseph (1654–1712), duc de Vendôme, Governor of Provence. b The preceding is based on Condorcet, pp. 5–6. c Joseph Saurin (1659–1737), mathematician; Rousseau was banished (c.1711) for writing satires against him. d i.e. the Paris appeal court or Parlement. e The paragraph to this point follows Condorcet, p. 8. The next five paragraphs (down to the foot of p. 247) draw on Condorcet, pp. 8–10.

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him a favourite; and this favour again imparted zest to his desire for literary advancement. His father’s opposition produced a thousand struggles in his mind, that tended, in the end, to give force to his inclinations: he became eager to exonerate himself, and to elevate the profession which he wished to adopt; and this gave dignity to his endeavours. Now, torn from his partial friends, and thrown on a new scene, his mind was yet further excited to gain strength. His curiosity, as to the manners and peculiarities of a strange country, was insatiable: he carried everywhere his keen observing spirit; and his early travels out of France tended to enlarge his understanding, and shake his prejudices. Youthful passion intruded to disturb his residence in Holland. Madame du Noyer was born a Protestant; she abjured her religion when she married; and then, desirous of separating from her husband, she made religion the pretext, and fled to Holland with her two / daughters. She resided at the Hague, where she subsisted on a sort of traffic of libels. Fear of the Bastille, and the laws against the freedom of the press, restrained the busy Parisians from publishing the vast quantity of libels, epigrams, and satires, which were continually being manufactured in that metropolis: these made their way to Holland; and the collecting of such, and publishing them, became a sort of trade, – infamous indeed, but lucrative. Madame du Noyer was at once notorious and enriched, by being pre-eminent in the traffic. One of her daughters was married; with the other – a gentle, amiable girl – Voltaire fell in love. He wished to save her out of the hands of such a mother. Madame du Noyer discovered the intercourse, and complained to the ambassador, who put his page under arrest, and sent an account of his son’s attachment to the father. Young Arouet meanwhile carried on his intercourse with the young lady by stealth, and was again denounced to the marquis by madame du Noyer; he, seeing himself in danger of being compromised by the malice of a woman whose great desire was to create scandal, and by the perseverance of his page, sent him back to Paris. His father, knowing the vehement and resolute disposition of his son, was prepared to prevent the continuance of his love affair by the severest measures: he obtained an order that permitted him either to imprison or to transport him to the isles. The poor lawyer, whose career had been one of routine and respectability, was rendered equally miserable by both his sons; the elder having immersed himself in the Jansenist quarrels: and the old man declared that he had two fools for children, one in prose, and the other in verse. On his return to Paris the young Arouet had two objects chiefly at his heart; – to take his mistress out of the hands of her infamous mother, and to reconcile himself to his father. For the sake of the first, he did not scruple to apply to the Jesuits, and to employ religion as the pretext. He applied also to M. du Noyer: / he interested the court in the conversion. It was agreed that mademoiselle du Noyer should be carried off, and brought to the convent of New Converts in Paris; but the marquis de Chateauneuf opposed himself to so violent a proceeding, and the plan fell to the ground. In the sequel, the young lady married the baron de

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Winterfeld, and always preserved a great esteem and friendship for her early friend. The young man was not less earnest to be reconciled to his father. He was carried away by innate genius to cultivate literature; but his heart was good, and he revolted from the idea of living at variance with his parent. He wrote a pathetic letter to him, declaring that he was ready to emigrate to America, and to live on bread and water, if only, before he went, he were forgiven. M. Arouet was touched by this mark of submission; and, on receiving the further one of his son’s consent to attend the office of a procureur, or attorney, he was reconciled to him. The young poet became the pupil of M. Alain, an attorney, residing in a dark, obscure quarter of Paris. Disagreeable as this change was, it had its advantages; it strengthened his habits of industry, and it taught him a knowledge of business. Voltaire became in after life a rich man, through his excellent management of his affairs: a legal education was the foundation of his prosperity. He lightened his labours, also, by forming a friendship with another pupil. Thiriota had not his friend’s talents, but he shared in his youth his enthusiasm for literature: an intimacy was formed which lasted Thiriot’s life. In spite of various acts of faithlessness on the part of the latter, Voltaire remained, to the end, constant to his early friend. However, the business of procureur became intolerable. He still frequented the society of Paris. He had become deeply in love with madame de Villars:b he afterwards averred that this was the only passion he had ever felt that was stronger than his love of study, and caused him to lose time. Its ill success made him conquer it; but the society into / which he was drawn rendered him still more averse to his legal studies. He implored his father to permit him to quit them; the old man asked him what other profession he would adopt: to this the son could not reply. He had a friend, M. de Caumartin,c who was also acquainted with the father, and asked permission that François-Marie should visit him at his chateau of St. Ange, where he could deliberate at leisure on his future course, and where he would be separated from the connections deemed so dangerous. At St. Ange the young poet found a library; and, plunging into study, became more than ever eager for the acquisition of knowledge. The father of his host was a man of great age; he had been familiar with the nobles of the days of Henri IV., and with the friends of Sully: his enthusiasm for those times and men was warm and eloquent. Voltaire listened to his anecdotes and eulogies with deep interest; and began, without yet forming a plan, to write verses in their honour.

a Nicolas Claude Thiriot or Theriot (1696–1772); his friendship with Voltaire survived despite Thiriot’s failure to defend him against scurrilous attacks in 1736. b Wife of Louis Hector, duc de Villars (1653–1734), one of Louis XIV’s greatest generals, and the son of one of Mme de Sévigné’s best friends. c Louis Urbain Lefèvre de Caumartin, marquis de Saint-Ange, courtier and high official of Louis XIV known for his integrity.

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The last years of the reign of Louis XIV. had been disastrous, through unfortunate wars and pernicious policy.a Adversity in various forms visited the old age of that illustrious monarch. The generation immediately succeeding to him, brought up in his days of glory and power, died off; of the young race that remained, its hope and flower, the duke of Burgundy, died; he lost another of his grandsons also by death, and the third was removed to the throne of Spain.b The successor to his crown was an infant only five years of age; the successor to his power was a prince whose dissolute character inspired the devout with hatred, and the thoughtful with sorrow and distrust.c It was a moment full of eager interest, when Louis died; the cord that held the faggot snapped; and it became doubtful by whom, and in what way, it would again be gathered together. The pupil of Dubois became regent; the kingdom rang with his intrigues, his debaucheries, and the misconduct of his children. But the duke of Orleans,d perverted as he was as a moral character, was a / man of talent, and an enlightened ruler. He maintained peace: and though the kingdom was convulsed during his regency by the system of Law,e yet its general prosperity was increased; showing, however speculative and wild a people may be in their financial schemes, yet, as long as they are preserved from war, no event can materially injure their prosperity. The regent was, to a certain degree, king Log,f with this exception, – that his libertinism offered a pernicious example, which plunged Parisian society in immorality, while his toleration gave encouragement to those men of talent whose aim was to disseminate knowledge and liberal opinions. On the death of Louis XIV., young Arouet left St. Ange, and came up to Paris to witness the effects of the change. He found the people in a delirium of joy; they celebrated the death of their sovereign by getting drunk with delight, and by manifesting their detestation of the Jesuits, who had so long tyrannised over them. Paris became inundated with satires and epigrams: the French, as in the days of the Fronde, were apt to signalise their aversions in witty and libellous verses. Voltaire was accused of writing a piece of this kind; it was entitled “Les J’ai vu,” in which the author enumerates all the abuses and evils he had witnessed, and concludes by saying,– a

Condorcet, p. 10. France was at war 1688–97 and 1702–13; ‘pernicious policy’ applies both to high taxation and to the persecution of the Huguenots after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. c Louis, Duke of Burgundy (1682–1712), eldest grandson of Louis XIV (see ‘Fénélon’); Charles, duc de Berry (1686–1714) died from injuries sustained in a hunting accident. For his brother, Philippe, duc d’Anjou (Philip V of Spain), see pp. 222, 248. d Louis XV (1710–74) succeeded his great-grandfather in 1715; his notoriously free-living great-uncle, Philippe II d’Orléans (1674–1723) acted as Regent. His tutor was Cardinal Guillaume Dubois (1646–1723), also tutor to Louis XV, who gained great political influence. e John Law (1671–1729), Scottish financier and speculator whose plans to found a bank based on revenues from French colonial trade collapsed spectacularly in 1720. f In the Aesop fable, the frogs petitioned Jupiter for a king; he sent them a log. The discontented frogs asked for more pro-active management, whereupon he sent them a stork, who ate them up. b

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J’ai vu ces maux, et je n’ai pas vingt ans.a

Voltaire was two and twenty, but the difference was slight, and the verses were clever; he was accused of being their author, and thrown into the Bastille.b The solicitations of his powerful friends were of no avail to liberate him. His father saw with grief the melancholy accomplishment of all his prognostics, and failed in his efforts to obtain his release. It was not till the true author of the verses, touched by remorse, confessed to having written them, that Voltaire was set free. He passed a whole year in his prison without society or books, or ink and paper. We find no mention in his / works or letters of the extreme sufferings which solitary and unemployed confinement must have inflicted on a man as vivacious, sensitive, and restless – delicate in health, and vehement in temper – as Voltaire, except in the deep terror with which he regarded the possibility of a second imprisonment. Thrown back on the stores of his own mind, his latest impressions were those of the conversations at St. Ange with the elder Caumartin, and the enthusiasm excited for Henri IV. and his contemporaries. The idea of an epic on this subject suggested itself. It flattered his honest pride to raise a monument of glory to the French nation in the form of a national poem, while he was the victim of the government; his literary vanity was enticed by the idea of sending his name down to posterity as the author of a French epic, a work hitherto unattempted in verse. He composed the first two cantos in his dungeon, in his mind, committing them to memory; and it was his boast that, in all his subsequent improvements, he never changed a word in the second canto. He was prouder, in after life, of being the author of the “Henriade” than of any other production. His contemporaries regarded it with admiration; even our own countryman, lord Chesterfield, declares it the best epic in any language, simply because, according to the reasons he gives, it is the most devoid of imagination.c Epic poetry, in its essence, is the greatest achievement of the human intellect. It takes a subject of universal interest; it exalts it by solemn and sacred sentiments, and adorns it with sublime and beautiful imagery, thus lifting it above humanity into something divine. While the mind of man enjoys the attribute of being able to tincture its earthly ideas with the glory of something greater than itself in its every day guise, which it can only seize by snatches, and embody through the exertion of a power granted only to the favoured few, whom we name great poets, – and while it can exercise this power in giving grandeur to a narration of lofty and sublime incidents, – while this can be done by / some, and appreciated by many, an epic must continue to rank as the crowning glory of literature. We find nothing of all this in the “Henriade.” The very elevation of the a ‘I have seen all these things, and I am not yet twenty’. This paragraph, including the quotation from ‘These I have seen’, is based on Condorcet, pp. 10–11. b Fortress prison in Paris, whose capture in July 1789 was a key moment at the beginning of the French Revolution. c Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773), English statesman, wit and author; quotation unlocated. The Henriade was first published (privately) in France in 1723.

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sentiments is rendered commonplace by Voltaire’s inability to mould language to his thoughts. During the whole poem he suffered language to be the shaper of his ideas – not the material which he forced to take a shape. In his letters, he quotes Fénélon’s just opinion, that the French language might be adapted to lyrical poetry, but not to epic.a He fancies that he disproves this assertion in the “Henriade;” while, in fact, he gives it entire support.* The second canto is the favourite of many French critics. They consider the account Henri IV. gives queen Elizabeth of the civil struggles of France a masterpiece.b It consists of a rapid and forcible view of that disastrous period. But it contains no poetry. Voltaire’s imagination was fertile, versatile, and gay; in some of his tragedies, he even rose to the passionate and energetic; but it wanted elevation – it wanted the fairy hue – the sublime transfusion of the material into the immaterial. It wanted, above all, a knowledge and love of nature. There is not a word in the “Henriade” descriptive of scenery, or storm, or calm, or night, or day, that is not commonplace, imitative, and without real imagery. Of imagery, indeed, he has no notion. Besides this, he always acted by his own verses as by those of others, and corrected them into tameness. In a word, the “Henriade” has no pretensions to success as an epic poem, and is, in whatever view we take of it, dull and tiresome. Even in his days it had not enjoyed the reputation it reached but for his admirable powers of reciting, by which he fascinated the circles of Paris, and the peculiar circumstances that rendered every other opinion in France an echo of those / circles.† There is * His own high opinion of the “Henriade” is manifested in certain verses he wrote on the subject, which may be mentioned as proof, at once, of his vanity and his entire inability to understand and appreciate poetry. These verses, indeed, only embody, in a few lines, his “Essay on Epic Poetry,”c in which he proves that absence of imagination is the chief merit of a poet. † That we may be impartial, we quote the opinion expressed of this poem by a modern French critic. Barante, in his “Essay on French Literature of the Eighteenth Century,” remarks, “Voltaire has most fallen in his reputation as an epic poet. He flattered himself in vain that he had bestowed an epic on France. Such a work could not be produced in the times in which he lived, nor with a character like his. For epic poetry we need the lively and free imagination of the first ages: knowledge must not have weakened faith, enthusiasm of feeling, nor the variety and vigour of character. . . . . By a serious and melancholy character, and pure and true feelings, and the memory of adversity brooded over in solitude, an epic might be rendered as touching as it has been rendered sublime, and interest might stand in place of imagination. But if Virgil secluded himself from the influence of the court of Augustus, Voltaire was far from avoiding that of the court of the regent. He composed an epic poem with the same degree of interest as would have sufficed to enable him to write an epistle in verse. He fancied that an epic consisted in certain forms agreed upon, in prescribed supernatural agency. He fulfilled these rules, and believed that he had achieved a great work. He was not aware that it is not a dream, a recital, and the introduction of divinities, that constitutes an epic poem; but an elevated and solemn a

Letter to M. de Cideville (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LII, p. 84). Voltaire pictures Henri IV, king of France, describing the religious civil wars fought intermittently from 1562–97, to his contemporary Queen Elizabeth of England (rgnd 1558–1603). c Written 1726. b

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an amusing anecdote told, which shows, however, that the charm of his reading did not always suffice to gain unqualified approbation. One day so many petty criticisms were flung at him, that, irritated to the utmost, he exclaimed, “Then it is only fit to be burnt!” and threw the poem into the fire. The president Hainaut sprang forward, and saved it, saying, as he gave it back to the author, “You must not think that your poem is better than its hero. Yet, notwithstanding his faults, he was a great king, and the best of men.” “Remember,” the president afterwards wrote, “that it cost me a pair of lace ruffles to save it from the fire.”a The chief interest of the poem lies in the era of its conception, and in the fact that its composition alleviated the horrors of his dungeon. At last he was set free. The duke of Orleans being informed of his innocence, he was liberated. The regent compensated for the mistake by a present of money. Voltaire, on thanking the regent, said, “I thank your royal highness for continuing to support me, but I entreat you not to burden yourself again with finding me a lodging.”b The genius / and wit, however, of Voltaire, continued to expose him to calumny and danger. He was suspected of having written the “Philippiques,” a clever, but most atrocious libel against the regent and his family. His frequent visits at Sceaux, the palace of the duchess de Maine, and his intimacy with Goerts, caused his name to be mingled in the intrigues which cardinal Alberoni excited in France.c The regent, however, refused to credit his enemies, and limited his displeasure to an intimation that he had better absent himself from Paris for a time. Voltaire spent several months in going from one friend’s chateau to another, being sedulously occupied, meanwhile, by the “Henriade” and other literary projects. The most important in his eyes was his tragedy of “Œdipus.” This piece, commenced at eighteen, altered and altered again, was at last brought out, and had the greatest success. This was not solely caused by its intrinsic merit. The reputation of the imagination; and, above all, simplicity and truth, under whatever form. The Iliad does not resemble the Odyssey in the arrangement of its parts; these poems have nothing in common, except the epic spirit.” So far the enlightened critic speaks. Then, to soothe ruffled French vanity, he adds, “Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the ‘Henriade’ contains great beauties; the poetry is not epic, but is sometimes elevated and pathetic.”d a

Condorcet, p. 281. Condorcet, p. 11. c Anne-Louise-Bénédicte de Condé (1676–1753), duchesse de Maine, wife of Louis XIV’s legitimated son, Louis Auguste, duc de Maine. An intellectual, her lavish celebrations at her chateau near Paris attracted many leading thinkers in opposition to the Regent; Goerts: Baron George Heinrich Goertz, minister of Swedish government ubiquitous in north European affairs; Alberoni: cardinal Jules Alberoni (1664–1752), minister of Philip V of Spain. d Amable Guillaume Prosper Brugière, baron de Barante (1782–1866), De la littérature française pendant le dix-huitième siècle, 4th edn (Paris: Ladvocat, 1834), pp. 96–8. Barante, historian and man of letters, had been part of Mme de Staël’s circle. His Histoire des Ducs de Bourgogne [etc.] was recommended to her by Prosper Mérimée and drawn on for the context of Perkin Warbeck (MWSL, II, p. 63 and n.; Doucet Devin Fischer, introd. MWSN, vol. 5, p. xvii– xviii). b

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author, its being his first tragedy, and the discussions to which it gave rise with regard to the ancient and modern theatre, imparted a factitious interest; it was attacked and defended on all sides, and pamphlets were daily published and hawked about on the subject. To these legitimate sources of interest were added the unworthy one of the calumnies in vogue against the duke of Orleans, which made the odious subject of the tragedy peculiarly piquante.*a Voltaire wrote several lettersb on the treatment of his subject. His critique on the tragedies of Sophocles gives us, at once, the measure of his taste and learning: nothing can be more contemptible than either. The French soi-disant poet was utterly incapable of entering into the solemn spirit of the Athenian tragedian, and still less could he comprehend his sublime poetry, being even ignorant of the language in which it was written. / The “Œdipus Tyrannus” of Sophocles is admirable as a work of art, and more admirable from a certain majesty that sustains the subject and characters to the end, and from the solemn, magnificent beauty of the choruses. All this was a dead letter to the sprightly Parisian, who admits that had Sophocles lived in his days, he had written better, but had never approached the greatness of Racine.c The life of Voltaire was an alternation of pleasure and literary labour, which would have been infinitely delightful but for that system of caballing which existed in French society, more especially among authors. Voltaire had to struggle with the envious and the presumptuous. His method of warfare was bold; it was that of attack rather than of defence. He was unsparing towards his enemies, and this perpetuated hostilities that robbed him of peace and leisure. Add to this, his labours were often interrupted by bodily suffering; for, though his constitution was strong, he was afflicted by a painful disease. Still pleasure waited on his moments of ease and leisure. Sometimes he resided in Paris, but much of his time was spent in visiting, by turns, the chateaus of the chief nobility; private theatricals, in which his own plays were got up with care and splendour, were principal amusements at these country residences. While at Maisons,d a chateau belonging * The love of scandal, which belongs to humanity, always busies itself in exaggerations. In a virtuous and primitive state of society, slight peccadilloes serve the turn of the backbiter; the inventions grow with the necessity of surpassing the fact. If the regent had been a Quaker, he would have been accused of kissing any favoured lady by stealth: being unfortunately a profligate, he was accused of incest; the next step beyond the fact which it was necessary for slander to make. a

Oedipus in Sophocles’ play King Oedipus (429/420 BC ) mistakenly slept with his mother, suggesting parallels with rumours that the Regent had committed incest. b Included as prefatory material to Oedipe in Voltaire, Kehl, vol. I, pp. 10–64. c Voltaire, Kehl, vol. I, p. 33. d Jean René de Longueuil, marquis de Maisons; his house, now Maisons-Lafitte, was a noted masterpiece by the architect François Mansart; Gervasi anecdote based on letters in Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LII, pp. 25–31.

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to the president des Maisons, he was seized with the small-pox, on the very eve of a festival, during which a comedy was to be acted, and he, himself, was to read his tragedy of “Mariamne;” he was attended by Gervasi, who treated him in the, then, novel manner, of letting blood and lowering remedies, by means of which he recovered. His friend Thiriot came up from Normandy, and waited on him with anxious solicitude. When he recovered, “Mariamne” was brought out; it went through forty representations, though it nearly fell on the first, through the levity of a Parisian audience. When, in the fifth act, Mariamne put the cup of poison to her lips, a man in the pit called out, “La / Reine boit!”a On the succeeding night the mode of her death was changed. Restless, and on the alert for the ridiculous, the danger of saying anything that suggested a ludicrous or familiar idea continually hampered a French tragedian; yet, with all his vanity and eagerness for success, Voltaire’s lively spirits made him sometimes jest with peril. When “Œdipus” was acted, he went on the stage himself, holding up the train of the high priest, and played such antics that the mareschale de Villars asked who the young man was who was desirous of getting the piece condemned.b This very liveliness was, however, a great cause of his universal success. The Parisians, and especially the nobility, desired to be amused, and no man was ever born so fitted to afford excitement to the circles of the rich and gay, as the vain, witty, restless, eager poet, who made a jest of everything, yet rendered all instinct with the interest imparted by his good heart and versatile talents. His quarrel with Jean Baptiste Rousseau is characteristic. He visited Holland in 1722 with madame Rupelmonde.c When passing through Brussels, he sought out the poet whom he had befriended in his need, and whose talents he admired. They met with delight. Voltaire called him his master and judge; he placed his “Henriade” in his hand, and read him various of his epistles. All went smilingly for a short time. Rousseau read some of his poetry in return. Voltaire did not approve. Rousseau was piqued. Various sarcasms were interchanged. Rousseau had composed an “Ode to Posterity.” Voltaire told him that it would never reach its address. A violent quarrel ensued, and Rousseau became his bitter enemy.d A more serious dissension interrupted the routine of his life. One day, dining at the table of the duke de Sully, one of his warmest friends, he was treated impertinently by the chevalier de Rohan, a man of high birth, but disreputable character.e The chevalier asked, Who he was? Voltaire replied that he did not / inherit a great name, but would never dishonour that which he bore. The a ‘The Queen drinks!’. Based on Condorcet, pp. 27 and 282. Mariamne, based on the history of the Queen of Herod, King of Jewry, was first performed in 1724. b Condorcet, pp. 12–13. c Marie Marguerite Elisabeth d’Alègre, marquise de Rupelmonde, young widow of a Flemish nobleman. d Paragraph based on Condorcet, p. 14. e Sully, a descendant of Henri IV’s minister; Rohan, chevalier Gui Auguste de RohanChabot, a junior member of one of the great princely families of Brittany. The source of the following anecdote has not been located.

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chevalier angrily left the room, and took his revenge by causing him to be seized and struck with a cane by his servants. Such were the prejudices then existent in the minds of the French noblesse, that though the duke de Sully esteemed and even loved Voltaire, and held the chevalier de Rohan in contempt, yet the bourgeois birth of the former, and noble blood of the latter, caused him to show himself perfectly indifferent to the insult. Voltaire resolved to avenge himself. He secluded himself from all society, and practised fencing carefully. As soon as he considered himself a match for his enemy, he sought him out at the opera, and demanded satisfaction. The chevalier appointed time and place for a duel, and then acquainted his family. The consequence was, the instant arrest of his antagonist, and his imprisonment for six months in the Bastille; to which was added the further injustice of an order of exile after his liberation from prison.a Voltaire took this opportunity to visit England. He had been acquainted with lord and lady Bolingbroke in France.b He appreciated the talents of the illustrious Englishman, admired his various knowledge, and was fascinated by the charms of his conversation. Although he never appears to have at all understood the real foundations of English liberty, yet he appreciated its effects, especially at a moment when he was suffering so grievously from an act of despotism. Liberty of thought was in his eyes a blessing superior to every other. He read the works of Lockec with enthusiasm; and while he lamented that such disquisitions were not tolerated in France, he became eager to impart to his countrymen the new range of ideas he acquired from the perusal. The discoveries of Newtond also attracted his attention. He exchanged the frivolities of Paris for serious philosophy. He became aware that freedom from prejudice and the acquirement of knowledge were not mere luxuries intended for the few, but / a blessing for the many; to confer and extend which was the duty of the enlightened. From that moment he resolved to turn his chief endeavours to liberate his country from priestly thraldom and antique prejudices. He felt his powers; his industry was equal to his wit, and enabled him to use a vast variety of literary weapons. What his countrymen deemed poetry, the drama, history, philosophy, and all slighter compositions, animated by wit and fancy, were to be put in use by turns for this great end. He published his “Henriade” while in England. It was better received than it deserved; and the profits he gained were the foundation of his future opulence.

a

Condorcet, p. 18. Henry St. John, 1st viscount Bolingbroke (1678–1751), English politician and political philosopher, exiled in France (1715–23) for his support for the deposed Stuart dynasty. His second wife, Marie Claire Deschamps de Marcilly, marquise de Villette, was a widow of a cousin of Mme de Maintenon. Condorcet (p. 18) mentions that Voltaire was attracted to Bolingbroke’s deism, which Mary Shelley tactfully omits. c John Locke (1632–1704), philosopher, advocate of empiricism and of religious toleration. d Isaac Newton (1642–1727), scientist and mathematician whose inductive model of human knowledge was deeply admired by French philosophes, displacing the French preference for the deductive Cartesian method. b

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He wrote the tragedy of “Brutus,”a in which he imagined that he developed a truly republican spirit, and a love of liberty worthy of the Romans. He spent three years in exile. He became eager to return to his country, to his friends, and to a public which naturally understood him better, and could sympathise more truly with him than the English. He ventured over to Paris. For a time his return was known only to a few friends, and he resided in an obscure quarter of the capital. By degrees he took courage; and the success of various tragedies which he brought out raised him high in public favour, and promised greater security for the future. He was regarded as the pride of France by the majority of his countrymen. The priesthood – accustomed to persecute on the most frivolous pretexts of difference of opinion – who had excited Louis XIV. to banish the Jansenists and suppress their convents – to exile the virtuous Fénélon – to massacre the Huguenots, who had long wielded religion as a weapon of offence and destruction, and had risen to a bad height of power by its misuse – held him in the sincerest hatred; while his attacks, excited by, and founded on, their crimes, unveiled to the world a scene which, had it not been rife with human suffering, had been worthy only of ridicule. A couplet in “Œdipus” first awakened their suspicion and hatred:– / “Nos prêtres ne sont point ce qu’un vain peuple pense, Notre credulité fait tout leur science.”b

From that moment they lay in wait to crush him. It needed all his prudence to evade the effects of their enmity. There was a party in Paris, indeed, who went to the opposite extreme, by which he was idolised – a party which saw no medium between the superstition upheld by the clergy and direct disbelief, which it termed philosophy. This, indeed, is one of the chief mischiefs of Catholicism – by demanding too much of faith, it engenders entire infidelity; and by making men, sinful as ourselves, the directors of the conduct and thoughts, it injures the moral sense and deadens the conscience. The party in opposition had not yet risen to the height of talent it afterwards displayed; but it sufficed, through the rank, abilities, and number of the persons of whom it was composed, to encourage Voltaire in his career. Another chief support was derived from the liberal independence of means which he had attained. He inherited a competent fortune from his father and brother; the profits of “Œdipus” added to it; the duke of Orleans had made him presents; the queen of Louis XV.c bestowed a pension on him; the edition of the “Henriade,” brought out in London, augmented his means considerably: he was economical and careful. A fortunate speculation in a lottery instituted to pay a On Marcus Junius Brutus (c. 85–42 BC), who led the assassination of Julius Caesar in order to restore the Roman republic. b ‘Our priests are not what a vain nation thinks them to be; our credulity is all their knowledge consists of’. Cited by Condorcet, pp. 22–3. c Marie Leszczynska (1703–68), daughter of Stanislas Leszczynski, former King of Poland and Duke of Lorraine (rgnd 1738–66); wife of Louis XV.

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the debts of the city of Paris, in which, from certain happy calculations, he was the chief winner, raised him to opulence. He was charitable and benevolent; and though, in his letters, we find allusions to his donations, this is never done ostentatiously, but with the plain speech of a man who, having fabricated his own fortune, knows the value of money, and keeps strict account of his expenditure. At this juncture we may also speak of his change of name. It was the custom, as is well known, for the younger branches of noble families in France to assume the name of some estate, so to distinguish themselves from their relations. In the middling ranks the same / custom was in a manner followed. Boileau took the name of Despréaux, and his younger brother that of Puy Morin, to distinguish themselves from the elder. People in this rank did not assume the de – distinctive of territorial possession. François-Marie Arouet thought it worth while, however, to purchase the estate of Voltaire (as Madame Scarron, at Louis XIV.’s instigation, had that of Maintenon), as a means of elevating himself to a more respectable position in the eyes of his contemporaries. He succeeded; and though, to our ears, Arouet had sounded as well as Voltaire, did it stand in the title-page of his works; in his own day, in spite of various petty attacks from his enemies, the one he assumed was regarded by his countrymen with greater complacency.a The heyday of youth was passing away with Voltaire; his vivacity was still the same: but, from the period of his return from his exile in England, he began to look differently on life; and while he still regarded literary labour as his vocation, literary glory as the aim of his existence, he grew indifferent to the pleasures of society. At one time he meditated expatriating himself; thus to acquire liberty of writing and publishing without fear of the Bastille. His attachment for madame du Chateletb caused him to alter this plan. This lady was distinguished for her learning, her love of philosophy, and talent for the abstruse sciences. She was witty, and endowed with qualities attractive in society; but she preferred study, and the acquisition of literary renown, in seclusion. This friend induced Voltaire to remain in France, but strengthened his purpose of retiring from Paris. Various persecutions were, however, in wait for him before he gained a tranquil retreat. Voltaire wrote his tragedies as a means of gaining public favour. He knew his countrymen. As a sovereign of the French must gather popularity by leading them to victory and military glory, so must an author, who would acquire their favour, achieve eminent success, at once to raise their enthusiasm, and to gratify their vanity, / by making them participate in the greatness of his name. On his return from England, Voltaire determined to acquire the popular favour, by his triumphs in the drama. At first he was not as successful as he wished: his “Brutus” fell coldly a This is only one of several explanations of the name ‘Voltaire’. Among others are that it was a childish abbreviation of ‘le petit voluntaire’ or an anagram of ‘Arouet l. j.’ (‘le jeune’), with ‘u’ and ‘j’ transliterated as ‘v’ and ‘i’. b Gabrielle Emilie Le Tonnelier de Breteuil, marquise du Châtelet (1706–49) helped significantly to popularise the ideas of Leibniz and Newton, translating portions of the latter’s Principia Mathematica.

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on the gay, excitement-hunting Parisians; “Eryphile,” on which he spent excessive pains, – remodelling and re-writing different portions again and again, – had faults that the author’s quick eye discerned at once to be incurable, and he withdrew it after the first representation. “Zaire” repaid him for these disappointments; – “Zaire,” which, whatever its faults may be, is so fresh, so eloquent, so deeply and naturally pathetic.a This play was written in twenty-two days. It was a happy thought. Voltaire writes concerning it: “I never worked so fast; the subject carried me on, and the piece wrote itself. I have tried to depict what has been long in my head, – Turkish manners contrasted with Christian manners; and to unite, in the same picture, all that our religion has of dignified, and even tender, with an affecting and passionate love.”b Two months afterwards, he writes: “I wish you had witnessed the success of ‘Zaire;’ allow me to enjoy freely, with you, the pleasure of succeeding. Never was piece played so well as ‘Zaire’ at the fourth representation. I wish you had been there; you would have seen that the public does not hate your friend. I appeared in a box, and the whole pit clapped. I blushed, and hid myself; but I should be deceitful did I not confess that I was deeply moved; – it is delightful not to be put to shame in one’s own country.”c But, after this triumph, he laboured to correct his piece. He feared, he said, to have owed too much to the large dark eyes of mademoiselle Gaussin, and to the picturesque effect produced by the mingling of plumes and turbans on the stage. He felt, for the moment, that he had arrived at the height of literary renown, and that his task was nearly fulfilled. “What labour and pains I go through,” he writes, “for this smoke of vain glory! Yet what should we do without the chimæra? / it is as necessary to the soul as food to the body. I shall re-write ‘Eryphile,’ and the ‘Death of Cæsar,’ – all for this smoke. Meanwhile I am correcting the ‘History of Charles XII.’ for an edition in Holland; and when this is done, I shall finish the ‘Letters on England,’ which you know of, – that will be a month’s work; after which I must return to my dramas, and finish, at last, by the ‘History of the Age of Louis XIV.’ This, dear friend, is the plan of my life.”d New persecutions were in store for him, to disturb his schemes. Mademoiselle de Couvreure was the most eminent actress of the time; she was his friend, and had shown her generosity by attending on him at the dangerous moment of his a

Condorcet, pp. 25–6. Both Éryphile and Zaïre were written in 1732; Mary Shelley read Zaïre, generally regarded as Voltaire’s best tragedy, in June 1818. It concerns the love of the Christian slave Zaïre for Orosmane, Muslim sultan of Jerusalem, and implies that religious allegiance is culturally relative. b From ‘Letter to M. de la Roque on Zaire’ (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. II, p. 26, order rearranged). c Letter to M. de Cideville (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LII, p. 120). d Letter to M. de Froment (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LII, p. 123). L’histoire de Charles XII had been printed clandestinely in 1731; Le Siècle de Louis XIV was finally published in 1751. e Adrienne Lecouvreur (1693–1730), one of the greatest actresses of the age, had created the title-role in Mariamne. She had been Voltaire’s mistress in 1715 and he was present at her death. All actors and actresses were excommunicated by the Church and denied religious burial; her body was thrown onto quicklime in waste ground.

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attack of small pox. She was worthy of his good opinion; there was a dignity in her character which imparted the chief charm to her acting, and rendered her estimable in private life. When she died, according to the insulting practice of the French clergy, burial rites and holy ground were denied the corpse, and she was interred on the banks of the Seine. Voltaire could not restrain his indignation. Warmed by esteem for his friend, and contempt for the priesthood, he wrote her apotheosis, which drew on him the outcry of impiety, and forced him to conceal himself for some months in a village of Normandy. Scarcely had this storm passed off, than another broke over him. His exile in England occurred during the reign of George II., at a time when literature boasted of great and glorious names;a and if the principles of political liberty were less well understood than now, they appeared in a highly flourishing condition to the Frenchman. He regarded with admiration the blessings derived from toleration in religion, a comparatively free government, a press unfettered by a censorship, and the general diffusion of knowledge. He wished to describe these things and their effects to his countrymen, and he wrote his “Lettres sur les Anglais.”b There is nothing – save a passing Voltairian sarcasm here and there – to shock our notions in this work. It begins with an account / of the Quakers, – to demonstrate that dissent in religion, joined to independence of thought and action, could accord with a peaceable fulfilment of the duties of a subject. He commences with a humorous description of a Quaker, to whom he was introduced, who receives him with his hat on, and without making a bow; speaks to him with the thee and thou, and defends the peculiar tenets of his sect. He goes on to give the history of Fox and Penn.c Other letters concern the parliament, the government, the encouragement given to literary men, and literature itself, of the introduction of inoculation;d and then comes his main topic, – the discoveries of Newton, and the philosophy of Locke. It is a work that would have excited no censure in England; but he was well aware that both it and its author would be denounced in France. When he thought of publishing it, he at the same time entertained the plan of expatriation; when he relinquished this, he meant to suppress his book; but it was published through the treachery of a bookseller. A lettre de cachet was granted against him, of which he received timely notice, and left Paris to conceal himself a George II, King of Great Britain and Elector of Hanover (rgnd. 1727–60); great names during his reign included William Congreve (1670–1729), Alexander Pope (1688–1744), Jonathan Swift (1667–1745), Samuel Johnson (1709–84), Samuel Richardson (1689–1761) and Henry Fielding (1707–54). Voltaire met the first two of these during his English sojourn. b Letters on the English Nation (1733), first published in England, in English; also known as Philosophical Letters. c George Fox (1624–91), founder of the Quakers (the Society of Friends), and William Penn (1644–1718), founder of the American state of Pennsylvania, originally a Quaker colony. Quakers’ unpretentious egalitarianism meant they ignored the usual forms of 18th-century etiquette, such as bowing to superiors and removing the hat. d Inoculation against small-pox was introduced from Turkey by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762), whose husband was ambassador there, and gained favour when George II’s children were inoculated.

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at Cirey, while he gave out that he was in England. The volume itself was publicly burnt. He obtained a cessation of the persecution by causing the edition to be given up; but he did not return to Paris, and continued to inhabit the chateau of Cirey, in Champagne,a a property of the marquis du Chatelet, where he and his wife, and their illustrious friend, lived for the space of six years in seclusion and laborious study. We have, from various sources, descriptions of the life he led at Cirey; not a little instructive from the light they throw on human nature, and on Voltaire’s own character. Voltaire tells us, himself, in his “Fragment of Memoirs,”b that, weary of the idle, turbulent life led at Paris, of the pretensions of the silly, the cabals of the wicked, and persecutions of bigots, he resolved to pass some years in the country at the chateau of madame du Chatelet. This lady had received a careful education, was perfectly mistress of the Latin / language, but her inclination led her to prefer the study of metaphysics and mathematics. Her ardour for the acquisition of knowledge was unspeakably great, and she longed for retirement, where she might dedicate her whole time to study. Voltaire taught her English: she read Leibnitzc and Newton. Both she and her friend aspired to the prize given by the Academy of Science, for a treatise on fire; and their essays were mentioned with praise, though the prize was gained by the celebrated Euler.d Voltaire was told, however, by an enlightened friend, that he would never be great in science. He was glad of this. The arguments and taste of madame du Chatelet, and his own love of all that was absolutely and demonstrably true, led him to cultivate abstruse science; but the bent of his genius and imagination, fertile of plot, situation, and development of passion, made him turn with delight to the composition of tragedies, the investigation of the philosophy of history, and the writing lighter productions, in which he gave full scope to his sarcastic spirit, his wit, and, we grieve to add, the impurity of his imagination: for this was the great defect of Voltaire, arising from his inability to appreciate the sublime, and his contempt of what he considered monkish virtues, that he loved to indulge in jests, the point of which lay in the grossest indecency. Having broken loose from the fetters of mathematics, he wrote “Alzire,” “Merope,” “The Prodigal Child,” and “Mahomet.”e He laboured at his “Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations;” he a

Province south-east of Paris, stretching to the eastern frontier. Condorcet, pp. 191–2. Mary Shelley read these memoirs in Oct. 1814 and again in March 1820 (MWSJ, II, p. 682). c Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), German philosopher, mathematician and polymath, mentioned several times in Godwin’s Thoughts on Man (1831) in discussion related to causation. d Leonhard Euler (1707–83), Swiss mathematician who made important advances after Newton. e Alzire, or The Americans (1736), set in Peru, endorsing Christianity; La Mérope (1743), one of Voltaire’s greatest popular successes, shared a similar theme to Mahomet (1742), the condemnation of religious fanaticism; all tragedies, read by Mary Shelley in June, 1818 (MWSJ, I, pp. 212–13). L’Enfant Prodigue (1736), a comedy, was a popular triumph in 1736. The preceding is based on Condorcet, pp. 191–3. b

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collected materials for the “History of the Age of Louis XIV.;” and he relaxed from these labours by writing the “Pucelle d’Orleans.”a One of his chief amusements, also, was bringing out his tragedies at his private theatre. He was a good actor, and an admirable teacher of the art. Somewhat in contrast to the sort of fairy splendour and paradisaical happiness which, from his memoirs and letters, we might judge to have been the portion of the inhabitants of Cirey, we have another account, which does not indeed derogate from the character of Voltaire / himself, but which casts gloomy and tempestuous shadows over the picture of his retirement. This account is worth quoting; though, as we shall afterwards mention, the fair writer, from private reasons, represented madame du Chatelet in darker colours than she merited. When the marquis and marchioness du Chalelet resolved on inhabiting Cirey, the chateau was in a state of dilapidation. A portion of it was repaired, and furnished with princely magnificence; partly at the expense of the owners, chiefly, it would seem, at Voltaire’s, who built a gallery and bath rooms, decorated his apartments with inlaid works of marble, and adorned them with a variety of precious works of art. Usually the family party was nearly uninterrupted. Madame du Chatelet disliked receiving visitors who should intrude on her hours of study. How the marquis regarded the severe labours of his wife, and the permanent residence of his guest, we are not told; but he seems to have been easy and complaisant. When visitors arrived, Voltaire exerted himself to entertain them by acting plays, and by calling into requisition the stores of his own mind, which, various and prolific, never failed to enchant. There was a lady, madame de Graffigny, who had been very unfortunate through the ill conduct of her husband. She at last obtained a divorce; but she was poor, and nearly friendless. She was asked to spend a few weeks at Cirey, and joyfully accepted the flattering invitation. She had been residing at Lunéville, at the court of the ex-king of Poland: she left there a friend, who had been brought up with her as a brother; and to him she poured out, in her letters, her enthusiasm, her joy, and her subsequent disappointment and misery.b From the beginning, Voltaire acquired all her kindness by the cordiality and friendliness of his reception, and the great and delicate attention he paid to her comfort; while madame du Chatelet lost it by her coldness and selfishness. Still the wit and talent of both made it at first enchanted ground. “Supper was / a Essai […]sur les moeurs et l’esprit des nations (1756), read by Mary Shelley in April 1815 (MWSJ, I, pp. 73–6); The Maid of Orléans (pub. 1755; mock-heroic and sometimes obscene epic on the French national heroine, Joan of Arc). This and the preceding sentence are from Condorcet, p. 43. b Françoise d’Issembourg d’Appencourt (or d’Harponcourt) Graffigny (1695–1758), best known for her feminist novel Lettres d’une Péruvienne (translated as Letters of a Peruvian Princess) (1747), attended the court of the duke of Lorraine at Lunéville, near Nancy; the province of Lorraine is due north of Champagne. Her friend and correspondent was ex-King Stanislas’s Reader, François Antoine Devaux. Mary Shelley read Lettres d’une Péruvienne in 1815 and (in Italian) in 1817 (MWSJ, II, p. 650).

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announced to me,” she writes, “and I was shown to an apartment which I recognised as Voltaire’s. He came forward to receive me; we placed ourselves at table – I was indeed happy. We conversed on all subjects; poetry, the arts and sciences; and all in a light and witty tone. I wish I could give you an account of his charming, his enchanting conversation; but I cannot. The supper was not abundant, but it was recherché, delicate, and good, and served on a good deal of plate. Voltaire, placed next me, was as polite and attentive as he is amusing and learned. The marquis was on my other side – this is my place every evening; and thus my left ear is softly charmed, while the right is but very slightly ennuied, for the marquis speaks little, and retires as soon as we rise from table.” She describes the apartments of madame du Chatelet and Voltaire as magnificent. His was hung with crimson velvet and gold fringe, the walls were covered with pictures and looking-glasses, and the room crowded with articles of luxury in worked silver. It opened into a small gallery wainscotted with yellow wood, adorned by statues, furnished with books, and filled with tables covered with curiosities and porcelain; opening on a grotto that led to the garden. The rooms of madame du Chatelet were far more elegant and rich; splendid with mirrors in silver frames, and adorned with pictures of the first French artists. Her boudoir, of which, in her vivacious style, the guest said, “you were ready to kneel and worship for its elegant magnificence,” opened on a terrace commanding a beautiful prospect: the whole was a model of luxury, taste, and elegance. Unfortunately, however, in repairing and furnishing, no attention had been paid to any apartments but those occupied by madame du Chatelet and Voltaire. Discomfort reigned everywhere else. Poor madame de Graffigny was placed in an immense chamber, ill furnished – the wind entering at a thousand crevices – which it was impossible to warm, in spite of all the wood that was burnt. “In short,” / she says, “all that does not belong to the lady or Voltaire is in a most disgusting state of discomfort.”a However, talent spread its charm over the place, although madame du Chatelet, from the first, was no favourite with her guest, yet she allows that she talked well, sang divinely; was witty, eloquent, and, when she chose, pleasing; but, devoted to the study of abstruse mathematics, she gave up nearly her whole time, night and day, to these labours. Their way of life was regulated by their excessive industry. No one appeared till twelve o’clock, when coffee was announced in Voltaire’s gallery for the chosen guests, while the marquis and others dined. At the end of half an hour Voltaire bowed his friends out; each retired to their room, and did not assemble again till nine for supper. This was the chosen season for conversation and enjoyment. He read to them passages from his works, he showed a magic lantern, and exerted all his wit, his buffoonery, and knowledge in the explanations. Froward as a child, amiable as a woman, always full of vivacity, his conversation was an exhaustless source of laughter and delight. When any guests a

Paragraph including quotations based on Graffigny, pp. 7–8, 14–23.

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were there whom they were peculiarly desirous of pleasing, everything was done for their amusement: plays were acted – no moment of repose allowed – all was gaiety and pleasure. “Voltaire,” she writes, “is always charming, always occupied with amusing me; he is never weary of paying attention; he is uneasy if I seem the least ennuied. In short, I find, from experience, that agreeable occupation is the charm of life. The lady, at first a little cold, grows kinder, and we are become familiar.” – “Voltaire read us two cantos of his Joan, and we had a delightful supper. Madame du Chatelet sang with her divine voice; we laughed, we knew not why – we sang canons – it was a supper during which gaiety made us say and do we knew not what; and we laughed at nothing.” – “The Marionettes have greatly diverted me; they are delightful: the piece was played in which Punch’s wife hopes to kill her / husband by singing fagnana fagnana. It was delicious to hear Voltaire say, seriously, that the piece was excellent. It is silly, is it not, to laugh at such follies? Yet I laughed. Voltaire is as delightful a child as he is a wise philosopher.” – “This morning we were to hear an epistle read; but the fair lady was still in the same merry humour of yesterday; and she began to joke Voltaire, who, holding his epistle in his hand, parodied it against her in the most delightful manner: in short, there was no reading. He laughed at first, but was a little annoyed at last. For myself, I was ashamed to laugh so much; but there was so much wit; each word came and shone like lightning, and all accompanied by such vivacity and pleasantry that Heraclitus himself must have laughed.” – “We had the Marionettes again. Voltaire declared that he was jealous. Do you know that I think that Voltaire shows genius in laughing at these follies. I sat next him to-day; it was a delightful seat. Yesterday evening he read an epistle which the fair lady criticised most wittily.”a At other times, every hour was given to labour. Voltaire spent the entire day writing: “Does he leave his work for a quarter of an hour during the day,” writes his guest, “to pay me a visit, he does not sit down, saying that the time lost in talking is frightful – that no moment ought to be wasted, and loss of time is the greatest expense of all. This has gone on for a month. When we come in to sup he is at his desk; we have half done before he joins us, and he is with difficulty prevented from returning immediately after. He exerts himself to amuse us during the meal; but evidently from sheer politeness: his thoughts are far away.” Madame du Chatelet was even more industrious. “She spends her whole nights till five or six in the morning, writing; when she finds herself overcome by sleep, she puts her hands in iced water, and walks about the room to rouse herself. After this, instead of sleeping till the middle of the day, she rises at nine or ten. In short, she only gives two hours to / sleep, and never leaves her desk except for coffee and supper.” a Paragraph including quotations based on Graffigny, pp. 45, 97–102. The Greek Heraclitus (c. 540–480 BC ) was known as the weeping philosopher. In including the episode of Voltaire’s delighting in a Punch-and-Judy puppet-play (a familiar sight in the London streets of the 1820s and 30s) Mary Shelley is possibly taking the opportunity to point up a favourite idea: that Italian creativity shows itself as much in popular as in ‘high’ art-forms.

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This hard labour was productive of great ennui to their guests, and considerable ill health to themselves; especially to Voltaire, whose constitution was feeble: but the result with him was, his voluminous works; and with her, a degree of scientific knowledge surpassing that attained by almost every other adept of the day. Her essays were full of most abstruse reasoning, and written in a clear and elegant style. Madame de Graffigny had the highest opinion of her understanding. “I have been reading her dissertation on fire; it is written with admirable clearness, precision, and force of argument. I beg Voltaire’s pardon, but it is far superior to his. What a woman! How little do I feel beside her! If my body grew as small, I could pass through a key-hole. When women do write, they surpass men; but it requires centuries to form a woman like this.” Unfortunately, all this talent was darkened by a vehement and irritable temper. By degrees the truth became manifest, that these sages quarrelled violently. In madame de Graffigny’s account, some of these disputes are very whimsical. These are trifles; but they display the inner nature of the man better than more important events, and deserve record. Voltaire was writing the “Age of Louis XIV.,” in which he took great pride and pleasure, although from the tyranny then existing in France, the publishing of it would have doomed him to the Bastille. Madame du Chatelet locked up the manuscript, and would not let him finish it. “He is dying to do so,” madame de Graffigny writes; “it is the work, of all his, which he prefers. She justifies herself by saying there is little pleasure in writing a book that cannot be printed. I exhort him to go on, and to be satisfied with the immortality he will gain. He said, yesterday, that assuredly he would finish it, but not here. She turns his head with her geometry; she likes nothing else.” – “One day, being indisposed, the lady could not write; so she went to bed, and sent for me, saying / that Voltaire would read his tragedy of ‘Merope.’ When he came, she took it into her head that he should change his coat. He objected, on the score that he might catch cold, but at last had the complaisance to send for his valet to get another coat. The servant could not be found. Voltaire thought himself let off. Not at all: she recommenced her persecution till Voltaire got angry. He said a few words in English, and left the room. He was sent for; but replied he was taken ill. Adieu to ‘Merope!’ – I was furious. Presently a visitor came, and I said I would go to see Voltaire, and the lady told me to try to bring him back. I found him in excellent humour, quite forgetful of his illness; but it returned when we were sent for, and he was very sullen.” Another time she writes: “I pity poor Voltaire, since he and his friend cannot agree. Ah, dear friend! where is there happiness on earth for mortals? We are always deceived by appearances: at a distance, we thought them the happiest people in the world; but, now that I am with them, I discern the truth.”a Nor was the lady always the peccant person. On one occasion madame de Graffigny writes: “Voltaire is in a state resembling madness. He torments his a Paragraph including quotations based on Graffigny, pp. 140–1, 276–7, 41–2 (last quote unlocated).

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friend till I am forced to pity her. She has made me her confidant. Voltaire is really mad. One day we were about to act a comedy – every one was ready, when the post came in; he received unpleasant letters: he burst forth into exclamations of anguish, and fell into a species of convulsions. Madame du Chatelet came to me with tears in her eyes, and begged me to put off the play. Yesterday he had an interval of quiet, and we acted. How strange that, with all his genius, he should be so absurd!”a Voltaire’s disquiet arose from some defamatory attacks made on him by J. B. Rousseau and the abbé Desfontaines. We have seen the history of his intercourse with the former; it was unworthy the poet to revenge himself by libels. Voltaire had exerted his influence to save / Desfontaines when accused of a capital offence: he was repaid by the publication of calumnies.b The attacks deserved contempt only; but Voltaire could not be brought to this opinion: “I must have reparation,” he writes to a friend, “or I die dishonoured. Facts and the most shocking impostures are in question. You know not to what a degree the abbé Desfontaines is the oracle of the provinces. I am told that he is despised in Paris; yet his “Observations” sell better than any other work. My silence drives him to despair, you say. Ah, how little do you know him! He will take my silence as a mark of submission; and I shall be disgraced by the most despicable man alive, without the smallest act of revenge – without justifying myself.”c With these feelings he thought it necessary to write a defence. He proposed, at one time, entering on a lawsuit. And, to add to his troubles, his friend Thiriot acted a weak, tergiversating part. Weak in health, irritated in temper by excessive application, he was in a state of too great excitement to judge calmly and act with dignity. For six months every occupation was postponed to his desire of vengeance; a serious attack of illness was the consequence. With this unfortunate susceptibility when defamed, we must contrast his patience under every other species of annoyance, and his constant benevolence. He suffered various pecuniary losses at this time, but never complained, nor ceased to benefit several literary men who had no resource except in his generosity. To return to Cirey and its letter-writing guest. Madame de Graffigny’s own turn for suffering came at last. The bigotry and severity of the French government with regard to the press, while cardinal Fleurid was minister, kept Voltaire and his friend in a continual state of uneasiness. Twice since his retirement to Cirey he had been obliged to fly to Holland to escape a lettre de cachet; and, meanwhile, he could not resist writing satires on religion and government, which he read to / his a

Unlocated in Graffigny. Pierre François Guyot Desfontaines (1685–1745), ex-Jesuit and literary critic, author of Observations sur les écrits modernes, became an implacable enemy of Voltaire despite benefiting from his help when charged with sodomy, which carried the death penalty. c Partly based on letter to Argental (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIII, p. 179). d André-Hercule, cardinal de Fleury (1653–1743), tutor to Louis XV and then Minister of State, 1726–43. b

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friends; and, their existence becoming known, the cardinal was on the alert. He had declared that if his burlesque of the “Pucelle” appeared, the author should end his days in the Bastille. Madame du Chatelet was more cautious and more fearful than Voltaire himself; and the imprudence of the latter, and the frightful evils that impended, did any treacherous friend either lay hands on any portion of the manuscript, or have a memory retentive enough to write it after it was read aloud, is in some degree an excuse for the otherwise unpardonable liberty she took to waylay, open, and read the letters of her guests. Madame de Graffigny had been delighted with a canto of “Joan,” and sent a sketch of its plan in a letter to her friend. Mr. Devaux, in answer, simply replied, “The canto of ‘Joan’ is charming.” The letter containing these words was opened by madame du Chatelet. Her terror distorted the meaning of the phrase, and represented in frightful colours the evil that would ensue; for she fancied that madame de Graffigny had in some manner possessed herself of, and sent to Lunéville, a canto of a poem so forbidden and guarded, that she had prevented Voltaire from communicating any portion of it to the prince royal of Prussia, lest any accidental discovery should be made. The storm broke unexpectedly and frightfully. Voltaire learnt and shared his friend’s apprehensions. As a means of discovering the extent of the mischief, he, unexpectedly, the same evening, after madame de Graffigny had retired to her room, and was occupied writing letters, visited her there, saying, that he was ruined, and that his life was in her hands; and in reply to her expressions of astonishment, informed her that a hundred copies of one of the cantos of “Joan” were about in the world, and that he must fly to Holland, – to the end of the world – for safety; that M. du Chatelet was to set out for Lunéville; and that she must write to her friend Devaux to collect all the copies. Madame de Graffigny, charmed that she had an opportunity of obliging her kind host, assured him of / her zeal, and expressed her sorrow that such an accident should happen while she was his guest. On this, Voltaire became furious: “No tergiversation, madam,” he cried. “You sent the canto!” Her counter-asseverations were of no avail – she believed herself the most unlucky person in the world that the suspicion should fall on her. In vain she protested. Voltaire at length asserted that Devaux had read the canto sent by her to various persons, and that madame du Chatelet had the proof in her pocket: her justification was not attended to by the angry poet, who declared that he was irretrievably ruined. In the midst of this frightful scene, which had lasted an hour, madame du Chatelet burst into the room: her violence, her abuse, and insulting expressions overwhelmed her poor guest. Voltaire in vain endeavoured to calm her. At length madame de Graffigny was informed of the cause of the tumult and accusation; she was shown the phrase in her correspondent’s letter, – “The canto of ‘Joan’ is charming;” – she understood and explained its meaning. Voltaire believed her on the instant, and made a thousand apologies. His friend was less placable. Madame de Graffigny was obliged to promise to write for her own letter containing the account of the canto of the poem, to prove her innocence. She did this; and till it came all her letters were opened: she was 265

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treated with haughtiness by the lady, and remained shut up in her own room, solitary and sad; for, to crown her misfortunes, the poor woman had not a sous in the world, and could not escape from a place where she was exposed to so much insult.a At length her letter was returned. Madame du Chatelet took care to waylay it, and satisfied herself by reading it; and then, a few days after, she apologised to her unfortunate guest; and, fearful, indeed, of her ill report on the subject, became remarkably civil and kind. Voltaire conducted himself much better. “I believe,” madame de Graffigny writes, “that he was entirely ignorant of the practice of opening my letters; he / appeared to believe my simple word, and saw the illness I suffered, in consequence, with regret. He often visited me in my room, shed tears, and said that he was miserable at being the cause of my suffering. He has never once entered my room without the humblest and most pathetic apologies; he redoubled his care that I should be well attended; he even said that madame du Chatelet was a terrible woman – that she had no flexibility of heart, though it was good. In short, I have every reason to be content with Voltaire.”b Such was the paradise of Cirey. The arduous study and ill health of Voltaire, the mental labours of his friend, their very accomplishments and wit, tended, probably, to irritate tempers, irritable in themselves. As to the poem, the cause of the storm, it had certainly better never have been written than occasion so much fear, and pain, and misconduct. We confess we have never read it. Its framework is indecency and ridicule of sacred things; chiefly, indeed, of the legends of the saints, which is more excusable; but still the whole is conceived in bad taste. We cannot understand the state of manners when such a poem could be read aloud to women; and we feel that we are scarcely fair judges of persons living in a system and actuated by motives so contrary to our own: so that, while we thank God we are not like them, we must be indulgent to faults which we have not any temptation to commit.c Voltaire’s residence at Cirey was marked by the commencement of his correspondence with Frederic the Great, then prince royal of Prussia. It is well known that this sovereign passed a youth of great suffering – that he was imprisoned for an endeavour to escape from the state of servitude to which his father reduced him. His dearest friend was executed before his eyes, and measures taken that he himself should be condemned to death.d To avoid a recurrence of these misfora Mary Shelley’s exposition is based on Graffigny, pp. 254–60. In the previous sentence, ‘sous’ should be ‘sou’, the smallest French coin. b Graffigny, pp. 268–9, including quote. c Mingling allusions both to the Biblical parable of the Pharisee, who thanked God he was not like other men, in contrast to the publican, who asked for mercy on his sins (Luke 18: 11– 13) and to Samuel Butler, Hudibras (1663), pt 1, I. 213–14, satirising those whose practice is the opposite of what Mary Shelley here enjoins, and who: ‘Compound for sins they are inclined to / By damning those they have no mind to’. d Frederick II of Prussia (rgnd 1740–86) was treated harshly by his father, who ordered the execution of his friend Claude Nicolas Le Cat for a foiled plan for Frederick to go abroad without his father’s permission.

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tunes, he lived in a most retired manner during the remainder of his father’s life; given up to the cultivation of poetry and the study of philosophy. He shared the universal / admiration entertained of Voltaire’s genius, and his noble daring in breaking down the obstacles which the government and clergy of France threw in the way of the diffusion of knowledge, and his resolution in devoting his life to authorship. He addressed a letter to him at Cirey, requesting a correspondence. Voltaire could not fail of being highly flattered by a prince, the heir to a throne, who wrote to him that “Cirey should be his Delphos, and his letters oracles.”a Voltaire was far from being behindhand in compliments. He writes: “I shed tears of joy on reading your letter – I recognise a prince who will assuredly be the delight of the human race. I am in every way astonished: you speak like Trajan, you write like Pliny, and you express yourself in French as well as our best writers. What a difference between men! Louis XIV. was a great king – I respect his memory; but he had not your humanity, nor spoke French as well. I have seen his letters; he did not know the orthography of his own language. Berlin will be, under your auspices, the Athens of Germany – perhaps of Europe.”b The compliments on both sides were to a great degree sincere. Frederic shared the enthusiastic, almost, worship in which Voltaire was then generally held – and Voltaire regarding sovereigns and princes as powerful enemies, or at best as mischievous animals, whom it was necessary to stroke into innocuousness, was carried away by his delight in finding one who adopted his own principles – looked up to him as a master, and added to the value of his admiration, the fact of being himself a man of genius. After Voltaire had quarrelled with him, he spoke in a jocular tone of their mutual flattery; but still in a way that shows how deeply it sank at the time. “The prince,” he writes, “employed his leisure in writing to the literary men of France, and the principal burden of his correspondence fell on me. I received letters in verse, metaphysical, historical, and political. He treated me as a divine man; I called him Solomon;c epithets which cost us nothing. Some / of these follies have been printed among my works; but, fortunately, not the thirtieth part. I took the liberty to send him a very beautiful writing desk; he was kind enough to present me with some trifles in amber; and the coffee-house wits of Paris fancied, with horror, that my fortune was made. He sent a young Courlander, named Keiserling, – no bad writer of French verses himself, – from the confines of Pomerania, to us at Cirey.d We gave him a fête, and a splendid illumination in which the cipher of the prince was hung with lamps, with the device, ‘The Hope of the Human Race.’”e In his pique, Voltaire speaks too slightingly. Had he not a Voltaire Kehl, vol. LXIV, p. 28; Frederick alludes to the famous Greek oracle of Apollo at Delphi. b Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXIV, p. 29. Marcus Ulpius Traianus, Roman Emperor AD 98–117, considered the model ruler, eulogised in his Letters by Gaius Plinius Secundus, AD 61/2–13. c The King of Israel in the Old Testament, famed for his wisdom. d Count Dietrich von Keyserling, a native of the duchy of Courland in the Russian province of Livonia, modern Latvia. Pomerania was a Prussian province on the west and east banks of the river Oder. e Condorcet, pp. 201–2.

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been a prince, the correspondence of Frederic was worth having; it is full of good sense and philosophical remark. It was a more disagreeable task to correct his verses. Yet these are by no means bad; they are nearly as good as Voltaire’s own. There is less pretension, but often more spirit. The whole mass has no real claim to be called poetry; and in these days nobody reads either: but when they were written, and had the gloss of novelty, and the interest of passing events and living men appended, they were at least respectable specimens of a talent, which in its own sphere could attain much higher things. The residence at Cirey was broken up by the necessity of attending to a lawsuit of madame du Chatelet at Brussels, and she and her husband and Voltaire proceeded thither. At this period Frederic succeeded to the throne of Prussia. The demonstrations of his friendship for Voltaire continued as fervent as ever. “See in me only, I entreat you,” he writes, “a zealous citizen, a somewhat sceptical philosopher, but a truly faithful friend. For God’s sake write to me simply as a man; join with me in despising titles, names, and all exterior splendour.”a Voltaire replied, “Your majesty orders me, when I write, to think of him less as a king than as a man. This is a command after my own heart. I know not how to treat a king; but I am quite at my ease with a man whose head and / heart are full of love for the human race.”b Frederic, now that he was emancipated from his father’s control, was most eager to see Voltaire. He asked him to visit him. Voltaire considered his friendship with madame du Chatelet as of more worth than the protection of a king; for although, through vivacity of temper and absence of self-control, they quarrelled, there was a deep feeling of mutual kindness and sympathy on both sides. The king had been ready to lavish compliments on the “divine Emily;” but his indifference to women, and his many and important occupations, made him shrink from receiving a French court lady, full of wit, caprice, and self-importance. He wrote: “If Emily must accompany Apollo, I consent; but if I can see you alone, I should prefer it.”c It ended in Frederic’s forming the plan of including Brussels in a tour he made, and visiting his friend there. Voltaire’s own account of their interview is full of spirit and pleasantry; showing how, in reality, a Frenchman, accustomed to the splendour and etiquette of his native court, could ill comprehend the simplicity and poverty of Prussia. He writes: “The king’s ambassador extraordinary to France arrived at Brussels; as soon as he alighted at an inn, he sent me a young man, whom he had made his page, to say that he was too tired to pay me a visit, but begged me to come to him, and that he had a rich and magnificent present for me from the king, his master. ‘Go quickly,’ cried madame du Chatelet, ‘I dare say he brings you the crown jewels.’ I hurried off, and found the ambassador, who, instead of portmanteau, had behind his carriage a quarter of a

Condorcet, p. 195. Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXV, p. 4. c Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXV, pp. 29–30. Frederick and other friends of Voltaire frequently refer to Mme du Châtelet as ‘the divine Emily’. b

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wine, belonging to the late king,a which the reigning sovereign ordered me to drink. I exhausted myself in protestations of surprise and gratitude for this liquid mark of his majesty’s goodness, substituted for the solid ones he had given me a right to expect, and I shared the wine with Camas.b My Solomon was then at Strasbourg. The fancy had taken him while visiting his long and narrow dominions, which reached from / Gueldres to the Baltic sea,c to visit, incognito, the frontiers and troops of France. He took the name, at Strasbourg, of the count du Four, a rich Bohemian nobleman. He sent me, at Brussels, an account of his travels, half prose, half verse, in the style of Bachaumont and Chapelle;d that is, as near the style as, a king of Prussia could attain; telling of bad roads and the passport he was obliged to give himself, which, having with him a seal with the arms of Prussia, he easily fabricated; and the surprise his party excited – some taking them for sovereigns, others for swindlers. From Strasbourg he visited his states in Lower Germany, and sent word that he would visit me at Brussels incognito. We prepared a good residence for him; but falling ill at the little castle of Meuse, two leagues from Clêves, he wrote to beg that I would make the first advances. I went, therefore, to present my most profound homage. Maupertuis, who already had his own views, and was possessed by a mania to be president of an academy, had presented himself, and lodged with Algarotti and Keyserling in a loft of this palace.e I found a single soldier as guard at the gate. The privy counsellor Rambonet, minister of state, was walking about the court, blowing his fingers; he had on large dirty linen ruffles, a hat full of holes, and an old judge’s wig, which on one side reached to his pockets, and on the other scarcely touched his shoulder. I was told, and truly, that this man was charged with important state affairs. I was conducted to his majesty’s apartment, where I saw only four walls. At length, by the light of a candle, I perceived, in a closet, a truckle bed, two feet and a half wide, on which was a little man, wrapped in a dressing-gown of coarse blue cloth. It was the king, trembling beneath an old counterpane, in a violent access of fever. I bowed to him, and began my acquaintance by feeling his pulse, as if I had been his first physician. When the access was over, he dressed and went to supper with me, Algarotti, Keyserling, Maupertuis, and his minister to / the States General.f We a

Frederick William I of Prussia (1688–1740), the harsh father of Frederick the Great. Frederick’s envoy. c The geographically separated dominions of the Kings of Prussia included Frisia in the Netherlands, and Pomerania, Brandenburg and East Prussia on the Baltic. Prussian provinces in western Germany along the lower Rhine included Jülich, Berg, Mark and, on the Dutch frontier, Clèves. d Chapelle (Claude-Emmanuel Lhuillier) was a co-author with François de Bachaumont (1624–1702) of Voyage en Provence (1663). e Maupertuis: Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis (1698–1759), French scientist and mathematician; Algarotti: Francesco Algarotti (1712–64), Italian savant best known for his Newtonianismo per le dame (1733; Newtonianism for Ladies). He was a chamberlain (1746–53) to Frederick the Great. f i.e. the government of the United Provinces, modern Netherlands. b

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conversed on the immortality of the soul, free will, and Plato’s “Androgynes.”a Counsellor Rambonet meanwhile mounted a hack, and, after riding all night, arrived at the gates of Liège, where he made a requisition in the name of the king, his master, which two thousand of his troops helped him to enforce. Frederic even charged me with writing a manifesto, which I did as well as I could, not doubting that a king with whom I supped, and who called me his friend, must be in the right. The affair was soon arranged, through the payment of a million, which he exacted in ducats, which served to indemnify him for the expense of his journey to Strasbourg, of which he had complained in his poetic letter. I grew attached to him, for he had talent and grace; and besides, he was a king, which, considering human weakness, is always a great fascination. Generally we literary men flatter kings; but he flattered me, while abbé Desfontaines and other rascals defamed me once a week at Paris. “The king of Prussia, before his father’s death, had written a work against the principles of Machiavelli. If Machiavelli had had a prince for disciple, he would have recommended him, in the first place, to write against him; but the prince royal did not understand this sort of finesse. He had written in good faith at a time when he was not sovereign; and his father inspired him with no partiality for despotic power. He sincerely praised moderation and justice, and in his enthusiasm regarded every usurpation as a crime. He had sent me the manuscript to correct and publish. I now began to feel remorse at printing the ‘Anti-Machiavel,’ while the king of Prussia, with an hundred millions in his treasury, took one, by means of counsellor Rambonet, from the poor inhabitants of Liège.b I suspected that my Solomon would not stop there. His father had left sixty-six thousand four hundred excellent soldiers. He augmented the number, and seemed eager to make use of them. I represented to / him that it was not quite right to print his book at a time when he might be reproached for violating its precepts. He permitted me to stop the edition. I went to Holland entirely to do him this little service; but the bookseller asked so much money in compensation, that the king, who in his heart was not sorry to see himself in print, preferred being so for nothing, rather than to pay not to be.”c We have extracted this whole account as highly characteristic, and as explanatory of much that followed. Frederic loved and enjoyed talent, and was himself a man of genius; he was simple-minded as a German; unaccustomed to show and luxury; but he was a king and a soldier. He was young and ambitious. Voltaire a Referring to Aristophanes’ fable of the origin of love in Plato’s Symposium; males and females were once joined together as androgynous whole beings but as a punishment were split. Ever since, each half seeks to be reunited with its other. b At this time, the city and its hinterland (now in modern Belgium) was ruled as independent principality by a Prince-Bishop, hence Frederick had no right to extort money from its inhabitants. Frederick’s ‘Anti-Machiavel’ criticised the amoral political theory of Nicolo Machiavelli, who in The Prince (published 1532) advised new rulers to depart from conventional morality if reasons of state demanded it (see vol. 1, ‘Machiavelli’, for Mary Shelley’s views on The Prince). c Mary Shelley extracts from and slightly shortens Condorcet’s text (pp. 201–7).

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laughed at his economy, ridiculed his plainness, saw through his pretensions to liberal opinions, and jested wittily on their friendship. Yet, withal, he was flattered by it. He saw a refuge and a support against the persecutions he feared in his own country; and though he would have preferred that a sovereign who called him friend had been more royal in outward show, he was forced to be satisfied that though badly dressed and meanly attended, yet he was really a king, with millions in his coffres, and thousands of soldiers at his command, and, above all, a man of genius. “He is the most delightful man in the world,” he writes, “and would be sought by every one, even were he not a king: philosophical without austerity, full of gentleness, complaisance, and agreeable qualities; forgetting that he is a sovereign as soon as he is with his friends, and so forgetting, that it required an effort of memory to recollect that he was one.”a Such was the impression which the young king made on his older friend, who had been accustomed to courts and royalty. But still he felt that the friend of a king is not half as independent in the royal palace as in another kingdom. Probably madame du Chatelet’s admirable understanding helped to keep him firm; at any rate, while she lived he declined all Frederic’s invitations, / and declared his tie of friendship with the “divine Emily” paramount to every other. Voltaire and madame du Chatelet had agreed to vary their solitude at Cirey by visits to the metropolis. The leisure afforded by the seclusion of the country was congenial to labour. Far from the society and interruptions of Paris, they could both devote their whole minds to the subjects on which they were occupied; but they found difficulty in getting books. It was impossible at a distance from the capital for Voltaire to have access to the state papers necessary for the historical works he had in hand, or for the lady to keep up that communication with men of letters which, in matters of science particularly, is necessary to any one ambitious of extending and confirming discoveries. Yet the change was to be regretted. The vivacity of Voltaire’s temper had caused him to be disturbed by the attacks of his enemies in his retirement. In the thick of society these attacks were more multifarious and stinging; and added to this, his reputation in the capital for a wit, could only be kept up by a sort of small money of authorship, so to speak, which frittered away the treasures of his mind. The death of the emperor Charles VI.b plunged Europe in war. France interfered to cause the elector of Bavaria to be chosen emperor, and attacked Maria Theresa of Austria, daughter of Charles VI. The king of Prussia, a potentate who had not yet figured in the wars of Europe, desirous of taking advantage of the a

Source unlocated. Hereditary ruler of the Austrian Habsburg lands in central Europe, and the elected Holy Roman Emperor of the German Nation (1711–40). His death provoked the War of Austrian Succession (1740–8) since female inheritance by his daughter Maria Theresa (1717–80) was contrary to German law, although her father had tried to ensure her unmolested succession by obtaining advance guarantees from allies. b

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distressed state of the empire, seized on Silesia.a Twice Voltaire was employed by his court to sound the intentions of his royal correspondent, and to influence him to ally himself with France. The first mission of this sort that he undertook was at the request of cardinal Fleuri.b Cardinal Fleuri had been the author’s friend in his early days. Voltaire took great pleasure in conversing with him, and collecting his anecdotes on the reign of Louis XIV. The cardinal was a timid man; the scope / of his policy as minister, was to keep France at peace and Paris tranquil; to prevent all movement in the public mind, and to suppress literary influence, whether it tended to enlarge the boundaries of human knowledge, or to remark upon the events and personages of the day. He kept a tight hand over Voltaire. Several lettres de cachet had been issued against him, and he had declared imprisonment in the Bastille should punish any future literary imprudence. Voltaire could only keep up a semblance of kindness and toleration by giving every outward mark of submission. It was matter of pride to him when he was applied to by the minister to visit Frederic, and learn his real intentions with regard to his attack on Silesia. His mission was secret; so that it was supposed that he had taken refuge in Prussia from some new persecution; while Frederic himself, not well comprehending his sudden apparition, after his frequent refusals, guessed that it was connected with politics, and showed himself for a moment dubious of his integrity. But this cloud was soon dissipated. The king tried to tempt the poet to remain. He was firm in his refusal. “I have quitted a brilliant and advantageous establishment,” he writes; “I received the most flattering offers, and great regret was expressed because I would not accept them; but how could courts and kings and emolument outweigh a ten years’ friendship: they would scarcely console me, did this friendship fail me.”c Nor did friendship alone recal him; he was eager for the applause of a Parisian audience. Any one who reads his letters, will perceive how Voltaire was wrapt up in his writings; enthusiasm could alone sustain him through so much labour. He was desirous that the tragedy of “Mahomet” should be acted; he was allowed to choose his own censor: he selected Crebillon, but Crebillon refused the licence; and an intimacy of thirty years ended in a quarrel.d To compensate for this disappointment, Voltaire brought out this tragedy at Lille.e He found La Noue there, who was well fitted for the part of Mahomet; / and Clairon in her youth, who took the part of Palmyre.f During an interval a The duchy of Silesia was then attached to the crown of Bohemia (modern Czech Republic), an hereditary possession of the Habsburgs. b Condorcet, pp. 296, 53. c Source unlocated. d Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon the Elder (1674–1762), tragic dramatist whose plays were based on myth and history. e Capital of Flanders, in the north east. f Jean Baptiste Sauvé La Noue, author and actor (1701–61); Clairon: stage name of Claire Josèphe Hippolyte Leyris de Latude (1723–1803) distinguished actress, and with LeKain (see below), reformer of acting.

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between the acts, a letter was brought to Voltaire, announcing the gain of the battle of Molwitz;a he rose and read it aloud from his box. The applause redoubled; and he afterwards said, jestingly, that the victory of Molwitz had insured the success of “Mahomet.” The tragedy was approved even by the clergy at Lille, and Fleuri, when he read it, saw no objection to its being acted. It was brought out in Paris under brilliant auspices; but the clergy formed a cabal; it was declared to be a covert attack on the Christian religion, and Fleuri weakly begged the author to withdraw it after the second representation.b When cardinal Fleuri died, and Louis XV. declared he would have no other first minister, Voltaire hoped to establish his influence on surer foundations, through his long-established friendship with the duke de Richelieu. This libertine, but not unambitious, noble sought to lay the foundations of his power by any means, however disgraceful. By giving the king a mistress of his own choosing, he hoped to rule his sovereign; and while the duchess de Chateaurouxc lived, he possessed considerable power. One of the first advantages Voltaire wished to reap was, to succeed to the seat in the academy, vacant by the death of cardinal Fleuri. To understand the importance Voltaire attached to success in this endeavour, we must consider his views and his position. The chief aim of his life was to diffuse in France that knowledge and freedom of discussion which was permitted in England, but which was barred out of his country with a rigorous and persecuting spirit. At the same time, desirous of living in his native land, and to reap there the fruits of his labours in the applause of his countrymen, he wished to insure his personal security. As a chief means to this end, he believed it necessary to gain the favour of influential persons about the sovereign, and to make himself one of a powerful society, such as formed the French academy. Voltaire understood his countrymen. He knew how a / word can sway – how a jest could rule them. His own temper was vivacious and irritable. He never spared an enemy. While accusing Boileau and Molière for holding up the poetasters of their day to ridicule, did any of the literati attack him, he defended himself with acrimonious sarcasm and pertinacious abuse. He spared no epithet of contempt, no vehemence of condemnation, nor any artful manœuvre, so to obtain the advantage. While he thus sought to annihilate his foes, and to secure himself, the gates of the Bastille yawned in view, and by the tremour which the sight inspired, added that bitterness to his sensations which the fear of disaster inspires. These were the causes of the virulence of his diatribes – of the sting of his epigrams in which he devotes Pirond and others to everlasting ridicule. It was on this account that he sought to be a member of the academy. a

Mollwitz, a Prussian victory, was fought in 1741. Paragraph based on Condorcet, pp. 45, 296–7. Marie-Anne, duchesse de Chateauroux, politically astute mistress of Louis XV. d Alexis Piron, poet. Voltaire was sympathetic to Piron, whose obscene poem Ode to Priapus incriminated La Barre (see below pp. 301–2); he was, however, attacked on occasions by Piron, sometimes in epigrams, and, in turn, he defended himself. b c

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The moment he began to canvass for the vacant seat in the academy, a violent tabal was formed to oppose him. Maurepas,a secretary of state, an excellent man, but narrow-minded, was the moving spring of the opposition. He put forward a Theatin monk, named Boyer,b as his agent. This man declared that the deceased cardinal’s empty chair could only be filled properly by a bishop. He found some difficulty in finding a prelate who chose to undertake the invidious part; one was at last found, and Voltaire lost his election.c The same scene was renewed when another vacancy recurred, during the following year. In some degree the poet was consoled by the success of the tragedy of “Merope.” The audience were transported by enthusiasm; they perceived the author in a box – they insisted on his coming forward. The young and beautiful duchess de Villarsd was with him. She was called upon to embrace the poet; at first she was embarrassed by the singular part she was called on to act, but, recovering herself, obeyed the call of the pit with the grace that distinguished a high-born Frenchwoman. Voltaire might well desire to achieve success with an / audience of his countrymen, when such were the tokens he received of triumph.e The king of Prussia, meanwhile, having exhausted his finances by war, and gained two provinces, found it eligible to conclude a peace with Maria Theresa; a peace, detrimental to the interests of France, which was thus left to carry on the war single-handed.f It became matter of policy to induce Frederic to infringe a treaty scarcely signed. The duke de Richelieu requested Voltaire to be the negotiator. Again his mission was secret. He pretended to renounce his country, disgusted by the cabal carried on by Boyer against him, and he had the appearance of applying to Frederic for refuge and defence against the injustice he met in his native country. Voltaire’s own account of this negotiation is written in his usual jesting, sarcastic style; he made a joke of the bishop, his successful rival; and when Frederic answered by a deluge of pleasantries on the subject, he took care to make his letters public. The bishop of Mirepoix complained to the king that he was made to pass for a fool at foreign courts; but Louis XV. replied that it was a thing agreed upon, and that he must not mind it. Voltaire remarks that this reply was opposed to Louis’s usual character, and that it appeared extraordinary. But the king probably spoke in the innocence of his heart, announcing a mere fact, that the bishop’s reputation for talent was to be sacrificed for the good of the state. Indeed, there is a letter from Voltaire to his immediate employer, Amelot, secretary for foreign affairs, which shows that he by no means felt easy with regard to the light in which Louis might view his conduct, and excuses the style of his cora Jean-Fréderic Phelippeaux, comte de Maurepas (1701–81), reforming minister in reign of Louis XVI. b Jean François Boyer, Bishop of Mirepoix, and formerly a monk of the Theatine Order. c Mary Shelley’s account is based on Condorcet, pp. 55–8 and 216–18. d Malie-Gabrielle d’Ayen, duchesse de Villars, wife of Voltaire’s friend the theatrical enthusiast Honoré Armand, duc de Villars. e The preceding two paragraphs rely on Condorcet, pp. 55–8. f Frederick of Prussia and Maria Theresa of Austria made peace temporarily in 1742.

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respondence with Frederic. “There are in his notes and in mine,” he writes, “some bold rhymes, which cannot hurt a king, though they may an individual. He hopes that I may be forced to accept his offers, which hitherto I have refused, and take up my abode at the court of Prussia. He hopes to gain me by losing me in France; but I swear to you I would rather live in a / Swiss village than gain at this price the dangerous favour of a king.”a After some delay, occasioned by the journeys of the king of Prussia, during which time Voltaire did good service for his court at the Hague, he arrived at Berlin, and was warmly welcomed. Fêtes, operas, suppers – all the amusements that Frederic could command, were put in requisition to please the illustrious and favoured guest. In the midst of these, the secret negotiation advanced. Voltaire had infinite tact, and could, like many of his countrymen, mingle the most serious designs with frivolous amusements, and pursue undeviatingly his own interests, while apparently given up to philosophical disquisitions or witty discussions. In the midst, therefore, of easy and jocular conversation, Voltaire discovered the real state of things, which consisted in the king of Prussia’s desire to embroil Louis XV. with England. “Let France declare war against England,” said Frederic, “and I march.” This sufficed for the subtle emissary. He returned to Paris, and negotiations ensued which terminated in a new treaty between France and Prussia, and the following spring Frederic invaded Bohemia with a hundred thousand men. Voltaire, however, reaped no benefit from his zeal. The king’s mistress, the duchess de Chateauroux, was angry that she had not been consulted. She managed to obtain the dismission of M. Amelot, secretary for foreign affairs, under whose direction Voltaire had acted, and he was enveloped in the disgrace, that is to say, he gained no court smiles, nor any solid compensation, for his trouble.b His life was now passed between Paris and Cirey – society and solitude. He and the du Chatelets shared the same house in the capital; their studies and their amusements were in common. We are told* that on one occasion, when madame du Chatelet went to court, and engaged in play,c during which she lost a great deal of money, Voltaire told her in English that she was / being cheated. The words were understood by others who were present, and the poet thought it prudent to absent himself for a time. He asked refuge from the duchess du Maine at Sceaux. Here he passed two months in the strictest retreat; and when danger was past, he repaid his hostess by remaining in her chateau, and contributing to her recreation by getting up plays, and writing for her. “Zadig”d and others of his tales were * Mémoires de Longchamp. a

The account of the negotiations is taken from Condorcet, pp. 215–19, 228–9, 304. Condorcet, p. 311. c i.e. gambling with cards, such as the reversi game at Versailles described by Mme de Sévigné (pp. 122–4). d Mary Shelley read this philosophical Oriental tale (1749) in October 1814 and January 1818 (MWSJ, II, p. 682). b

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composed on this occasion. Operas, plays, concerts, and balls varied the amusements. Madame du Chatelet and Voltaire took parts in these theatricals. The lady was an admirable actress, as well as musician: she shone in comedy, where her gaiety, grace, and vivacity had full play. Voltaire was also a good actor. The part of Cicero in his own tragedy of “Rome Sauvée”a was his favourite part. At other times, leaving these pleasures, he and his friend retired to Cirey and to labour. We have an amusing account of several of their migrations, from the pen of Longchamp, who, from being the valet of madame du Chatelet, became elevated into the secretary of Voltaire. There is a great contrast between this man’s account, and the letters before quoted of madame de Graffigny. In both descriptions, we find mentioned the vivacity and petulance both of the poet and his friend; but the darker shadows thrown by irritability and quarrelling, do not appear in the pages of Longchamp; and, above all, the fair disciple of Newton is delineated in far more agreeable colours. “Madame du Chatelet,” he writes, “passed the greater part of the morning amidst her books and her writings, and she would never be interrupted. But when she left her study, she was no longer the same woman – her serious countenance changed into one expressive of gaiety, and she entered with ardour into all the pleasures of society. Although she was then forty, she was the first to set amusement on foot, and to enliven it by her wit and vivacity.”b Nor does he make any mention of the violence and ill-humour from which her guest suffered so piteously. “When / not studying,” he remarks, “she was always active, lively, and good-humoured.” At Cirey, she was equally eager to afford amusement to her friends. “When the report of her arrival,” writes Longchamp, “was spread through the neighbouring villages, the gentry of the country around came to pay their respects. They were all well received; those who came from a distance were kept for several weeks at the chateau. To amuse both herself and her guests, madame du Chatelet set on foot a theatre. She composed farces and proverbs;c Voltaire did the same; and the parts were distributed among the guests. A sort of stage had been erected at the end of a gallery, formed by planks placed upon empty barrels, while the side scenes were hung with tapestry; a lustre and some branches lighted the gallery and the theatre; there were a few fiddles for an orchestra, and the evenings passed in a very gay and amusing manner. Often the actors, without knowing it, were made to turn their own characters into ridicule, for the greater gratification of the audience. Madame du Chatelet wrote parts for this purpose, nor did she spare herself, and often represented grotesque personages. She could lend herself to every division, and always succeeded.”d a Rome sauvée, ou Catilina (Rome Saved) (1748–50). The subject matter concerned the Roman writer and statesman Cicero, who prevented a coup by his defeated rival Catiline. b Longchamp, p. 125. c A variety of play, then regarded in England as typically French, in which a popular saying is the foundation of the plot; a contemporary example was Alfred de Musset’s On ne badine pas avec l’amour (1834). d The preceding including quotes are from Longchamp, respectively pp. 137–40, 150–4, 125, and 170–2.

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From this scene of gaiety, at once rustic and refined, the pair proceeded to the court of king Stanislaus at Luneville. Here Voltaire employed himself in writing during the morning, and, as usual, the evening was given up to amusement. The theatricals were renewed; all was gaiety and good humour. The marquis du Chatelet, passing through Luneville, on his way to join the army, was enchanted to find his wife in such high favour at king Stanislaus’ court. Voltaire left the gay scene to overlook the bringing out of his tragedy of “Semiramis.”a In this play he endeavoured to accustom his countrymen to greater boldness of situation and stage effect. It was necessary to banish that portion of the audience, the dandies of the day, who, seated on the stage itself, at once destroyed / all scenic illusion, and afforded too narrow a space for the actors. A formidable cabal opposed these innovations, headed by Piron and Crebillon; and Voltaire, himself, was obliged to have recourse to means which had been unworthy of him under other circumstances, and to place a number of resolute friends in the pit, to oppose the adverse party. The piece was successful, and the poet eager to return to Luneville. He was suffering greatly in his health. During his stay in Paris, he had been attacked by low fever; and his busy life in the capital, where his days were given up to society, and his nights to authorship, exhausted the vital powers. Notwithstanding his suffering, he resolved to set out, and proceeded as far as Chalons,b where he was obliged to give in, and take to his bed. The bishop and intendant of Chalons visited him; they sent him a physician; but, without showing outward opposition, Voltaire followed none of his prescriptions, and endeavoured to get rid of the intruders. He felt his danger; he entreated his confidential servant, Longchamps not to abandon him, and, as he said, to remain to cover his body with earth when he should expire. His fever and delirium increased, and his resolution not to take the remedies prescribed was firm: every one expected to see him die; he, himself, anticipated death, and gave his secretary instructions how to act. On the sixth day, though apparently as ill as ever, he resolved to proceed on his journey, declaring that he would not die at Chalons. He was lifted into his carriage; his secretary took his place beside him; he did not speak, and was so wan and feeble, that Longchamp feared that he would never arrive alive: but as they went on, he grew better; sleep and appetite returned; he was much recovered when they reached Luneville; the presence of madame du Chatelet reanimated him; a few days with her caused all his gaiety to return, and he forgot his sufferings and danger.c This appears to have been a very happy portion of Voltaire’s life. His friendship for madame du Chatelet / was ardent and sincere. Her talents were the origin of their sympathy in tastes and pursuits; her gaiety animated his life with a succession of pleasures necessary to compose and amuse his mind after intense study; her good sense enabled her to be his adviser and support when calumny and a b c

Sémiramis, produced 1748. Châlons-sur-Marne, town in Champagne, on the route from Paris to Cirey. The preceding is based on Longchamp, pp. 209–22.

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scandal disturbed, as was easily done, his equanimity. Voltaire, when writing, was absorbed by his subject; this enthusiasm inspired and sustained him. It allowed him to labour hard, and made him put his whole soul into every word he penned. His friend participated in his eagerness; and by entering earnestly into all his literary plans, imparted to them a charm which he appreciated at its full value. This friend he was about to lose for ever; but he did not anticipate the misfortune. A portion of the following year was spent at Paris and Cirey, and they again visited Luneville; for king Stanislaus had invited them again to join his court. Pleasure was once more the order of the day. Every one in the palace was eager to contribute to the king’s amusement; and he was desirous that all round him should be happy. In the midst of this routine of gaiety, the industry of Voltaire surprises us. He wrote several tragedies at this period, and his letters are full of expressions marking the eagerness of authorship, and the many hours he devoted to composition. Emulation, joined to great disdain for his rival, spurred him on. He was mortified and indignant at the praise bestowed on Crebillon by the Parisians; and he took the very subjects treated by this tragedian, believing that, thus brought into immediate contrast, his grander conceptions and more classic style would at once crush the pretender. “I have written ‘Catiline,’” he writes, “in eight days; and the moment I finished, I began ‘Electra.’ For the last twenty years I have been rendered indignant by seeing the finest subject of antiquity debased by a miserable love affair, – by two pair of lovers, and barbarous poetry; nor was I less afflicted by the cruel injustice done to Cicero. In a word, I believed / that I was called upon by my vocation to avenge Cicero and Sophocles – Rome and Greece – from the attacks of a barbarian.”a This ardour for composition, and these pleasures, were suddenly arrested by the afflicting event of madame du Chatelet’s death. She died soon after her confinement,b unexpectedly, when all danger seemed past. Whatever might have been the disputes of the friends, these did not shake their friendship; and if they clouded, at intervals, the happiness they derived, they left no evil trace behind. Voltaire was plunged in the deepest affliction; the expressions he uses mark the truth of his regrets. “I do not fear my grief,” he writes to his friend, the marquis d’Argental; “I do not fly from objects that speak to me of her. I love Cirey; and although I cannot bear Luneville, where I lost her in so frightful a manner, yet the places which she adorned are dear to me. I have not lost a mistress; I have lost the half of myself, – a soul for which mine was made, – a friend of twenty years. I feel as the most affectionate father would towards an only daughter. I love to find her a

Letter to abbé de Voisenon (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, pp. 201–2). Voltaire’s plays Rome sauvée, ou Catilina and Electra (based on Sophocles’ Greek original, 418–410 BC ) were written in response to the inferior versions he considered Crébillon to have written. b Mary Shelley tactfully glides over the fact that the fatal pregnancy was the outcome of Mme du Châtelet’s love affair with the poet Jean François, marquis de Saint-Lambert (1716– 1803), career soldier and man of letters, best known for his Les Saisons (1769; an imitation of Thomson’s The Seasons) and his later affair with Madame d’Houdetôt.

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image everywhere; to converse with her husband and her son.” – “I have tried to return to ‘Catiline;’ but I have lost the ardour I felt when I could show her an act every two days. Ideas fly from me; I find myself, for hours together, unable to write; without a thought for my work: one idea occupies me day and night.”a To these laments he adds her eulogy, in another letter, with which we may conclude the subject. Her errors were the effect of the times in which she lived, and of an ardent temper. We would deprecate any return to a state of society that led the wisest into such grievous faults, but we will not defraud the victim of the system of the praise which, on other scores, she individually merited.* “A woman,” writes / Voltaire, “who translated and explained Newton, and translated Virgil, without betraying in her conversation that she had achieved these prodigies; a woman who never spoke ill of any one, and never uttered a falsehood; a friend, attentive and courageous in her friendship: in a word, a great woman, whom the common run of women only knew by her diamonds and dress. Such must I weep till the end of my life.”b After this sorrowful event Voltaire established himself in Paris. The house which he and Madame du Chatelet rented conjointly, he now took entirely himself. He invited his widowed niece, madame Denis, to preside over his establishment. At first he continued plunged in grief; he saw no one but count D’Argental and the duke of Richelieu, who were among his oldest friends. One or the other, or both, passed the evenings with him, and tried to distract his mind from its regrets. They sought to awaken in him his theatrical tastes, which were strong, and which, if once roused, would effectually draw him from solitude. * It is difficult to decide on madame du Chatelet’s character. With regard to the immorality of her liaison with Voltaire, we will merely refer to the clever preface of the English editor to madame du Deffand’s correspondence with Horace Walpole, in which the state of society in that age is so well described;c and only remark, that such was the system, that a devoted and enduring friendship for so great a man was considered highly respectable, even though that friendship militated against our stricter notions of social duties; it not being considered the business of any one to inquire into, or concern themselves with, a question that related only to the persons immediately implicated. With regard to madame du Chatelet’s general character, she was unpopular through the vehemence of her temper, and even the ardour with which she devoted herself to study. She had several of the faults attributed to literary women, which arise from their not having the physical strength to go through great intellectual labour without suffering from nervous irritation. In other respects she was evidently generous and sincere. Her judgment was sound; her common sense clear and steady. She was witty and vivacious, and had as much to bear from Voltaire’s petulance, whimsicalness, and vehemence, as he from her more imperious temper. a Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, pp. 205–6, 208. Charles Augustin Feriol, comte d’Argental (1700– 88), lawyer, minister plenipotentiary of the duchy of Parma at the French court, and one of Voltaire’s staunchest friends. b Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, p. 213. c See Deffand, vol. I, pp. iv, xx–xxiv. The works and letters of the connoisseur Horace Walpole (1717–97) were edited by his protégée, Mary Berry (1763–1852).

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Voltaire at last showed sparks of the old fire; other friends were brought about him; he was implored to bring out his newly written tragedies; he objected, on the score of the quarrel that subsisted between him and the actors of the Comédie Français, – he having endeavoured to improve their manner of acting, and they haughtily rejecting his instructions. This difficulty was got over by erecting a private theatre in his own house, and gathering together a number of actors chosen from / various private companies; for, as in the time of Molière, the sons of the shopkeepers in Paris often formed companies together, and got up theatricals.a It was thus that Voltaire became acquainted with Le Kain,b who has left us an interesting account of his intercourse with the illustrious poet. Le Kain was the son of a goldsmith. Voltaire saw him act, and, perceiving his talent, begged him to call upon him. “The pleasure caused by this invitation,” the actor writes, “was even greater than my surprise. I cannot describe what passed within me at the sight of this great man, whose eyes sparkled with fire, imagination, and genius. I felt penetrated with respect, enthusiasm, admiration, and fear; while M. de Voltaire, to put an end to my embarrassment, embraced me, thanking God for having created a being who could move him to tears by his declamation.” He then asked the young man various questions; and when Le Kain mentioned his intention of giving himself entirely up to the stage, in spite of his enthusiasm for the theatre, Voltaire strongly dissuaded him from adopting a profession held disreputable in his native country. He asked him to recite, but would not hear any verses but those of Racine. Le Kain had once acted in “Athalie,” and he declaimed the first scene, while Voltaire, in a transport of enthusiasm, exclaimed, “Oh! what exquisite verses! and it is surprising that the whole piece is written with the same fervour and purity, from first scene to last, and that, throughout, the poetry is inimitable.” And then, turning to the actor, he said, “I predict that, with that touching voice, you will one day delight all Paris, – but never appear upon a public stage.” At the second interview Voltaire engaged Le Kain and his whole company to act at his own theatre, Le Kain himself taking up his residence in the house of the generous poet. Le Kain owed his success to him, and felt the warmest gratitude. “He is a faithful friend,” he writes; “his temper is vehement, but his heart is good, and his soul sensitive and compassionate. Modest, in spite of the / praises lavished on him by kings, by literary men, and by the rest of the world. Profound and just in his judgment on the works of others; full of amenity, kindness, and grace, in the intercourse of daily life, he was inflexible in his aversion to those who had offended him. He was an admirable actor. I have seen him put new life into the part of Cicero, in the fourth act of ‘Rome Sauvée,’ when we brought out that piece at Sceaux, in the August of 1750. Nothing could be more true, more pathetic, more enthusiastic, than he was in this part.” Voltaire instructed the actors when they performed his own tragedies; his criticisms were a

The preceding is based on Longchamp, pp. 269–72. Henri Louis LeKain (1729–78), the most famous male tragic actor of the 18th century.

b

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just, and given with that earnestness and vividness of illustration that marked the liveliness of his sensations. “Remember,” he said to an actor who whined out the part of Brutus, “remember that you are Brutus, the firmest of Romans, and that you must not make him address the god Mars as if you were saying, ‘O holy Virgin! grant that I may gain a prize of a hundred francs in the lottery.’ He insisted with mademoiselle Dumesnil that she should put more energy into the part of Merope. “One must be possessed by the devil,” said the actress, “to declaim with such vehemence.” – “You are right,” said Voltaire; “and one must be possessed to succeed in any art.”a Voltaire passionately loved theatrical representations. The tragedies of Corneille, and, above all, of Racine, inspired him with sensations of the warmest delight. He wrote his own plays in transports of enthusiasm, and corrected them with intense labour. But he had a further intention in erecting his theatre; he aimed at popularity and at court favour, as a safeguard from persecution, and as insuring his personal safety if he should excite ministerial displeasure by any philosophical works. It was for this cause that he endeavoured to propitiate the new mistress of Louis XV., madame de Pompadour.b He had known her before she attracted the king’s attention; and after she became the royal mistress, she continued for a time on a familiar / footing with her old friend. Eager to form a party, and to insure her own popularity, madame de Pompadour patronised literature and the arts, and at first showed partiality for Voltaire; the courtiers followed her example with eager emulation; and the sovereign himself was induced to regard him with some show of favour. He named him gentleman in ordinary to his chamber, and historiographer of France, – places which Voltaire eagerly accepted, and regarded as so many bulwarks to resist the attacks of his enemies. The duties of the first-named place were, however, onerous, as they necessitated a frequent attendance at court; he was permitted to dispose of it, and he sold it for 30,000 francs; while, as a peculiar mark of favour, he was allowed to preserve the title and privileges.c He was, moreover, elected member of the academy; but he purchased this doubtful honour by the sacrifice of much honest pride. He was not elected till he addressed a letter full of professions of respect for the church and the Jesuits. No advancement would have induced him to this act; but he believed that it was necessary to secure his safety while he continued to inhabit the capital. At the same time, these concessions embittered his spirit, and added force to his sarcasms and hostility, when, by expatriation, he had secured his independence. When we consider, however, that his concessions were made in vain, we regret that any motive a Mary Shelley blends several anecdotes and quotes from LeKain, pp. vii, 4–14, although the plays LeKain recited to him were Abner and Joad, not Athalie. b Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson Le Normand d’Etiolles (also spelled Le Normant d’Etioles), marquise de Pompadour, enlightened patron of the arts and letters and protector of the philosophes. c Longchamp, pp. 291–2.

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urged him to them; for if truth be the great aim of intellectual exertions, the more imperative that those who aspire to glory in the name of truth should rise far above subterfuge and disguise. While madame du Chatelet lived, he had occupied a more dignified position; and, in the retirement of Cirey, remained aloof from the intrigues necessary to curry favour with an uneducated, bigoted king, and his ignorant mistress. When his accomplished friend died, the versatile and ambitious poet sailed at first without pilot or rudder. What wonder that he was wrecked? and he deserves the more praise, when / he retrieved himself after wreck, and attained independence and dignity in his seclusion in Switzerland. A member of the academy, and enjoying places at court, Voltaire, for a short interval, believed that he should reach the goal he desired, and become the dictator of the literary world, under the protection of his sovereign. He was soon undeceived: Louis remembered too well cardinal de Fleuri’s lessons, not to regard him with distrust and dislike. Madame de Pompadour watched the glances of the royal eye, and guided herself by them. Crebillon was set up as Voltaire’s successful rival: he felt his immeasurable superiority, and was filled with scorn at the attempt made to bring them on a level. He struggled at first; but still the court and people called out for Crebillon; and, in a fit of disgust, he accepted the reiterated invitation of the king of Prussia, hoping that a temporary absence might calm the attacks of his enemies, and awaken the partiality of the people.a Frederic received his friend with transports of joy. His undisguised delight, his earnest request that he would exchange Paris for Berlin permanently, the charm that his talents spread over the poet’s life, and the security he enjoyed, were all alluring. Frederic spared no professions of friendship, no marks of real personal attachment; more than once he kissed the poet’s hand, in a transport of admiration. This singular demonstration of affection from man to man, more singular from king to author, helped, with many others in addition, to enchain Voltaire. He, himself, assures us that they turned his head. “How could I resist,” he writes, “a victorious king, a poet, a musician, a philosopher, who pretended to love me? I believed that I loved him. I arrived in Potzdam in the month of June, 1750. Astolpho was not better received in the palace of Alcina. To lodge in the apartment which the mareschal de Saxe had occupied, to have the king’s cooks at my orders when I chose to eat in my own rooms, and his coachmen when I wished to drive out, / were the least favours shown me. The suppers were delightful. Unless I deceive myself, the conversation was full of wit and genius. The king displayed both; and what is strange, I never at any repast enjoyed more freedom. I studied two hours a day with his majesty; I corrected his works, taking care to praise greatly all that was good, while I erased all that was bad. I gave him a reason in writing for all my emendations, which composed a work on rhetoric and poetry for his use. He profited by it, and his genius was of more service to him than my lessons. I had no court to pay, no visits to make, no duties to fulfil. I established a

The above paragraph and the preceding one derive from Condorcet, pp. 60–2.

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myself on an independent footing, and I can conceive nothing more agreeable than my situation.”a With these feelings, it is not strange that he listened to his royal friend’s request, that he should resign his places in the court of France, and accept that of chamberlain in Prussia, as well as a pension for his life and that of his niece, and that he should permanently fix himself in his royal friend’s dominions; yet, while he accepted these offers, he had many qualms. Madame Denis, his niece, to whom he communicated his new plans, argued warmly against them. Her letter has not come down to us; but she evidently took a keen and true view of the annoyances and mortifications to which he might be exposed. She was acquainted with her uncle’s irritable temper, – his unguarded conversation when carried away by the spirit of wit, – his vehemence when struggling against control. She felt, and truly, that a king accustomed to command was the last person to show indulgence for such foibles when they clashed with himself. She prophesied that Frederic would, in the end, be the death of his friend. Voltaire showed this letter to the king, and he, in answer, wrote one to the poet, the expressions of which won him entirely.b “How,” wrote Frederic, “could I cause the unhappiness of a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who sacrifices for me his country, and all that is dear to man? I respect you as my master in eloquence, – / I love you as a virtuous friend. What slavery, what misfortune, what change can you fear in a country where you are as much esteemed as in your own, and with a friend who has a grateful heart? I promise you that you shall be happy here as long as you live.”c Voltaire sent this letter to count d’Argental, whom he always named his guardian angel, as his apology for expatriating himself. “Judge,” he writes, “whether I am excusable? I send you his letter, – you will think that you are reading one written by Trajan or Marcus Aurelius,d – yet I am not the less agitated while I deliver myself over to fate, and throw myself, head foremost, into the whirlpool of destiny which absorbs all things. But how can I resist? How can I forget the barbarous manner with which I have been treated in my own country? You know what I have gone through. I enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years. I enjoy the protection of a king; I find the conversation of a philosopher – the society of a delightful man – united in one, who, for the space of sixteen years, has exerted himself to comfort me in my misfortunes, and to shelter me from my enemies. All is to be feared for me in Paris; here I am sure of tranquillity: if I can answer for anything, it is for the character of the king of Prussia.” He wrote with even more enthusiasm to his niece. “He is the most amiable of men; he is a king; it is a passion of sixteen years’ standing; he has turned my head. I have the insolence to a Condorcet, pp. 234–5. Potzdam: Potsdam, garrison town outside Berlin, site of Frederick’s palace of Sans Souci (‘without a care’); Astolpho: character enthralled by the enchantress Alcina in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso; Saxe: Maurice, comte de Saxe (1696–1750), illegitimate son of Augustus II of Saxony-Poland, and distinguished French general. b Longchamp, pp. 297–8. c Condorcet, p. 237. d Marcus Aurelius (AD 121–80), Roman emperor known for his Stoic Meditations.

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think that nature formed me for him. There is a singular conformity in our tastes. I forget that he is master of half Germany, and see in him only a good, a friendly man.”a To establish the poet at his court, Frederic named him his chamberlain, and gave him the brevet of a pension of twenty thousand francs for himself, and four thousand for his niece, who was invited to come and take up her abode with her uncle at Potzdam. Before he accepted these bounties, it was necessary to obtain permission from his own sovereign, of whom he was / placeman and pensioner. Frederic himself wrote to solicit the consent of the king of France. To Voltaire’s surprise, Louis showed displeasure. Monarchs are usually averse to any display of independence on the part of their subjects and servants. He accepted the poet’s resignation of the place of historiographer, which Voltaire had hoped to keep, but permitted him to retain his title of gentleman in ordinary and his pension.b Yet this was done in a manner that showed Voltaire that if he were forced to leave Prussia, his position in his native country would be more perilous and stormy than ever. He felt, also, deeply disappointed in finding himself obliged to give up the idea of having his niece, Madame Denis, with him in Prussia. “The life we lead at Potzdam,” he writes, “which pleases me, would drive a woman to despair; so I leave her my house in Paris, my plate, and my horses, and I add to her income.”c Still his niece and his friends were not content at his throwing himself so entirely into the power of Frederic, and their suggestions inspired a thousand doubts as to the prudence of his choice, especially when the severity of the winter made him feel that the climate was ill suited to his feeble constitution. However, he manfully opposed himself to the objections raised against his choice, and the sufferings which the long icy winter caused him to endure. He devoted himself to authorship. His chief occupation was his “Age of Louis XIV.,” of which he was justly proud. He felt that he could write with greater freedom while absent from France. “I shall here finish,” he writes, “the ‘Age of Louis XIV.,’ which, perhaps, I had never written in Paris. The stones with which I erect this monument in honour of my country had, there, served but to crush me; a bold word had seemed a lawless licence, and the most innocent expressions had been interpreted with that charity that spreads poison through all.” Again he writes: “I shall be historiographer of France in spite of my enemies, and I was never so / desirous of doing well the duties of my place as since I lost it. This vast picture of so illustrious an age turns my head. If Louis XIV. be not great, at least his age is. It is an immense work: I shall revise it severely, and shall endeavour, above all, to render the truth neither odious nor dangerous.”d a

The sources of these two letters have not been located. Longchamp, pp. 295–6. c Letter to the duc de Richelieu (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, p. 246). d Mary Shelley combines extracts from a letter to Mme Denis and two to the marquis d’Argental (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, pp. 273, 305–6, 312). b

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Besides this great undertaking, he corrected his tragedies. As usual, he infected all round with his love of the drama. A theatre was established at court; the brothers and sisters of the king took parts in his plays, and submitted to his instructions.a This was a species of flattery well suited to turn a poet’s head; yet soon, very soon, the dark cloud appeared in the horizon, and his attention became roused to assure himself whether indeed he heard the far off thunder of an approaching storm. These dawnings of fear and distrust are ingenuously detailed in his letters to his niece. “It is known, then, at Paris,” he writes, “that we have acted the death of Cæsar at Potzdam; that prince Henrib is a good actor; has no accent, and is very amiable; and that pleasures may be found here. All this is true – but – the suppers of the king are delicious – seasoned by reason, wit, and science – liberty reigns over them – he is the soul of all – no ill-humour, no clouds – at least, no storms; my life is independent and occupied; but – but – operas, plays, carousals, suppers at Sans-souci – warlike manœuvres, concerts, study, readings; but – but – the weather, my dear child, begins to be very cold –” Such were the first expressions of distrust inspired by observing a certain degree of deceit in the king. He found that he could turn those into ridicule whom he flattered most to their face; and he also found that such blowing of hot and cold with the same breath, which is deemed almost fair in some societies, was fertile of annoyance when practised by a king whose word is law, whose smiles are the ruling influence of the day, whose slightest remark is reported, magnified, and becomes the rule of action to all around; and he / began to feel that the chain that bound him and the king, which he flatteredc would be worn equally by both, fell heavily round him only. He became aware that the king was not the less despotic and self-willed for being a philosopher. In truth, Frederic and Voltaire had a mutual and sincere love for each other. They agreed in their opinions, they sympathised in their views. Each enjoyed the conversation, the wit, the gaiety, the genius of the other; but Voltaire panted for entire independence: to think, to speak, to write freely, was as necessary as the air he breathed. To gain these privileges he had quitted France; and though he passionately loved flattery and distinction, yet these were only pleasing when they waited upon his every caprice; and became valueless when he was called upon to sacrifice the humour of the moment to gain them. The king delighted in Voltaire’s talents; but, then, he wished them to be as much at his command as a soldier’s valour, which deserves reward, but which may only be displayed at the word of command. The moment a feeling of injustice on one side, and of assumption of direction on the other, showed themselves, a thousand circumstances arose to embitter the intercourse of the unequal friends. The king had a favourite guest, la Metrie,d a a

Condorcet, pp. 70–1. The quotation following is found in Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, pp. 274–5. Prince Henry of Prussia (1725–1802), brother of Frederick. A rare absolute usage; see OED, ‘flatter’, v. 5 (or ‘himself’ may be missing). d The L’Homme Machine (1747) of Julien Offray (or Offroy) de La Mettrie (1709–51) offered a radically materialist depiction of human nature. Its controversial argument forced La Mettrie b c

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physician by profession, the worst, Voltaire tells us, that ever practised, an unprincipled fellow, but witty and vivacious; whose good spirits, and bold and infidel opinions, pleased Frederic, who made him his reader. This sort of man is never suited to a court. The same restless aspiration after independence that renders a man an infidel in opinions makes him a bad courtier. “La Metrie,” writes Voltaire to his niece, “boasts in his prefaces of his extreme felicity in being near a great king, who sometimes reads his poems to him; but, in secret, he weeps with me; he would leave this place on foot: and I – why am I here? You will be astonished at what I tell you. La Metrie swore to me the other day, that, when speaking to the king of my pretended / favour, and of the petty jealousy that it excites, he replied, ‘I shall not want him for more than a year longer: one squeezes the orange, and throws away the peel.’”a These words sank deep in Voltaire’s mind; and not less deeply did the king feel an expression of the irritable poet, who called himself Frederic’s laundress, and said, when he corrected the royal poems, that he was washing the king’s dirty linen.b Such heedless speeches, carried from one to the other by the thoughtless or the malicious, destroyed every feeling of attachment, and circumstances soon concurred to inspire both with mistrust, to inspire the weaker with a desire of throwing off his chains, and the stronger with a more unworthy determination of adding to their weight. The first circumstance of any importance that occurred was a pecuniary transaction between Voltaire and a Jew. Voltaire says, that after the speech of Frederic, reported to him by la Metrie, he wished to put his orange peel in safety.c Whether his transaction with the Jew concerned the placing of his money cannot be told; it is enveloped in great obscurity; however, what is certain is, that it was submitted to a legal trial, the Jew condemned, and Voltaire entirely exonerated from blame.d The mere fact, however, of an accusation being made against him, and fault found, was matter of triumph to his enemies. A thousand libels were circulated in Paris and Berlin, and a thousand falsehoods told. Frederic, when he heard of the dispute, referred it to the decision of the law. In this he did well. But he affected to distrust Voltaire; he forbade him to appear at court till the decision of the judges was known. Voltaire was far above peculation and pecuniary meanness. The king committed an irremissible crime in friendship, whether he really distrusted Voltaire, or merely pretended so to do. But a king of Prussia is an absoto seek refuge at Frederick’s court. It has been suggested that it forms part of the context of Frankenstein. a Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, pp. 353–3. b Letter to Mme Denis (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, p. 463). c Condorcet, p. 237. d It would appear that Mary Shelley repeats uncritically here and below (p. 291) the prejudiced tone of her sources in describing this incident. Jews in Prussia had restricted residential and occupational rights and paid a tax to the crown. The extent of Voltaire’s own anti-Jewish prejudice remains controversial.

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lute monarch; all belonging to him are his creatures; and that one of these should venture out of bounds, either to secure his property or / to augment it, was regarded as a deep offence.a Voltaire must be humbled. Treated like a servant, not a friend, what wonder that the sensitive poet felt that the orange was squeezed a little too hardly, and began to earnestly desire to save as much of it as he could. A sort of reconciliation, however, ensued; again all appeared smiling on the surface, though all was hollow beneath. Voltaire engaged in printing his “Age of Louis XIV.,” was desirous of finishing it before he quitted Prussia; meanwhile he had a sum of money to the amount of 300,000 livres, about 15,000l., which he wished to place; he took care not to put it in the Prussian funds, but secured it advantageously on certain estates which the duke of Wirtemburgb possessed in France. Through the infidelity of the post Frederic discovered this transaction, and felt that it was a preparation for escape. Accordingly, he made more use of him than ever as a corrector of his literary works. In spite of all these disturbances, there was something in the life of Potzdam peculiarly agreeable to Voltaire. “I am lodged conveniently,” he writes, “in a fine palace. I have a few friends about me of my own way of thinking, with whom I dine regularly and soberly. When I am well enough, I sup with the king; and conversation does not turn either upon individual gossip or general ineptities, but upon good taste, the arts, and true philosophy; on the means to attain happiness, on the mode of discerning the true from the false, upon liberty of thought: in short, during the two years I have spent at this place, which is called a court, but which is really a retreat for philosophers, not a day has passed during which I have not learnt something instructive.” Thus Voltaire tried to blind himself, while he really enjoyed the conversation and friendship of Frederic, and while the cloven foot of despotism remained in shadow. Among other modes of civilising Prussia and spreading the blessings of knowledge, Frederic had established an academy. This was a favourite creation, and / it did him honour. The president was Maupertuis, a man of some ability, but whose talents were vitiated by the taint of envy. He had considered himself the first bel espritc at court till Voltaire appeared. He and the poet had corresponded heretofore, and Voltaire had not spared flattery in his letters; but he neglected to mention Maupertuis’s name in his speech when he took his seat in the French academy. This was not an injury to be forgiven; and though Voltaire paid him every sort of attention, the other could ill brook his superior favour, especially as Frederic, who had never relished his conversation, frequently excluded him from the royal suppers, and joined with Voltaire in making him the object of their endless pleasantries. At first Voltaire only jested, because he was a wit and could not help it; but Maupertuis contrived to rouse a more bitter spirit.d a

Longchamp, pp. 308–10 and Condorcet, p. 237. Württemberg, duchy in south-west Germany with enclaves inside French territory. Man of talent, a wit. d The above paragraph and the preceding one are based on Longchamp, pp. 308–10 and Condorcet, p. 73; ‘ineptities’ (l. 19)= ineptitudes (not in OED). b c

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He had discovered a new principle in mechanics, that of the least power: this principle met much opposition, and Koenig, a Prussian mathematician, not only argued against it, but quoted a fragment of a letter of Leibnitz, in which this principle was mentioned and objected to.a Koenig confessed that he possessed only a copy of the letter in question, acknowledging that the original was lost. Maupertuis took advantage of this circumstance; he induced the academy, of which he was president, to summon Koenig to produce the original; and when this was allowed not to be found, he proceeded to accuse him of forgery. He got up a meeting of such academicians as he could influence, by whom Koenig was declared unworthy to be any longer a member, and his name erased from the list. Koenig had formerly instructed madame du Chatelet in the philosophy of Leibnitz. Voltaire consequently knew and esteemed him, and was indignant at the persecution he suffered; he took his part openly, and was only restrained from crushing his adversary by Frederic’s personal request not to make a jest of his academy or its president. The seeds of animosity, / however, between him and Maupertuis, long sown, sprung up and flourished with vigour. Maupertuis contrived to excite a disreputable person of the name of La Beaumelleb to attack the poet. His calumnies ought to have met with contempt only; but Voltaire was irritated, and his dislike to Maupertuis increased. The president published a book full of philosophical follies, which Voltaire satirised unsparingly. He wrote a diatribe called “Akakia,”c and read it to the king; Maupertuis was the butt of a thousand witticisms, and the royal suppers rang with laughter at his expense. But Voltaire was not content to make a jest of Maupertuis only in the royal presence, and Frederic, beginning to think that to attack his president was to attack his academy and also himself, published two pamphlets against Koenig, which also inculpated Voltaire. The poet was indignant. “I see,” he writes to his niece, “that the orange is squeezed; I must now try to save the rind. I am going to write a small dictionary for the use of kings, in which it will be shown that my friend, means my slave; my dear friend, you are becoming indifferent to me; I will make you happy, I will endure while I need you; sup with me this evening, you shall be my butt to-night. Seriously, my heart is wounded. Speak to a man with tenderness, and write pamphlets against him – and what pamphlets! Tear a man from his country by the most solemn promises, and treat him with the blackest malignity. What a contrast!”d Voltaire was not a man to suffer these attacks without punishing them with a visitation of his unbridled wit. Fearful of attacking Frederic, he revenged himself on Maupertuis, and published “Akakia.” a ‘least power’: also known as ‘least action’, i.e. that a limited number of physical laws are sufficient to explain all motion in the universe. As developed by 19th-century physicists, it is an important principle behind quantum mechanics. Koenig: Samuel König, Librarian of Frederick’s cousin, Princess Anne of Orange, at The Hague. b Laurent Angliviel La Beaumelle (b. 1726), minor writer who later created a controversy over his unauthorised edition of Voltaire’s Age of Louis XIV. c La diatribe du docteur Akakia (1752). d Longchamp, p. 314–16 and Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIV, p. 519.

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He belonged to the republic of letters, and did not understand that it should be ruled by the will of one man. And then, while he vehemently reprehended those authors who had made their literary enemies the objects of public satire, he, himself, indulged in the most bitter attacks. Frederic considered “Akakia” as a satire, deserved by Maupertuis, and thus a blameless / source of merriment at his supper table, where he had no objection to turn his president into ridicule; but the publication was quite another affair; by this he considered his academy, and consequently himself, attacked; and he retaliated by a still more flagrant outrage. He caused the diatribe to be burnt by the hands of the hangman in the public square of Berlin. Voltaire had a right to be deeply incensed by this act. He did not attack the honour or morality of Maupertuis in his diatribe, but simply ridiculed his opinions; and though “Akakia” has only that slight merit, dependent on associations of the day, now lost, which rendered it amusing to a circle, and was not adapted for general reading nor posterity, still, as it was not libellous, the act of the king of Prussia was an insolent exertion of intolerable despotism. He meant, perhaps, to break Voltaire’s spirit by such an insult. Knowing that he could not return to Paris, he fancied him at his mercy. Voltaire had, however, but one wish – to escape, and to feel himself once more free. On this outrage he instantly returned “the king’s baubles,” as he called them, – the key of chamberlain, his cross, and the brevet of his pension, – with these verses:– “Je les reçus avec tendresse, Je les renvoie avec douleur, Comme un amant, dans sa jalouse ardeur, Rend le portrait de sa maitresse.”a

Thus trying to soften the acquisition of his freedom to Frederic himself. He at the same time said that he was ill, and asked permission to drink the waters of Plombières. The king, desirous of keeping him on his own terms, replied by sending some bark, and, observing that there were as medicinal waters in Silesia as at Plombières,b refused permission for his journey. Voltaire had but one other resource: he asked permission to see the king. They met, and the pleasure they took in each other’s society seemed at once to obliterate the recollection of offence and wrong. It is said that Voltaire appeared before the king with “Akakia” / in his hand; on entering the room, he threw it into the fire, saying, “There, sire, is the only remaining copy of that unhappy book which caused me to lose your friendship.”c The king, in his German simplicity, fancied a ‘I received these tenderly / I return them sadly / like a lover, who in his jealous passion / returns the portrait of his mistress.’ b A spa in Lorraine. The above paragraph and the preceding three are based on Condorcet, pp. 75–7. c Source untraced. An anecdote (which Mary Shelley undoubtedly had heard) in part resembling this, is told of Byron, who at Pisa in 1822 was said to have dramatically thrown what he had written of The Deformed Transformed on the fire when P. B. Shelley expressed his dislike of it. The play, though never finished, proved not to have been burnt.

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that the poet spoke the simple truth; he rushed to the fire to save the pamphlet from among the burning fagots. Voltaire struggled to poke it in. Frederic at length drew out the half-burnt pages in triumph. He embraced his friend. They supped together. “A supper of Damocles,”a Voltaire calls it; but to the king it was one of triumph, since it appeared to be the sign that he had bent Voltaire’s spirit to pass over the indignities heaped on him, and secured him as a submissive courtier for ever. As a token of his renewed servitude, he gave him back “the baubles.” Maupertuis, himself, was not spared by the friends, who, as far as wit could go, sacrificed him at the shrine of their reconciliation. Voltaire, however, had but one end in view. He used his regained influence to obtain permission for a journey to Plombières, promising to be absent only a few months – a promise he did not mean to keep. But as Francis I. broke the treaty which Charles V. forced him to make in prison in Madrid,b so might Voltaire consider any promise he made to Frederic void, while the frontiers of Prussia were guarded by an hundred and fifty thousand men, and independence had become necessary to his existence. Voltaire exulted in escaping from the palace of Alcina – as he named the abode of Frederic; but he did not think it prudent to venture to Paris, where his enemies were in vigour, and strengthened by the displeasure with which Louis XV. regarded the poet’s having exchanged his court for that of Frederic. Instead, therefore, of taking refuge in his own country (if the subject of an arbitrary monarch can be said to have a country), he remained some time at Leipsic.c Here he received a ridiculous challenge from Maupertuis, which only tended to add zest to his pleasantries upon him; and he then proceeded to the court of the duchess of / Saxe Gotha, a most excellent and enlightened princess, “who, thank God,” says Voltaire, “did not write verses.”d He breathed again without fear, believing that he had secured his freedom. He continued his journey to Frankfort, where he was met by madame Denis. The bad state of Voltaire’s health rendered a woman’s presence and attentions necessary; and he was proud also of the heroic sacrifice it seemed in those days when a lady, enjoying the pleasures of Parisian society, quitted them to attend on a sick old uncle, even though that uncle were Voltaire. Here a sort of tragi-comic adventure ensued, to the temporary annoyance of the poet, and the lasting disgrace of the king of Prussia. Frederic’s angry feelings were roused by several just causes of annoyance. He learned that “Akakia” was published in Holland, and he remembered the scene of its pretended destruction by its author with indignation. He was angry, also, that the poet had escaped, and was no longer liable to the effects of his displeasa Condorcet, p. 241. In Greek legend, Damocles was feasted by the tyrant of Syracuse while a sword hung by a hair above him. b François I of France was defeated at the Battle of Pavia in 1525 by Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain. He agreed to cede territory to Charles V, surrendering two sons as hostages, but on his release repudiated the agreement as exacted under coercion. c Leipzig, then in the Electorate of Saxony. d Condorcet, p. 242. The duchess of Saxe-Gotha was Louisa Dorothea of Meiningen, dedicatee of Voltaire’s Annals of the Empire since Charlemagne.

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ure, and fear of ridicule added poignancy to these feelings. Frederic at once wished to punish his former friend, and to shield himself from the shafts of his ridicule. Voltaire had taken with him a volume of Frederic’s poems, privately circulated and given to him. The king feared that his corrector might strip his verses of their borrowed feathers, and deliver up the unfledged nurslings to the laughter of the world. He sent orders to his agent at Francfort to demand back this volume, as well as the baubles before returned and restored. His agent was a Jew of low character, and totally illiterate. He proceeded against Voltaire, as if he had been a servant suspected of running away with his master’s plate. The precious volume which Freitag called L’Œuvre de Poeshie du Roi son Maître,a had been left at Leipsic. Voltaire and madame Denis were kept under strict arrest till this unfortunate book arrived at Francfort; and as there are always ill-omened birds who scent ill fortune, and take advantage / of it; so, now, a bookseller of the Hague, whom Voltaire had employed, many years ago, to print the “Anti-Machiavel” of Frederic, brought forward a balance of twenty crowns with interest and compound interest, which the poet was forced to pay. At last, after a disagreeable and strict imprisonment of nearly a month’s duration, Voltaire and his niece were allowed to depart.b Thus ended the treaty of equal friendship between king and poet. The pettiness of the details is striking. We find neither the magnanimity of a hero in one, nor the calmness of a philosopher in the other. Voltaire had the excuse that he avenged his injured friend Koenig in his satire on Maupertuis. He had dreamed of independence in a palace; and from the moment he discovered his mistake he was eager to be free. Frederic, meanwhile, was taught by his enemies to regard him as a restless, intriguing Frenchman. He had written to him, at the beginning of their quarrel: “I was glad to receive you. I esteemed your understanding, your talents, your acquirements; and I believed that a man of your age, weary of skirmishing with authors and exposing himself to the storm, would take refuge here as in a tranquil port. First, you exacted from me, in a singular manner, that I should not engage Freronc to correspond with me, and I had the weakness to yield. You visited the Russian minister, and talked to him of affairs in which you had no right to interfere; and it was believed that I commissioned you. You had a dirty transaction with a Jew, and filled the city with clamour. I preserved peace in my house till you arrived; and I warn you, that if you have a passion for intrigue and cabal, you have addressed yourself very ill. I like quiet people; and if you can resolve to live like a philosopher, I shall be glad to see you; but if you give way to your passions, and quarrel with everybody, you had better remain at Berlin. a The Work of Poetry of the King his Master. Byron on several occasions uses the term ‘poeshie’ jocularly in his letters, evidently recalling this incident, which is perhaps why Mary Shelley includes it. (see also p. 293.) b Mary Shelley follows Condorcet, p. 245. c Élie Catherine Fréron (1718–76), journalist with whom Voltaire had a bitter feud, founder of a newsletter, The Literary Year.

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* * * * I write this letter with unpolished German good sense, which says what it thinks, and without adopting equivocal terms and / soft palliations to disfigure the truth.”*a This letter shows that Frederic believed himself to be in the right, and had conceived a bad opinion of his friend. We all know the height to which misunderstandings can rise when fostered by malicious and interested persons. We cannot wonder that men of quick tempers like Frederic and Voltaire should disagree; but it was to be lamented that they made their pettish quarrels a spectacle for all Europe. Voltaire had now a new life to fix upon. He was eager to secure his entire independence. The tranquillity he had at first enjoyed in Prussia made him feel the value of peace. This he could never find in his own country, and he henceforth looked upon expatriation as the only means of securing his tranquillity. Chance assisted him in forming the choice of an abode, which, from the independence it afforded, placed him in a high and dignified position in the eyes of all Europe. He had at first entertained the plan of establishing himself in Alsatia,b in which province he spent two years, after leaving Prussia, occupied in writing the annals of the empire;c but he was disturbed by the attacks of the Jesuits, who were angry because they had failed in an endeavour to convert him. He found that he could not visit Paris with safety; and he hesitated where to establish himself. Meanwhile, his health being, as ever, bad, he was advised to try the waters of Aix, in Savoy.d In his way thither he passed through Lyons. Cardinal Tencine refused to receive him, on account of his / being out of favour at court. Voltaire was piqued; but the inhabitants of Lyons compensated for the insult. They entertained him * When the correspondence was renewed between Frederic and Voltaire, they could not help alluding to the past, and their expressions show that each thought himself in the right. Voltaire says, “I am unutterably surprised when you write that I have spoken harshly to you. For twenty years you were my idol, ‘je l’ai dit à la terre, au ciel, à Guzman même;’ but your trade of hero, and your situation of king, do not render the disposition tender: it is a pity, for your heart was made for kindness; and were it not for heroism and a throne, you would have been the most amiable man in the world.” Frederic replied, with greater force. “I well know that I adored you as long as I thought you neither mischievous nor malicious: but you have played me so many tricks, of all kinds. Let us say no more; I have pardoned you. After all, you have done me more good than ill. I am more amused by your works, than hurt by your scratches.”f a

Not located. Alsace, French controlled province on the French-German border. c i.e. the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, the confederation of over 300 electorates, principalities and city-states, the majority of whose inhabitants were German speaking, which persisted until 1806. d Paragraph based on Condorcet, p. 81. Aix-les-Bains, spa in Savoy, French-speaking duchy on the French-Italian border, linked to Piedmont and Sardinia. e Pierre Guérin, cardinal de Tencin (1680–1758). f Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXV, pp. 289, 297–8. Frederick’s reply has not been located. The quotation (‘I told the earth, sky, Guzman himself’) is from Alzire, III. iv. b

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with public honours; got up his tragedies, that he might be present at the representation, and receive the enthusiastic applause of an audience who gloried in the opportunity of thus rewarding the author of works which excited so much admiration. Proceeding from Lyons to Savoy, he passed through Geneva, and here he consulted Tronchin, a physician, whom every one looked on as holding life and death in his hands.a Tronchin dissuaded him from trying the waters, but promised to restore his health if he would make some stay near him. Voltaire gave readier faith than could have been expected from a ridiculer of the medical art. He consented to remain in the neighbourhood of Geneva; and, finding that it was an established law that no Catholic might purchase land in Protestant Switzerland, it pleased his whimsical mind instantly to buy an estate in the territory of Geneva.b Add to which motive, he fully appreciated the advantages he must derive from living out of France, yet in a country where French was spoken, and where liberty of speech and of the press had hitherto reigned undisturbed. His house, named Les Delices,c was beautifully situated. He describes it as commanding a delightful view. The lake on one side, the town of Geneva on the other; the swift swelling Rhone formed a stream at the end of his garden, fed by the Arve and other mountain rivers. A hundred country houses with their gardens adorned the shores of the lake and of the rivers; and the Alps were seen afar off, – Mont Blanc and its range, whose picturesque snow-clad peaks for ever presented new aspects, as the clouds or the varying sunlight painted them. A philosopher, blest with affluence, might well be happy in such a seclusion. Soon after his arrival, Voltaire wrote the fragment of his autobiography, to explain his quarrel with the king of Prussia. These memoirs are one of his most entertaining works. The / playful sarcasm, which characterises every page he ever wrote, in this production reaches home, yet can scarcely be said to sting. He laughs at Frederic and his Œuvres des Poeshies; he laughs at his own illusions; and then lingers with fondness on the retreat he had at last found from the tumult of society and the friendship or enmity of kings. He congratulates himself on having made his own fortune, and confesses that this was done by speculations in finance. “It is necessary to be attentive to the operations to which the ministry, always pressed and always changing, makes in the finances of the state,” he observes. “Something often occurs of which a private individual can profit without being under obligations to any one; and it is vastly agreeable to fabricate one’s own fortune. The first step is troublesome, the rest are easy. One must be economical in one’s youth, and in old age one is surprised at one’s wealth. Money is at that time more necessary, and that time I now enjoy. After having lived with kings, I am become a king in my home. I possess all the conveniences of life in furniture, equipages, and good a Théodore Tronchin (1709–81), noted Genevan physician who also treated high-ranking patients in Paris. b The city-state of Geneva was independent of the Swiss Confederation, though allied to it. The preceding four sentences are from Condorcet, p. 246. c Les Délices (‘The Delights’); for this episode, see Condorcet, pp. 82–3, 246–7.

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living. The society of agreeable and clever people occupy all the time spared from study and the care I am forced to take of my health. While I enjoy the most pleasant style of life that can be imagined, I have the little philosophic pleasure of perceiving that the kings of Europe do not taste the same happy tranquillity; and I conclude that the position of a private person is often preferable to that of royalty.”a These words were singularly verified in the renewal of his correspondence with the king of Prussia. Frederic had begun it by sending him an opera he had founded on “Merope.” Soon after the coalitionb was formed against Prussia, which, victorious at first, brought Frederic to the position of rebel against the empire. The loss of a battle reduced him to extremities; and, rather than submit to his enemies, he resolved to commit suicide. He wrote a long epistle in verse announcing his intention: Voltaire answered it in / prose, and combated his idea by every argument that seemed most likely to have weight. Frederic was in some sort convinced; he dismissed the idea of self-destruction; but he resolved to fall on the field of battle, unless the victory was decided in his favour.c This more heroic resolution was rewarded by the gain of two battles, in which scarcely a Prussian fell, and the defeat of the enemy was complete.d Frederic wrote triumphantly to his friend to announce his victories. Soon after, Voltaire was applied to by cardinal Tencin, who had refused to receive him at Lyons, to forward letters which were to negotiate a peace. The wily philosopher consented: he was aware that the cardinal would fail, and he was malicious enough to wish to enjoy the sight of his mortification. The cardinal did fail, and more disgracefully than he expected; and the disappointment cost him his life. “I have never been able to understand,” Voltaire observes, “how it is that people are killed by vexation, and how ministers and cardinals, whose hearts are so hard, retain sufficient sensibility to die from the effects of a disappointment. It was my design to mortify and laugh at, not to kill him.” Voltaire had secured his safety, and could give himself up to that ardent love of study, that restless aspiration for fame, that eager endeavour to overthrow the superstitions (and, unfortunately, more than the superstitions, the religion) of Europe, and that more noble resolution to oppose all abuses, and to be the refuge and support of the oppressed, which animated his soul through a long life chequered by physical suffering. In his retreat of Les Delices, he brought out his historical work on the “Manners and Spirit of Nations.” He composed several of his best tragedies; he wrote “Candide,”e a book rendered illustrious by its wit and penetrating spirit of observation, in spite of its grossness and implied impiety, which are the reigning blemishes of Voltaire’s writings. As usual, also, he erected a

Condorcet, p. 248, shortened. The chief partners were France and Austria in a surprising reversal of alliances. c The preceding paragraph, and the next, are taken from Condorcet, pp. 252–56, 258. d The Prussian victories of Rossbach and Leuthen (1757). e Voltaire’s best known philosophical tale (1759), read by Mary Shelley on 26 Dec. 1814 (MWSJ (corr. edn 1995), p. 55). b

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a theatre in his house. Added to his / habitual love for theatrical amusements, he hoped to impart a taste for them to the Genevese, and so to weaken that ascetic spirit of repulsion of intellectual pleasure to which, whether enjoined by monks or recommended by Calvin, he was hostile. All, however, was not labour, peace, and amusement. The publication of the poem of the “Pucelle” threatened a renewal of the persecutions of which he had been the victim in his earlier days. Several forged verses in ridicule of Louis XV. and madame de Pompadour had been foisted into the surreptitious edition that appeared, and it was with difficulty that his friends proved that he was not the writer. Voltaire, indeed, was always in a state of inky war. A man who had provoked the priesthood of Europe, and whose talent for perceiving and pourtraying the ridiculous was unequalled and unsparing, could not fail in creating a host of enemies. Satires, epigrams, and libels rained on him. In his retirement of Les Delices, he might, if he had chosen, have been insensible to these attacks; but not one but found their way; he answered all, dealing about his shafts dipped in sarcasm and irony, and spreading abroad a sort of terror that served as a wholesome check to his enemies. A word or line from his pen marked a man for ever. Several among those thus attacked were forced to hide themselves till a new victim was immolated, and their own disgrace forgotten. In his “Life of Molière,” speaking of the epigrams with which Boileau and Molière attacked, and, it is said, caused the death of, Cotin, Voltaire called this the sad effect of a licence rather perilous than useful, which is more apt to flatter the malignity of men than to inspire good taste;a and in his “Essay on Satire,” he severely blames Boileau for naming the poets whom he censures.b Yet, with blind inconsistency, Voltaire never spared an enemy. He conceived that, if attacked by, he had a fair right to annihilate, as he well could, the stinging gadflies of literature. The society of Paris was kept alive by his multitudinous epigrams. This engendered a baneful spirit of sarcasm, / and spread abroad an appetite for injuring others by ridicule, slander, and jests that wound. They rendered society more heartless and more cruel than ever. Voltaire, himself, was visited by the effects of the disturbed state of feeling he helped to engender. He had hoped to find a safe asylum in the Genevese territories. But his attacks on their prejudices created a host of enemies. He began to feel that the dark shadows of persecution were gathering round. He found that, although his presence in Paris would not be permitted, he might, in safety, take up his abode in a remote part of France. He purchased, therefore, the estate of Ferney, on the French territory, within a short distance of Geneva; and thus with a foot, as it were, in two separate states, he hoped to find safety in one if threatened with hostility in the other.c a

Voltaire, Molière, p. lxxxv. ‘Mémoire sur la Satire’ (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XLVII, pp. 480–503; with discussion of Boileau, pp. 486–9). c The margin date is misleading. Voltaire bought Ferney in 1758 (and sold Les Délices in 1765). b

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He was more fortunate than he anticipated. The persecutions he afterwards endured were reduced to little more than threats, and were less than might be expected by a man who first raised the voice of hostility to, and resolved on, the destruction of a system of religion supported by a powerful hierarchy which was in possession of half the wealth of the nations who professed their faith, and which was regarded as the bulwark of their power by the monarchs of Europe. Voltaire’s poem on the law of Nature, and his version of Ecclesiastes, were burnt in Paris as deistical and blasphemous, although the latter had no fault but that of turning the sublime into commonplace.a A poem on the earthquake at Lisbon was also produced at this time; and “Candide” was written and published. To collect together the most dreadful misfortunes, to heap them on the head of a single individual, and in one canvass to group all of disastrous that a fertile imagination can paint, and present this as a picture of life, does not seem at first sight the most worthy occupation of a philosopher.b Voltaire himself, though he had met reverses, was a living refutation of “Candide.” But as, in truth, whether by sudden reverse or the / slow undermining of years, all human hope does fade and decay, as life proceeds to its close; so Voltaire, now nearly seventy years of age, might, on looking back, consider disappointment and sorrow as the mark of humanity; and, by showing these ills to be inevitable, inculcate a philosophical indifference. Still the tone of “Candide” is not moral, and, like all Voltaire’s lighter productions, is stamped with a coarseness which renders it unfit for general perusal. In addition to these minor productions, Voltaire laboured at the correction and enlargement of his historical work on the “Manners and Spirit of Nations,” – one of the greatest monuments which his genius achieved. While Voltaire was at Berlin, d’Alembert and Diderot had set on foot the project of the “Encyclopédie.”c Their plan was, to write a book which would become indispensable to every library, from its containing the most recent discoveries in philosophy, and the best explanations and details on every topic, and this mingled with an anti-catholic spirit, that would serve to sap the foundations of the national religion. Voltaire contributed but few, and those merely literary, articles to this work – whose progress, however, he regarded with lively interest. The outcry against the “Encyclopédie” was of course prodigious; every one who did not belong to the party formed by the lovers of innovation rose against a Poème sur la loi naturelle, published with Poème sur le désastre de Lisbonne (1755); Précis de l’Ecclésiaste (1759). b Mary Shelley alludes to the picaresque plot of Candide (1759), whose hero undergoes many vicissitudes all across the world, eventually ending up believing only that ‘we must cultivate our garden’. The tale satirises Leibniz’s doctrine of philosophical optimism, whose tenet, that this was the best of all possible worlds, was severely tested by the 1755 earthquake and tidal wave in Lisbon which destroyed much of the city and many lives. c Jean Le Rond D’Alembert (or d’Alembert) (1717–83), French mathematician and writer, co-editor with Denis Diderot (1713–84), philosopher, dramatist, novelist, art critic, of the Encyclopédie (1752–71). After 1759 official permision to publish was withdrawn but the work continued with tacit permission from the authorities.

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it. Parliament and clergy pronounced its condemnation, and succeeded so far in suppressing it, that the editors were obliged to continue it clandestinely. They, however, did not submit without a struggle: a literary war was declared, which raged furiously. Voltaire was considered at the head of the liberal party, and he gave his mighty aid to turn the opposers of his opinions into ridicule. One after the other, they sank under the shafts of his wit, and were forced to take shelter in retirement from the ridicule with which his epigrams had covered them. Voltaire considered his thus abetting his friends a sacred duty. “I belong to a party,” he wrote, “and / a persecuted party, which, persecuted as it is, has nevertheless gained the greatest possible advantage over its enemies, by rendering them at once odious and ludicrous.”a It is pleasant to turn from these matters, which often display the self-love and intolerance of the philosophers of the day, to such acts as stamp Voltaire as a generous man, full of the warmest feelings of benevolence, and capable of exerting all his admirable faculties in the noblest cause, – that of assisting and saving the unfortunate. A great niece of Corneille lived in indigence in Paris.b A friend of hers conceived the happy thought of applying to Voltaire for assistance; and that which he instantly afforded, at once rescued her from privation and care. His answer to the application deserves record. “It becomes an old follower of the great Corneille to endeavour to be useful to the descendant of his general. When one builds chateaux and churches, and has poor relations to support, one has but little left to assist one, who ought to be aided by the first people in the kingdom. I am old. I have a niece who loves the fine arts, and cultivates them with success. If the young lady of whom you speak will accept a good education under my niece’s care, she will look on her as a daughter, and I will be to her as a father.”c This offer was of course gratefully accepted. The young lady was clever, lively, yet gentle. Voltaire himself assisted in her education. “I do not wish to make her learned,” he writes, “but desire that she should learn how to conduct the affairs of life and to be happy.”d He was rewarded for his exertion by his protégée’s docility and gratitude. As a means of obtaining a dowry for her, he wrote his elaborate commentary on Corneille’s works, and published it, with an edition of the great tragedian’s works, by subscription – inducing the monarchs and nobles of Europe, through his mighty influence, to send in their names, and thus fabricated a fortune for the orphan.e Soon after, another and more important occasion / offered itself for serving his fellow creatures, and he acquitted himself of the task with resolution and success.f a

Source untraced. Marie-Françoise Corneille; see ‘Corneille’, vol. 2, p. 349. c Letter to M. Le Brun (Voltaire, Kehl vol. LVI, pp. 445–6). d Letter to Mme du Deffand (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LVI, pp. 479). e Condorcet, pp. 101–2. Théâtre de Pierre Corneille avec des commentaires, 12 vols 1764 (for ‘Corneille’, vol. 2, the 1795–6 edition has been consulted). f Account based partly on Condorcet, pp. 108–11. b

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The frightful spirit of persecution of the Huguenots, engendered by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by Louis XIV. and his dragoon-missionaries, still survived in the provinces; and not only embittered the minds of the ignorant, but influenced the legal authorities, and led them always to associate the ideas of crime and Protestantism together. Jean Calas had been a merchant of Thoulouse for forty years.a He was a Protestant – an upright and good man, and by no means bigoted. One of his sons was a convert to Catholicism; but, far from showing displeasure, Calas made him an allowance for his maintenance. A female servant who had been in his family for thirty years was a Catholic. One of his sons, named Marc-Antoine, committed suicide. He was a young man of a restless, sombre, discontented disposition; he disliked trade, and found himself excluded by the laws against his religion from entering on any profession. He read various books on suicide – conversed on the subject with his friends – and one day, having lost all his money in play, resolved on the fatal act. The family supped together; they had a guest with them – a young man only nineteen, named Lavaisse, known for his amiable and gentle disposition. After supper, Marc-Antoine left them; and when, shortly after, Lavaisse took his leave, and the father went down stairs to let him out, they discovered his son hanging from a door: he had undressed himself, folded up his clothes, and committed the act with the utmost deliberation. The family were seized with terror. They summoned medical aid and officers of justice; their cries and terror gathered a crowd about the house. The only error they committed was, that, knowing the horror in which suicide was held, they at first declared that the unfortunate man had died a natural death. The falsehood of this assertion being at once detected, the most frightful suspicions were the consequence. / The people of Thoulouse were peculiarly fanatical – they regarded Protestants as monsters capable of any crime: a whisper was raised that Jean Calas had murdered his son. A story was quickly fabricated and believed. It was alleged that Marc-Antoine was on the point of abjuring Protestantism, and that his family and Lavaisse had murdered him, to prevent him from putting his design into execution. A thousand other details were swiftly invented for the purpose of adding terror to the scene. The chief magistrate of Thoulouse, named David, excited by these rumours, and paying no attention to possibility or proof, without even proceeding with legal forms, threw the whole family of Calas, their Catholic servant, and Lavaisse into prison. In the frenzy of the moment, they turned the supposed victim into a martyr, and buried him in the church of St. Etienne, as if he had already abjured his faith, and died in consequence. One of the religious confraternities of the town celebrated his funeral with pomp; a magnificent catafalque was raised to his honour, on which was placed a skeleton, who was supposed to represent Marc-Antoine, which was made to move; it held a pen, with a Toulouse, in south-west France. Mary Shelley’s account is based on Histoire Abrégé de la Mort du Jean Calas (Brief History of Jean Calas’s Death) in Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XXX, pp. 56–67, 189–9.

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which it was supposed to sign the act of abjuration. The people, excited by their priests, were transported with fanaticism: they invoked the son as a saint; they demanded the execution of the father as a murderer. The details of the trial of the unfortunate man accused of murdering his own son were not less frightful and unjust: of twelve judges, six acquitted him – it required a plurality of voices for his condemnation. Two judges were terrified into retiring; others were gained over; a majority of two was obtained, and the unfortunate Calas broken on the wheel. The whole circumstances were full of contradiction and absurdity. Calas was sixty-eight years of age, – a kind father and a good man. If he had committed the murder, the whole of his family must have been equally guilty, as it was proved that they spent the evening / together, and that he had never quitted them for a moment. The judges paused, however, before they condemned mother, brothers, sisters, the youth, their guest, and their Catholic servant; they deferred their trial till after the death of the old man, under the pretence that he might confess under execution. Calas died in torture, however, protesting his innocence; and the judges were perplexed what to do next. At first they pronounced a sentence of acquittal; but, feeling that this decision was in too glaring contradiction with that which condemned the father to the wheel, they practised on the weakness of Pierre Calas to induce him to become a Catholic: fear led him to show signs of yielding, at first; but the weakness was temporary, and he fled from the monastery in which he had been induced to take refuge. The unfortunate widow, Lavaisse, and the servant were liberated. Deprived of fortune, covered with infamy, reduced to destitution, the wretched family took refuge in Geneva. Their case was mentioned to Voltaire; he sent for the surviving victims to Ferney; he questioned them rigorously; the mere fact that the parliament of Thoulouse had condemned the father, and liberated those who, had a murder been committed, must have been accomplices, sufficed to show that the sentence was unjust, and the execution of the unfortunate old man a legal assassination. He obtained the documents of the proceeding from Thoulouse; he found the narration of the Calas faithful in all its parts, while their appearance and words bore the stamp of undeniable truth. He was struck with horror, and exerted that energy which formed his prominent characteristic to obtain justice for them, – an undertaking which must strike any one familiar with narratives of judicial proceedings in France, at that time, as full of nearly insuperable obstacles. He interested the duke de Choiseul,a a man of known humanity, in their favour. The duchess d’Enville was then at Geneva, having come to consult the famous Tronchin. She was an amiable and generous woman, and superior to the prejudices / and superstition of the age. She became the protectress of the Calas. The family were sent to Paris; the widow demanded a trial, and surrendered herself to prison. Voltaire was indefatigable in drawing up a Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul (1719–85), Louis XV’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, and also of War and of the Navy.

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memoirs and papers in their justification. He did what no other man could have done: he roused all Europe to take interest in their cause, and kept alive the memory of their wrongs by writings that at once pourtrayed their sufferings and argued in favour of toleration, – a word which then appeared synonymous with blasphemy, and even to this day is not imprinted with sufficient depth in the minds of men. The legal proceedings were carried on at his expense. These extended to a great length. Two years passed before a definitive judgment was pronounced; “so easy is it,” remarks Voltaire, “for fanaticism to condemn and destroy the innocent, so difficult for reason to exculpate them.”a The duke de Choiseul had named a tribunal which was not implicated with the tortuous and intolerant policy of the French parliaments, to try the cause. But endless formalities succeeded one to the other. The spirit which Voltaire had raised in their favour was fervent in Paris. Persons of the first distinction visited the accused in prison, and every one vied with the other in administering consolation and support. In England a large subscription was raised in their favour. At length the day of their acquittal arrived. The judges unanimously pronounced that the whole family was innocent, and the memory of the unfortunate father was redeemed from infamy. All Paris was alive with joy and triumph: the people assembled in various parts of the town; they were eager to see the persons to whom justice was at last done; they clapped their hands in triumph when they appeared; the judges addressed the king to supplicate him to repair the pecuniary losses of the family, and the sum of 36,000 livres was given for this purpose. Voltaire, in his seclusion among the Alps, heard of the success, and of the enthusiastic joy with which his countrymen hailed the triumph of innocence; / he had a right to look on himself as the cause, not only of the justice at last done to the wronged, but of the virtuous sympathy felt by all Europe in their acquittal. He, whose sensations were all so keen, felt deeply the gladness of victory. He knew that many blessed his name; he felt himself to be the cause of good to his fellow-creatures, and the epithet of the saviour of the Calas was that in which, to the end of his life, he took most pride and joy. His letters at the moment of the final decision show the depth of his emotion. “Philosophy, alone, has gained this victory,” he writes; “my old eyes weep with joy.”b To conclude the history, David, the magistrate whose fanaticism and cruelty hurried on the death of the miserable old man, was deprived of his place; struck by remorse and shame, he lost his reason, and soon after died. Voltaire, known as the protector of the innocent, was soon called upon to render a similar service for another family. A girl of the name of Sirven had been carried off from her Protestant family, and, according to the barbarous custom of the times, was shut up in a convent; where, not yielding to conversion as readily as was expected, she was treated with such severity that in a fit of desperation she threw herself into a well and was drowned. Instead of punishing the priests and a b

Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XXX, p. 194. Letter to Argental, reversing sentence order (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LIX, pp. 52–3).

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nuns for the effects of their persecution, her family was accused of her death. They had time to escape, but were condemned to death for contumacy. The unfortunate father and mother resolved to apply to Voltaire. Reduced to destitution, they were forced to make the journey on foot, and presented themselves in a miserable state at Ferney. Voltaire was eager to raise his voice in their favour, though he was aware that the public, having lavished all their pity on the Calas would listen coldly to a new story. The spirit of toleration, which, nevertheless, he had spread abroad, served him in this case, as the enthusiasm of compassion had in the other; such delays, however, occurred, that the unfortunate mother / died while the cause was yet pending. He could not obtain that the case should be tried in Paris. The accused were obliged to surrender to the parliament of Thoulouse. The principal people of that town had become eager to exonerate themselves from the charges of persecution and injustice which their former conduct had raised. The trial was carried on impartially, and Sirven was acquitted. Seven years, however, had elapsed before this tardy act of justice was completed.a Another instance of religious intolerance, more frightful in some of its details than the preceding, roused Voltaire to combat the sanguinary clergy of his country with renewed zeal. But in this instance he could not save the victims already immolated by the malignancy of private enmity, and the cruel bigotry of public tribunals. Some very young men resident at Abbevilleb had rendered themselves notorious for the freedom of their religious opinions. They read and praised with enthusiasm various infidel books then in vogue. They had been known to sing blasphemous songs at their supper table; and once, on returning home late at night after a drunken frolic, one struck with his cane a wooden crucifix placed by the road side. These acts, committed, as they were, by boys under twenty, deserved blame, and even it might be deemed punishment, but punishment suited to their few years and consequent thoughtlessness; but it was a frightful exaggeration to consider them criminals in the eye of the law, especially as none existed in France against misdemeanours of this nature, and they could only be punished by an act of arbitrary power. This was exerted to punish them with a barbarity which is supposed to characterise the Spanish inquisition alone; though if we read the history of the Gallican church, we find that the priests of its powerful hierarchy were behind those of no nation in the spirit of sanguinary and merciless persecution. Unfortunately, in the present instance, one of the principal actors in this foolish scene, a boy of seventeen, had a personal enemy. A rich and avaricious old man of Abbeville, / named Belleval, had an intrigue with madame de Brou, abbess of Villancour. This lady’s nephew, the chevalier de la Barre, came to pay her a visit; he and his friends were in the habit of supping in the convent, and a

Based on Condorcet, pp. 112–13, who says that Mme Sirven died en route to Voltaire. In the north-east of France, within the diocese of Amiens. Mary Shelley bases her account on Relation de la Mort du Chevalier de la Barre (Account of the Chevalier de Barre’s Death) in Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XXX, pp. 316–20, 328–9. b

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he was considered the successful rival of Belleval.a This man resolved to be revenged. He spread abroad in Abbeville the history of their blasphemous conversation; he excited the spirit of fanaticism against them among the populace, and raised such clamour in the city that the bishop of Amiens thought it necessary to visit it for the purpose of taking informations with regard to the circumstances reported to him. Belleval busied himself in collecting witnesses, and in exaggerating every instance of folly committed by these youths. Unfortunately, not only the populace and priests of the city, but the tribunals by whom the cause was tried, seconded too frightfully his iniquitous designs; although the very fact of the misconduct of the abbess, by bringing the Catholic religion into disrespect among these boys, ought to have pleaded in their favour. The young men were condemned to a cruel death. Amongst them was numbered Belleval’s own son; this was unexpected by the informer; and, in despair, he contrived that he should escape, together with two of his young associates. The remainder were not so fortunate. La Barre, a youth, scarcely seventeen, condemned to undergo the torture and to have his tongue cut out, and then to be decapitated, underwent his sentence. When too late, the people of France awoke to a just sense of horror at the cruelty committed. Voltaire was transported by indignation. “You have heard,” he wrote to d’Alembert, “the account from Abbeville. I do not understand how thinking beings can remain in a country where monkeys so often turn to tigers. I am ashamed to live even on the frontier. This, indeed, is the moment to break all ties and carry elsewhere the horror with which I am filled. What! at Abbeville, monsters in the guise of judges, sentence a child of sixteen to perish by the most frightful death – their / judgment is confirmed – and the nation bears it! Is this the country of philosophy and luxury? It is that of St. Bartholomew. The inquisition had not dared to put in execution what these Jansenist judges have perpetrated.”b Voltaire’s horror could not save the victim, for the evil was committed before the news of the trial reached him. The populace, it is true, even before the execution of the victims, returned to their senses, and Belleval was held in such execration that he was forced to fly from Abbeville, to avoid being torn to pieces. But the king and parliament of Paris refused to repair their fault towards the survivors. Voltaire did what he could. He recommended one of the victims who had fled, the chevalier d’Etallonde, to the king of Prussia, whose service he entered; and he endeavoured to open the eyes of government to the justice and propriety of repairing its crime. But the duke de Choiseul feared to act, and the parliament of Paris was a bigoted and intolerant body. To his honour, we find that he was unwearied in his endeavours. When Louis XVI. succeeded to the crown, and a milder reign commenced, he renewed his a

The account of de la Barre follows Condorcet, pp. 121–3. Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXVIII, pp. 405–6 (abridged account). ‘Luxury’ is an unusual translation for ‘agréments’, amenities, i.e. of civilisation. Voltaire claimed to be ill from horror on the annual anniversary of the massacre of Protestants in Paris, on 24 August 1572. b

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exertions. D’Etallonde had, from good conduct, been promoted in the Prussian army. He invited him to Ferney, and endeavoured to interest the ministers of Louis in his favour, and to prevail on them to revoke his sentence: in vain; the government had not sufficient justice to avoid a fault, nor humanity to desire to repair it. Such were the crimes committed in the outraged name of religion, that animated Voltaire with the desire of wresting the power of doing ill from the hands of the priesthood of his country, and which made him the unwearied and active enemy of a system which sanctioned such atrocities. In the present instance, something of fear added a sting to his feelings. The “Philosophical Dictionary,”a a work he denied having written, but of which, in reality, he was the author, was mentioned among the books, a respect for which / formed one of La Barre’s crimes, and it was burned in Paris, while exertions were made to denounce and punish him as the author. These failed; but they embittered Voltaire’s enmity. He spread abroad the history of the enormities, which the perpetrators, ashamed too late, were desirous of hushing up. Lalli, a barrister, who was accused of having a principal part in the nefarious proceeding, wrote to Voltaire at once to excuse himself, and threaten the author. Voltaire replied, by an anecdote in Chinese history. “I forbid you,” said the emperor of China, to the chief of the historical tribunal, “to mention me.” The mandarin took out his note book and pen – “What are you doing?” said the emperor. “I am writing down the order which your majesty has just pronounced.”b As some sort of compensation for these acts of horror and cruelty, Voltaire heard of the banishment of the Jesuits from France.c This community had long reigned paramount in that kingdom; one of the society was, by custom, always selected as confessor of the king. It had signalised itself by every possible act of intolerance and persecution. The Jansenists, the Huguenots, and the Quietists were exiled, imprisoned, and ruined, through their influence. France was depopulated. In bitterness of spirit, the truly pious and wise of the kingdom, Boileau, Racine, Pascal, Fénélon, Arnaud, and a long list more, knew that their zeal for a pure religion exposed them to persecution. Voltaire disliked the Jansenists, and ridiculed the Quietists; but he was too just not to revolt from persecution; and though, from the prejudices of early education, he was inclined to look favourably on the Jesuits, he rejoiced in their fall from the power which they misused, and their expulsion from a country, so many of whose most virtuous inhabitants they had visited with exile and ruin. In writing Voltaire’s life, we have too often to turn from acts denoting a benevolent and generous spirit, to others which were inspired by self-love, and a restless spirit that could not repose. Among these, his / conduct to Rousseau has disgraceful prominence. It is true that the citizen of Geneva had provoked him first; but a b c

First version published 1764. Condorcet, p. 123. The Society of Jesus (i.e. the Jesuits) was expelled in 1765.

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Rousseau was the victim of the system of tyranny which Voltaire so fervently deprecated. Even if his intellects were not impaired, he had, from the unfortunate susceptibility of his disposition, and the misfortunes that pursued him, become an object of commiseration, at least to one who sympathised in his opinions and views. But once attacked, Voltaire never forgave. He could not be injured, yet he avenged the intended injury. Had he confined his ridicule and blame of Rousseau to conversation and letters, it had, considering his influence in society, been sufficient revenge; but when, to a great degree excited by Rousseau, those troubles and tumults occurred in Geneva, from which Voltaire was so far the sufferer, that he thought himself obliged to sell his property of Les Delices, he made the tumults the subject of a licentious and burlesque poem, in which Rousseau was held up to ridicule. The disgrace, however, recoiled on himself. His most enthusiastic friends blamed his conduct, and disliked his poem.a Voltaire ran a more fortunate career than befalls most men. He was rich, and he had been wise enough to adopt a system that insured his independence. At a distance from the capital, he was in reality removed from the cabals of literature, the turmoils of society, and from the excitement, so often attended by disappointment, that belongs to the life of a literary man of high reputation. He led what he himself terms a patriarchal life; his niece was at the head of his household. The niece of Corneille, adopted by him, had married M. Dupuis, a gentleman of some fortune in the neighbourhood of Geneva, and resided in his house. No foreigner ever passed from France to Italy without paying a visit to Ferney. All those of any note or merit were received with cordial hospitality, and the chateau was never free from guests: above fifty persons of different grades – masters, guests, and servants – inhabited / it. In the midst of this turmoil, Voltaire led a laborious life. His health was feeble. During the winters, which the neighbourhood of the eternal snows render peculiarly severe, he was nearly always confined to his bed. But physical suffering never tamed his spirit. From the bed of sickness, he sent abroad various writings, some in support of the best interests of humanity (as in the cases of Calas, &c.), others historical and poetic, and not a few replete with that malicious pleasantry that caused him to be universally feared. Few things occurred to interrupt the tenour of his life. At one time, his niece, madame Denis, and his protégés, monsieur and madame Dupuis, left him to visit Paris, and he was left for nearly two years alone in his retreat. A thousand reports were current as to the cause of this separation; but, in time, it became acknowledged that Voltaire’s own account of it was true. “I have been,” he wrote to madame du Deffand, “the innkeeper of Europe for fourteen years, and I am tired a Voltaire’s relations with Rousseau began to deteriorate in 1755, when they disagreed over the moral significance of the Lisbon earthquake, and became especially embittered after 1764, when Rousseau revealed Voltaire as the author of one of his most anti-clerical pamphlets. He did not write a specific poem against Rousseau; perhaps Mary Shelley means the Poem on Natural Law, or the libellous pamphlet Letter to Dr. Pansophe (Lettre au docteur Jean-Jacques Pansophe) (1765).

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of the trade. I have received three or four hundred English, who are so fond of their country, that not one has recollected me since their departure, except a Scotchman, of the name of Brown, who has written against me. I have had French colonels, with their officers, who have remained a month, but who serve their king so well, that they have never written to me. I have built a chateau and a church. I have spent five hundred thousand francs in these pious and profane works; and my illustrious debtors in Paris and Germany, conceiving that these acts of magnificence did not become me, have thought proper to curtail my means to teach me wisdom. I found myself suddenly almost reduced to philosophy. I have sent madame Denis to urge the generous French; I have taken the generous Germans on myself. My seventy-four years and continual illnesses condemn me to seclusion and moderation. This life cannot suit madame Denis, who acted against the grain in coming to live with me in the country. She needs perpetual company and pleasures / to make her endure this desert, which, according to the Russians themselves, is for five months of the year worse than Siberia. Madame Denis had need of Paris; the niece of Corneille had greater need, as she only saw it at an age and in a situation which did not permit her to become acquainted with it. I made an effort to separate myself from them, that they might enjoy the pleasures of the capital.”a After a visit to Paris of nearly two years, they returned to him again. A visit to Ferney was an event in a traveller’s life. In personal intercourse, Voltaire was, according to the testimony of the king of Prussia, and of every other contemporary, singularly delightful and entertaining. “You are agreeable in conversation, and instruct and amuse at the same time. You are the most fascinating creature in the world; and, when you choose, no one could resist loving you: your wit and genius are so graceful, that, even while you offend, every one is ready to forgive you.”b This is the description that Frederic gives of him. Nor did age diminish the lustre of his wit, the vivacity of his spirit, or the alternate gaiety and impressive charm of his conversation. It was only at a distance that his tendency to what the French call tracasserie – an inherent love of disturbance – and the vehement, uncourteous, and unfair manner with which he carried on a dispute, made his contemporaries, while they viewed him with wonder and delight, yet alternately fear and censure him. He appeared particularly amiable to those who sought his protection, for he was ever generous in pecuniary points, and lavish of his praises to literary men, as long as they paid worship at his shrine. His intercourse with Marmontelc illustrates this subject, and we shall extract his account of his visit to Ferney, as giving a vivid picture of the vivacity, and whimsical and capricious disposition, of this singular man; who in age and suffering was as a

Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LX, pp. 439–40, edited. Source unlocated. c Jean-François Marmontel (1723–99), man of letters, best known for Bélisaire, a philosophic tale on religious toleration, visited Voltaire in 1760. Mary Shelley read his Contes Moraux in 1816 (MWSJ, I, pp. 130–1). b

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energetic, active, and enthusiastic as a youth just entering warm and undeceived on the scene of life. / Marmontel had several years before been excited by him to venture on a literary career in Paris. On his arrival, Voltaire received him with a cordiality that warmed the young man’s heart; his purse and house were open to him. Nor did he stop at mere offers; he encouraged him in his arduous endeavours, and he showed paternal joy in his success. These are real and absolute virtues in a great man. There is so little encouragement to literary ambition abroad in the world, especially in this country. Those who hold the place of judges in the literary world (including in this class those whose trade is criticism as well as amateurs) are so afraid of compromising their reputation; and the rest of society dare not pronounce an opinion for themselves; so that, except in those instances in which, by a happy hit or servile fosterage of prejudices, popular favour is gained, and a speedy sale of an edition gives undeniable proof of success, authors of promise do not meet with the tithe of the encouragement necessary to sustain them hopeful and glad in their laborious career. Voltaire’s sensitive heart felt that praise and sympathy were the proper food of the young aspirant, and as necessary as food, in keeping up that buoyant and confiding spirit which alone enables him to develope all his powers; he displayed, therefore, in voice and manner, and in actions, such earnest sympathy as served as the dearest reward and encouragement to the author. His kindness to Marmontel was unalterable, but their intercourse was broken off by his expatriation. Marmontel, accompanied by a friend, visited him at Les Delices soon after his arrival in Switzerland. “Our welcome,” he narrates, “was the most singular and original in the world.a Voltaire was in bed when we arrived: he held out his arms, and wept with joy, as he embraced me. ‘You find me dying,’ he said, ‘and you come to restore, or to receive my last sigh.’ My companion was frightened at this commencement; but I, who had heard Voltaire declare himself dying a hundred times before, made him a sign / not to be alarmed. In fact, a moment afterwards, the dying man made us sit by his bedside. ‘My friend,’ said he to me, ‘I am delighted to see you – especially at a time when I have a man with me whom you will be glad to hear. It is M. de l’Ecluse, formerly surgeon-dentist to the late king of Prussia, now possessor of an estate near Montargis;b he is a delightful man. Do you not know him?’ – ‘The only M. de l’Ecluse I know,’ I replied, ‘was an actor at the comic opera.’ ‘That is he, my friend – the very man. If you know him, you have heard him sing the song of the Remouleur,c which he acted and sang so well.” And then, with his bare arms and sepulchral voice, Voltaire began to imitate l’Ecluse. We laughed heartily; but he continued, seriously, – ‘I imitate him badly – you must hear M. de l’Ecluse – it is truth itself – how delighted you will a Mary Shelley cites Marmontel, pp. 201–6, slightly shortened. The friend who accompanied him was Gaulard the younger. b Louis de Thillay, known as Lécluse, actor and then dentist to the King of Poland, not Prussia; Montargis is south-east of Paris near Fontainebleau. c Knife-grinder.

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be! Go and see madame Denis. Ill as I am, I shall rise to dine at table. The pleasure of seeing you has suspended my sufferings, and I feel quite alive again.’ “Madame Denis received us with that cordiality which is the charm of her character. She presented M. de l’Ecluse to us, and at dinner Voltaire encouraged him by the most flattering praises to give us the pleasure of hearing him. We appeared charmed – need was – for Voltaire would not have forgiven faint applause. Our subsequent ramble in his garden was employed in talking of Paris – the newspapers, the theatres, the ‘Encyclopédie,’ and the unhappy ‘Le Franc de Pompignan,’a the butt of all his jests. His physician, he said, having ordered him to hunt him every day for two hours, he charged me to assure our friends that they should receive a fresh epigram every day; and he was faithful to his promise. On our return from our walk, he played at chess with M. Gaulard, who respectfully allowed him to win; then we talked of the drama, and of the revolution in acting brought about by Mlle. Clairon. I exhausted all the little eloquence I possessed to inspire him with the / same enthusiasm that I felt myself for this actress; and I was enjoying the impression I appeared to make, when, interrupting me, he exclaimed with transport – ‘That is exactly like madame Denis – she has improved most astonishingly. I wish you could see her play Zaire, Alzire, Idamèb – it is the perfection of talent.’ Madame Denis compared to Clairon! My ardour was checked in a moment; so true it is that taste accommodates itself to the objects it possesses. In the evening, I drew Voltaire out about the king of Prussia. He spoke with a sort of lofty magnanimity; like a man who disdained an easy revenge, or as a lover pardons a mistress, whom he deserts, for the indignation and blame she expresses. The conversation at supper turned on the literary men he most esteemed; and it was easy to discern those whom he really loved – it was those who made the most public boast of his friendship. Before we went to rest, he read us two new cantos of the ‘Pucelle,’ and Madame Denis remarked to us that this was the only day since his arrival at Les Delices that he had passed without shutting himself up in his study during some portion of it. The next day we had the discretion to leave him during a part of the morning to himself. I told him that we would wait till he rang. He was visible at eleven o’clock, but was still in bed. ‘Young man,’ said he to me, ‘I hope you have not renounced poetry: let me see what you have lately written.’ * * * Before dinner he took me to pay some visits in Geneva; and, speaking of his intercourse with the Genevese, he said, ‘It is agreeable to live in a country whose sovereigns send to ask you to lend them your carriage when they come to dine with you.’ His house was open to them, they passed whole days there. * * * “In the evening, at supper, our kings and their mistresses were the subjects of conversation; and Voltaire, while making a comparison of the gallantry of the old court and the present one, displayed that abundant memory from which nothing a Jean Jacques, marquis de Lefranc de Pompignan (1709–84), learned minor poet ridiculed mercilessly by Voltaire. b i.e. Idamé, leading female character in Voltaire’s tragedy L’orphelin de la Chine.

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interesting / escaped. From madame de la Vallière to madame de Pompadour, the anecdotic history of the two reigns, with that of the regency between, passed in review with a rapidity and a brilliancy of design and colouring quite dazzling. However he reproached himself for having robbed M. de l’Ecluse of moments which he said he could have rendered far more diverting, and begged him to repair his fault by giving us some scenes of the ‘Ecosseures,’a at which he laughed like a child. “The next was our last day. As we were to depart early on the following morning, we agreed with madame Denis and messieurs Hubert and Cramerb to prolong the pleasure of being together, by sitting up and conversing till the hour of departure. Voltaire insisted on making one of us: in vain we pressed him to go to bed; more wakeful than ourselves, he read us several cantos of ‘Joan.’ I was delighted; for, if Voltaire, in reading serious poetry, affected, as it appeared to me, too monotonous a cadence, and too marked an emphasis, no one ever recited familiar and comic verses with so much native grace and tact: his eyes and smile had an expression I never saw in any other man. Our mutual adieu moved us to tears; more on my part, indeed, than his, as was fit; for, in addition to my gratitude, and the many causes I had for being attached to him, I left him in exile.” Marmontel’s account relates to Voltaire’s early residence in the neighbourhood of Geneva. Madame de Genlis visited him in 1776.c Being at Geneva, she wrote to propose paying him a visit. The poet replied graciously. “When I received his answer,” she continues, “I was seized with sudden fright. I remembered all I had heard related of those who paid Ferney a first visit. It is the custom, especially for young women, to tremble, grow pale, and even faint, on perceiving Voltaire: they throw themselves into his arms, they weep, and show an agitation which resembles the most passionate love. This is the etiquette of a presentation / at Ferney; and M. de Voltaire is so used to it, that calm and politeness must appear either impertinent or stupid. “I left Geneva in time, according to my calculation, to arrive at Ferney just before Voltaire’s dinner hour; but my watch was wrong, and I did not discover my error till I arrived. There is no awkwardness more disagreeable than to be too early when going to dine with those who know how to occupy their mornings. Wishing really to please a celebrated man, who was kind enough to receive me, I dressed myself with elegance, and never before wore so many feathers and flowers. I took with me a German painter, M. Ott: he was very clever, but with very little literary knowledge, and, above all, had never read a line of Voltaire; but he felt the desira

An error for L’Écossaise, ‘The Scottish Woman’, a comic satire produced in 1760. Jean Huber (1721–80), Swiss painter known as Huber Voltaire because he mainly painted scenes of Voltaire’s domestic life; Philippe et Gabriel Cramer, Genevan publishers who brought out editions of Voltaire’s works in 1756, 1768 and 1775. c Stephanie Félicité Ducrest de Saint-Aubin, comtesse de Genlis (1746–1830), moralist and educator, governess to the children of the Orléans branch of the French royal family. Mary Shelley cites her account in Genlis, vol. II, pp. 317–29, shortened in addition to the indications. b

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able enthusiasm only by hearing of him. He was in a state of ecstacy on approaching Ferney. I admired and envied his transport. We entered the drawing room; it was empty. The servants seemed surprised and hurried; the bells rang, and all gave signs of the truth, that we had arrived an hour too soon. We saw, at the end of the room, an oil painting magnificently framed; we hurried to examine it; and, to our great surprise, found it was a mere daub, representing Voltaire with a glory round his head, with the family of Calas kneeling before him, while he trod under foot his enemies Freron and Pompignan. The picture was the invention of a bad Genevese artist, who made a present of it to Voltaire. But it seemed the silliest thing in the world to hang it up in his drawing room. At length the door opened, and madame Denis and madame de Saint Julien entered; they announced that Voltaire would soon appear. Madame de Saint Julien was very amiable, and is passing the summer at Ferney. She calls Voltaire ‘my philosopher,’ and he calls her ‘my butterfly.’ She proposed a walk to me, and I was delighted; for I felt embarrassed at the idea of seeing the master of the house, and was glad to delay for a few / minutes the formidable interview. We went on the terrace, from which the magnificent view of the lake and mountains might have been seen, had they not had the bad taste to raise a trellice, covered with a thick foliage that concealed all, so that the view was only to be perceived through little openings too small for my head; and, besides, the trellice was so low, that my feathers caught every moment. I was obliged to stoop, and this fatiguing attitude was ill suited to enable me to enjoy the conversation of madame de Saint Julien, who, short, and in a morning dress, walked at her ease, and conversed agreeably. At length we were told that Voltaire was in the drawing room. I felt so harassed and frightened that I would have given the world to have found myself in my inn at Geneva; but my companion, judging me by herself, drew me along quickly. We returned to the house. As soon as I had collected myself we entered, and I found myself in the presence of Voltaire. Madame de Saint Julien invited me to embrace him, saying that it would please him. I addressed him with the respect due to his genius and his age. He took my hand and kissed it, and I know not why, but I was touched by this act of common gallantry coming from him. “During dinner, M. de Voltaire was by no means agreeable; he appeared to be continually angry with his servants, calling to them so loudly that I started. I had been told beforehand of this habit, so singular before strangers; but it was evident that it was merely a habit, for the servants neither appeared surprised nor troubled. After dinner, knowing that I was a musician, Voltaire asked madame Denis to play. She had a method which reminded one of the music of the days of Louis XIV. She had just finished a piece of Rameau, when a little girl of seven years old entered, and threw herself into Voltaire’s arms, calling him papa. He received her caresses with sweetness; and, seeing that I looked on the picture with extreme pleasure, he told me that this was the daughter of the descendant of the / great Corneille, whom he had adopted. Several visitors from Geneva dropped in, and afterwards he proposed a drive, and he and his niece, madame de Saint Julien, and 309

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myself entered the carriage, and he took us to the village to see the houses he is building, and the charitable establishments he has founded. He is greater here than in his books, for so ingenious a goodness appears in all, that one wonders that the same hand which wrote so much blasphemy, could form such noble, wise, and useful works. He shows this village to all strangers, but unpretendingly. He speaks of it with kindness and simplicity; he mentions all that he has done, but with no appearance of boasting. On returning to the chateau, the conversation was very animated: it was night before I took my leave. “The portraits and busts of Voltaire are all very like; but no artist has painted his eyes well. I expected to find them brilliant and full of fire; and they are, indeed, the most expressive of intellect that I ever saw; but they are full, at the same time, of softness and inexpressible tenderness. The very soul of Zaire shone in those eyes. His smile and laugh, which is very malicious, changed at once this charming expression. He is very decrepid; and his old-fashioned dress makes him look older. He has a hollow voice, which produces a singular effect, especially as he is in the habit of speaking very loud, although he is not deaf. When neither religion nor his enemies are mentioned, the conversation is simple, unpretending, and delightful. It appeared as if he could not endure the expression of opinions differing from his own on any point. On the slightest contradiction his voice became shrill and his manner decided. He has lost much of the manners of the world: and this is natural; ever since he has lived on this estate no one visits him but to cover him with flattery. His opinions are oracles; all around is at his feet. The admiration he inspires is the continual subject of conversation, and the most extravagant exaggerations / now appear ordinary homage. No king has ever been the object of such excessive adulation.” Voltaire, however, though he liked flattery, often avoided it, by not receiving the guests that poured in. Madame Denis did the honours of the house; and many a traveller, who had gone far cut of his way to visit the Man of the Age, left the chateau without seeing him. It was thus he treated the comte de Guibert, esteemed in those days as a young man of promising talents, but who is best known to us as the object of mademoiselle de l’Espinasse’s attachment.a Guibert, after passing five days at Ferney, left it without seeing its master. Arriving at Geneva, he sent him four verses, which wittily, though somewhat blasphemously, expressed his regret. The wit pleased; the blasphemy, perhaps, pleased still more, as showing him to be of his own way of thinking; and Voltaire instantly sent after him, invited him back, and treated him with kindness and distinction. Many anecdotes are told of the bad reception he gave others. But as every one, and in particular every pretender to literature, thought it necessary to visit Ferney, no wonder that he was often pushed to extremities by their intrusion and pretensions, and, impatient and whimsical as he was, got rid of them, as the humour dictated, by open rudeness or covert ridicule. a Julie de Lespinasse (1732–76), salonière whose love letters to the soldier comte Jacques Antoine Hippolyte Guibert, first published in 1809, are considered a literary masterpiece.

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The astonishing vivacity and energy of Voltaire’s temperament led him to create, like Don Quixote, giants with whom to fight;a but he was not always moved by the heroic benevolence that animated the Spanish knight, but by childish or more blameable whims. He had built a church at Ferney (the one belonging to the parish being mean and in disrepair), and went to mass, for the edification of his tenantry. After mass he delivered an exhortation against theft (some of the builders of his church having been guilty of carrying off old materials), which, being against all canonical rules, scandalised the congregation and incensed the priest. The bishop of the diocese, an / ignorant, intolerant man, hearing of the desecration, applied to the king of France for a lettre de cachet against Voltaire. His request was not listened to; but the imagination of Voltaire was set on fire by the intelligence; nor can we wonder, considering that he had entered the Bastille, as a prisoner, three different times. He burnt a vast quantity of papers; he dismissed every guest; and remained alone with his secretary and father Adam, an ex-Jesuit, who resided with him. At first he thought it would be necessary to fly; but soon his restless fancy suggested another mode of defending himself. The bishop, carrying on the war, forbade any of his inferior clergy to confess, absolve, or administer the communion to the seigneur of Ferney. Considering his avowed and contemptuous disbelief in Christianity, it had been more dignified in Voltaire to abstain from participating in its mysteries; but he had not the most remote idea of the meaning and uses of dignity. His impetuosity, his love of the ridiculous, his determination to vanquish and crush his enemies, by whatever means, were paramount to any loftier sentiment of calm disdain. He said, “We shall see whether the bishop or I win the day.” Accordingly, he feigned illness, took to his bed, and insisted on receiving religious consolations as a dying man. The priest of the parish refused to comply for a length of time; and Voltaire, to gain his point, signed a paper declaratory of his respect for the Catholic religion. The whole scene was indecorous, – insulting to the priest, and unworthy of the poet. He gained his point at last, and frightened the curate so much that he fell ill and died; while his conduct in the church, his angry expostulations with the clergy, and his confession of faith became the wonder and gossip of Paris.b It is more pleasing to contemplate the good deeds of this versatile and extraordinary man, whose activity astonished his contemporaries*, and, considering his infirmities and age, seem almost superhuman. The / civil troubles of Geneva caused a number of exiles.c The fugitives, destitute and suffering, were received * Lettres de Madame du Deffand à Horace Walpole, vol. ii.d a

See the episode where Quixote fights windmills, thinking they are giants (pt 1, ch. 8). Possibly based on Condorcet, pp. 383–4. c Condorcet, p. 353. There was recurrent tension in Geneva between its ruling oligarchy, and a reform party pressing for better accountability. In Feb. 1770, Voltaire welcomed some refugees fleeing after shots between the two sides. d Deffand, vol. II, p. 57. b

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at Ferney, and treated with hospitality and generosity. Voltaire’s first idea was to found the little town of Versoi, on the banks of the lake of Geneva. He applied to the duke de Choiseul for protection and funds. These were at first granted; but the disgrace of the minister ruined the infant town, and its founder was obliged to restrict his exertions to his own colony at Ferney. He caused commodious houses to be built, and the place, which was before a miserable hamlet, inhabited by peasants in the last degree of penury, became a pleasant village, filled by industrious artisans, who carried on a considerable trade in watchmaking. It is to this village that Voltaire led madame du Genlis, and the sight of it filled her with respect for his enlarged views and benevolent heart. Nor was this the only place that owed the blessings of prosperity to him. By most persevering and courageous representations he induced the chancellor Maupeoua to enfranchise the peasants of a territory among the mountains of Jura, who were serfs to the monastery of St. Claude, and suffered the most unendurable grievances from the feudal laws still in force.b Afterwards, when Louis XVI. came to the throne, he asked for various exemptions from taxes from the minister Turgotc for the town of Gex, which flourished in consequence, till Turgot was exiled, his ordinances cancelled, and the town was ruined. His colony fell under the same ban, and he shared the general loss. He was grieved, but not disheartened. “It is true,” he wrote to his valued and steady friend the comte d’Argental, “that I have had the folly, in my eighty-third year, to commence an undertaking above my strength. I must abandon it, and wait till I grow younger. My strange fate, which led me from Paris to the frontiers of Switzerland, and forced me to change a filthy hamlet into a pretty town, a quarter of a league long, follows me; she does not restore my youth, but crushes me with the stones / of the houses I have built. A change of ministry in France has deprived my colony of all the advantages I had obtained; and the good I have done my new country has turned to mischief. I put the last drop of my blood into this useful establishment, without any view except that of doing good – my blood is lost, and all I have to do is to die of a consumption.” He wrote to another friend: “Ferney, which you saw a wretched village, has become a pretty town. I scarcely know how this has been brought about; but I know that it has ruined me. It was ridiculous in so insignificant a man as me to build a town.”d The correspondence which this undertaking necessitated was immense. To this occupation he added a dispute on the merits of Shakspeare,e in which an entire want of taste and of knowledge, and a superfluity of flippancy and insult, a René-Charles Augustin de Maupeou (1714–92), Chancellor 1768–92, introduced controversial legal reforms in 1774. b The persistence of feudalism in France meant that peasants were subjected to taxes and labour obligations to their landlords, which varied considerably according to their region. c Anne-Robert-Jacques Turgot, baron de l’Aune (1727–1781), economist, philosopher and reforming French official in the new reign (1774–92) of Louis XVI. d Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXIII, p. 292; letter to the marquis d’Argence de Dirac (ibid., p. 297). e Contained in Lettre à l’Académie Française (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XLXI, pp. 309–34).

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were the prominent features. It raised a laugh among a few, but did no honour either to his cause or himself. What, at its outset, seemed a more tranquil and happy reign, had begun in France. The latter days of Louis XV. were utterly disgraceful. He had dispersed the parliament, it is true, which, by its prejudices and injustice, had become odious; but it was replaced by another, which reformed no abuse, while it was conspicuous only for servile submission to the royal authority. Enlightened and popular ministers – Choiseul and Turgot – were exiled to make room for men of the old leaven, who had no apprehension of the growing necessities of the times; while his thrusting upon the court a low-born and infamous mistress,a completed the degradation of the king’s position: and the society of Paris, opposed to that of the court, acquired influence and dignity. The first acts of Louis the Sixteenth’s reign, being to recal the disgraced and popular ministers, and to exhibit every token of sympathy for the distresses of the subject, inspired hope. Voltaire ardently desired to revisit the capital, to feel himself among his friends, and to enjoy the sensation which his / presence, after so long an absence, would not fail to create. The inhabitants of Ferney saw their benefactor depart with tears. He promised to return in six weeks; and so firmly intended to keep this resolution, that he put no order into his affairs or papers before his departure, thinking it not worth while, as his absence would be so short. On the 10th of February he arrived in the capital, accompanied by monsieur and madame de Villette and madame Denis. Madame de Villette was a protegée of Voltaire. She had been destined for a convent by her parents; and, in despair, wrote to the patriarch of Ferney to extricate her from such a fate. He offered her a home in his house. She was gentle, beautiful, and clever. M. de Villette, a gentleman of fortune, fell in love with and married her. She went by the name of Belle et Bonne among her friends. Voltaire had the peculiarity, which usually attends men of genius, of gathering about him a society composed principally of women, and she was a chief favourite.b Voltaire brought with him his newly written tragedy of “Irene.”c He had the notion indelibly impressed, that, to secure his position in Paris, he must acquire popularity; and that a successful tragedy was the sure means of acquiring it. In the present instance he did not need such support. No conqueror, returned from enslaving a province, was ever received with such enthusiastic marks of triumph. La Harpe well observes, that the generation who had witnessed Voltaire’s earlier struggles and clouded fame, had nearly died away; all those born during the space of the last forty years found the world full of his fame.d His persecutions, his mode a Marie Jeanne Aimart de Vaubenier, comtesse du Barry (1746–93) was a dress-maker’s daughter and former courtesan before becoming Louis XV’s mistress. b Condorcet, pp. 103, 154–9. For ‘Belle et bonne’, see p. 314. c Irène, performed 1778. d La Harpe, Éloge de Voltaire (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXIX, p. 417). La Harpe (see ‘Sévigné’) was a disciple of Voltaire.

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of life, his attacks on religion and on persons, the mischief he had caused, and the good he had done, were the chief topics of interest: more than all, the brilliancy of his genius dazzled, its versatility delighted mankind. Even his pettishnesses, his whims, his follies, ever varying and upheld by him with earnestness and vigour, kept alive public attention. That this man, / the subject of all tongues and all pens, should emerge from his seclusion among the Alps, and, in his eighty-fifth year, come to take his part in society, and gather the applause of a theatrical audience, excited, nearly to frenzy, the curiosity, the admiration, and interest of every inhabitant of Paris. Condorcet, who witnessed his arrival, in his “Life of Voltaire,” madame du Deffand, in her “Letters to Horace Walpole,” and Grimm, in his “Literary correspondence,” give a vivid picture of this last triumphant but fatal visit to Paris.a He arrived in good health; though his first note to madame du Deffand said, “I arrive, dying; and only wish to revive to throw myself at your feet.”b He received all his friends with cordiality and gaiety, and delighted them with the charm that belonged to his manners. All Paris pressed to see him; his apartment was never empty: he received more than 300 persons, one after the other, and had something witty and agreeable to say to all. Meanwhile, as he was in reality afflicted by a weakening and very painful disease, his more familiar friends began to tremble for the result of this new and exciting scene. “I paid him my second visit yesterday,” writes madame du Deffand, “on the 22d of February. It was not so agreeable as the first. We were received by his niece, who is certainly the best woman in the world, but the most tiresome; by M. de Villette, who is the dullest man, and his young wife, who, they say, is amiable, and goes by the name of Belle et Bonne with Voltaire and his friends.c We did not find him in the drawing-room; he was shut up with his secretary, and begged me to wait. His friends told me that he was overwhelmed with fatigue; that he had read the whole of his tragedy that afternoon to the actors, and had made them rehearse, and was so exhausted that he could scarcely speak. I wished to go away; but they detained me, and Voltaire sent me four lines he had made on his statue by Pigal,d to engage me to remain. After a good quarter of an hour he came in. He said / that he was dead – that he could not speak. I offered to leave him; but he would not let me. He spoke to me of his play. He has no other subject in his head: it has caused him to come to Paris, and it will kill him if it does not succeed.”e Nor was his tragedy his only subject of anxiety. He was told that Louis XVI. had asked, on hearing of his arrival, if the interdiction to his residence in Paris a Accounts respectively in Condorcet, pp. 309–34, Deffand, vol. IV, pp. 11–47; Grimm, vol. IX, pp. 492–5 and vol. X, pp. 4–11, 41. b Deffand, vol. IV, pp. 11–12. c Reine Philiberte de Varicourt, marquise de Villette (1757–1822), was of an impoverished aristocratic family; Voltaire had adopted her in 1776 and enabled her to marry well. d Jean Baptiste Pigalle’s statue of Voltaire in 1770 was paid for by subscription among his friends and admirers. e Deffand, vol. IV, pp. 16–18, letter of 22 Feb. (abridged).

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had ever been taken off. A question which seemed to show his disapprobation; but the young queen and her friends, and the count d’Artois, were borne away by the stream of fashion and friendlily inclined.a A few days after his arrival he fell ill. His mode of life in Paris was very different from that which he led at Ferney; there he was subject to none of the calls of society; he saw few visitors, and left madame Denis to do the honours of the house – enjoying in his own person the most entire liberty, passing the greater part of his day in bed, or in study; at other times walking in his grounds and over his estate, directing the improvements and enjoying the pleasure of creating his colony, and witnessing its prosperity. His new mode of life deranged his health, a vomiting of blood came on, and his life was in danger. The vivacity of the French disposition was shown at this moment. All Paris was in alarm. The priests gathered round – Voltaire thought it right to quiet them by making a profession of faith. How far the all-seeing and infinitely pure Being can be propitiated by a falsehood on the lips of a dying man, may be considered doubtful; but the clergy thought more of their own temporal victory than the higher questions of religion and morality. These might have been satisfied by a declaration given by Voltaire to a friend, which said, “I die worshipping God, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition.”b Nor was this the only disquiet that attended his sick-bed: his friends quarrelled round it concerning the physicians who attended, and wrangling and dissension – the fruits of the vanity, not / the affection, of his friends – disturbed the peace necessary for his convalescence. The vital principal was still strong, and he recovered. He made use of his renewed strength to visit the academy, and to be present at the representation of his tragedy. The enthusiasm was at its height. He was almost crushed to death both at the Louvre and the theatre, notwithstanding the exertions of the soldiers to keep a passage clear. The academicians received him rather as the sovereign of literature than as an equal. At the theatre his reception was still more flattering. His bust was crowned on the stage, and the audience were in a transport of delight; tears of enthusiasm and joy marked the feeling of the spectators, who saw his attenuated figure with sorrow, and every one was eager to offer him assistance when he left the theatre. His triumph failed only in that the court still looked askance on him; and his very presence in Paris was rather connived at than permitted. Still the manifestations of public favour might satisfy a man even insatiable of applause. He was deeply touched. “They wish to smother me with roses,”c he exclaimed, as he felt his feeble frame sink from exhaustion.

a Marie Antoinette, queen consort of Louis XVI and her brother-in-law, Charles, comte d’Artois. b Paragraph, including quotation, based on Wagnière, pp. 130–3. c The emperor Heliogabalus (d. AD 222) murdered his guests on one occasion by burying them under showers of rose petals. Paragraph including quotations based on Wagnière, pp. 141–3.

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At this moment, at the very zenith of human glory, – when the whole population of the then most civilised capital in the world seemed to breathe his name only, to see him only in the world, to crowd round him in admiration and triumph, – and while their cry, “There is the saviour of the Calas,” rewarded him for his benevolent exertions, – then, had he retired to his tranquil seclusion at Ferney, he might have prolonged his existence. But this he was not permitted to do. Madame Denis was heartily tired of the mountain solitude, which, as Voltaire grew older and more averse to show himself, became a complete seclusion. He earnestly desired to return; but, day after day, the solicitations of his friends induced him to prolong his stay. His secretary, Wagner,a gives a lively picture of the / struggles between him and his niece. The physician, Tronchin, had begged Voltaire to return to Ferney. “You must feel,” he said, “that a tree transplanted at eighty-four years of age must perish.” “Am I able to support the journey?” asked the old man. “Yes, I answer for it on my head,” said Tronchin; and Voltaire, charmed with the prospect, gave instant orders for his departure. Madame Denis argued against it. “I must return,” he replied. “I adore the country; it gives me new life. You, who detest it, can remain here, and amuse yourself.” Who told you that I hated it?” asked his niece. “My experience,” he replied quickly and sternly.b The cabals which formed the spirit of French society in those days multiplied to keep the old man in Paris. He was induced to buy a house; but he made the purchase more for madame Denis than himself, and said “that instead of a dwelling he had bought a tomb.”c He still persisted, while he was in Paris, in attending the academy, where he wished to introduce the plan of a new dictionary, and in interesting himself with theatrical concerns. He drank coffee to support himself when he felt his strength failing; and this producing fever and pain, he took opium to procure calm. Soon his illness took a dangerous turn, and no remedies could alleviate it; a mortification came on, which caused him unspeakable agonies. At length, he fell into a state of exhaustion and torpor, and died on the 30th of May, 1778. According to the scandalous custom of the French clergy, impediments were raised to his decent interment. To baffle these, his death was kept secret for several days. A grave was denied him in the parish where he died, and the body was transported to the Abbey de Scellieres, in the diocese of Troyes, belonging to his nephew, and buried in the church. A stone was placed above, bearing the words, only – “C I - GIT V OLTAIRE .”d At the same time orders were issued by the government forbidding the newspapers to comment on his death either for / praise or blame; the actors to represent his plays; and the masters of schools to allow their pupils to learn his verses. Such arbitrary and puerile acts always destroy thema

Jean Louis Wagnière, Voltaire’s secretary since 1756. Paragraph including quotations based on Wagnière, pp. 143–5. c Wagnière p. 152. d Voltaire’s great-nephew, the abbé Miguot, was at Sellières in Champagne, where Troyes is situated. The stone reads ‘Here lies Voltaire’; see Deffand, vol. IV, p. 46 and n. b

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selves, and add to, instead of detract from, the reputation of the man against whom they are levelled. Other governments showed more liberality. Catherine of Russia,a who had corresponded with him, and whom he had held up to the admiration of the world, openly mourned his death. His old friend Frederic of Prussia caused his academy to hold a meeting in his honour, during which an elaborate eulogium, written by himself, was pronounced. The character of Voltaire is displayed in the preceding pages. He was a zealous, a warm, and constant friend. When Thiriot acted weakly and injuriously – sending to Frederic of Prussia the libels published against his friend – madame du Chatelet and others implored him to renounce him; but Voltaire, while he reproved, let no word of unkindness escape. In later days, d’Alembert wrote to tell him that the duke de Richelieu was acting a false part by him, and prevented his plays from being acted. Voltaire could not be touched in a more sensitive place; but he replied, “that such might be true, but that he could not quarrel with a friend whom he had known for fifty years.”b He was, it is true, a rancorous enemy – never pardoning, but visiting any injury done him with the severest retaliation of sarcasm and ridicule. He was singularly benevolent and generous. His letters are crowded with instances. His exertions in favour of the oppressed have been partly recorded in the preceding pages; it would require many more to commemorate every instance of his active and enlightened benevolence. When, on the death of Louis XV., he thought he could get annulled the sentence against the chevalier d’Etallonde, he procured his leave of absence from the king of Prussia, supplied him with money for his journey to Ferney, and kept him there a year, while he vainly exerted his utmost influence in his favour. He bitterly / deplored his failure. The spectacle of injustice filled him with anguish. His mind endured torture from the sense of injury done others, and he felt it imperative to prevent or repair crime. The sight, the idea only, of a triumphant or unpunished oppressor, excited the liveliest emotions of compassion and indignation in his sensitive and proud spirit. His private benevolence was not less active. The bookseller Jore,c whose imprudence and want of fidelity had endangered his liberty, applied to him in distress, and was relieved, with expressions of kindness. A friend died in Paris; his wife, who had been living separate from him, seized on all he left, and an old and faithful servant was left destitute. Voltaire instantly made her an allowance. We might multiply such instances; and while this sad world is filled with the needy, the afflicted, and the oppressed, it is impossible not warmly to

a

Catherine II (‘the Great’), Empress of Russia from 1762 to 1796. Voltaire, Kehl, vol. LXIX, p. 230. Claude François Jore had printed Voltaire’s controversial Letters on the English Nation, and lost his bookseller’s licence in consequence; in subsequent legal disputes he tried to blackmail Voltaire. Nonetheless in 1759 Voltaire sent him 250 livres in response to a begging letter (undated letter of May 1759; not found in Voltaire, Kehl). b c

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admire a man who sympathises in the necessities of his fellow-creatures and alleviates their sufferings. The great and lasting blame attached to him arises from the inveterate and bitter hostility he expressed to Christianity. The texture of his mind partly occasioned this. He was incapable of understanding or feeling the sublime, the simple, and the pure. The poetry of the Bible was a dead letter to him; and this may be the more readily accounted for, as the living French poet, La Martine, whose nature is pious and reverential, mentions that he never felt its sublimity till a few years ago, when translated by his friend M. de Genoude.a Impurity and grossness was also a part of Voltaire’s nature; and these led him to depreciate the beauty of the Saviour’s character, and the morality of the gospel. The French clergy of those days must bear, however, much of the blame. Voltaire ardently desired to crush a church which, in power, showed itself utterly devoid of the principles of Christianity. Arnaud, Fénélon, the recluses of Port Royal, and the Quietists, had been its victims. Racine, Boileau, men of highly / moral and pious characters, were injured and calumniated; and this because they did not belong to the reigning party in the church. What wonder, then, that Voltaire and his friends were led to despise men who made their religion the pretence for indulging their worst passions, and were even induced to think ill of the system of which they proclaimed themselves the sole fitting supports. Let Christians be real disciples of the Gospel, and men like Voltaire will neither have the power nor the will to injure the religion they profess. We have no space for elaborate criticism of Voltaire’s works. We have alluded to many in the progress of this biography. His “Historical Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations,” in spite of its mistakes in facts and errors of opinion, is a monument of vast genius. His “Age of Louis XIV.” is a beautiful work, though we are not sure that his mode of dividing the subject is the best. Many long chapters, devoted to the narration of wars, unmixed by the detail of individual passions or public struggles, which are thrown into separate portions of the work, break and weaken the interest. His plays have not the loftiness of Corneille, nor the soft tenderness of Racine; but many of them possess much passion and power. His poetic faculties, such as they were, decayed soonest; his latter tragedies are weak and poor compositions. As a didactic poet, he ranks low; as an epic, he is not considered in these days to take any rank at all; as a burlesque, grossness and indelicacy occasion his verses to be read only by those whose praise is not worth having; as a critic, he was unfair and uncourteous, always ready to make ridicule stand for argument, and not unwilling to advance what was false, when the truth did not sufficiently support him. Thus he could translate a speech of Falstaff, declaring that it was meant to a Source unlocated. For Alphonse de Lamartine, see ‘Boileau’, p. 174; Antoine-Eugène de Genoude paid for the publication of Lamartine’s Méditations (1820); he published a new translation of the Bible into French (1820–1) which went into six editions.

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be tragic, because it occurred in a tragedy.a His lighter productions are among his best, and, though sullied by his peculiar defects, are full of genius. The great characteristic of Voltaire is, that he scarcely ever penned a line that is / not instinct with spirit and life and genius. If you open by chance any volume of his works, you will be struck at once by the strength and felicity of his expressions – the vivacity of the sentiment – the penetration with which he detects the false – the wit which gives sparkle and point to all he says. He was, it is true, of the second order of minds, but first among the second; and such was his perfection in his art, as far as it went, that he contrived, while living, to fill a first place, and will always receive a larger share of attention and praise than his intrinsic merits deserve. /

a Falstaff: Shakespeare’s character in pts 1 and 2 of Henry IV and of Henry V; however Voltaire discusses the dialogue between Henry V and his queen Catherine, in the Lettre à l’Académie Française (Voltaire, Kehl, vol. XLIX, pp. 309–34).

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ROUSSEAU. 1712–1778. I T is impossible to imagine a character in stronger contrast with Voltaire, than that of Rousseau. They possessed but one quality in common. It is difficult to know what to call it. In ordinary men it would be named egotism, or vanity. It is that lively and intimate apprehension of their own individuality, sensations, and being, which appears to be one of the elements of that order of minds which feel impelled to express their thoughts and disseminate their views and opinions through the medium of writing; – men of imagination, and eloquence, and mental energy. This quality is good as long as it renders an author diligent, earnest, and sincere; it is evil when it deprives him of the power of justly appreciating his powers and position, and causes him to fancy himself the centre, as it were, of the universe. Rousseau was its victim; it was exaggerated till his mind became diseased; and one false idea becoming fixed and absorbing, a sort of madness ensued. He was too alive to the sense of his own actions and feelings; and as he had committed many faults, not to say crimes, the recollection of these, joined to his sincere love of virtue, produced a struggle in his mind full of misery and remorse. Jean Jacques Rousseau was born at Geneva, on the 28th June, 1712. His birth cost the life of his mother, and was, he says, “the first of his misfortunes.”a His father was a watchmaker, and clever in his trade – it was all he had to subsist upon. Jean Jacques was born weakly, and with some organic defect, that rendered the rearing difficult and precarious. A sister of his / father devoted herself to him. According to his own account, his childish years were happy. Loved and caressed by many relations, and watched over by his aunt, he was indulged without being spoiled.b His father taught him to read, after the business of the day was over. That his attention might be excited, the long romances of Scuderi and the elder Crebillon were put into his hands.c His father shared the pleasure he took in this occupation, and parent and child often sat up all night to indulge in it: a taste for the romantic, and a precocious knowledge of the language of passion and sentiment, were thus impressed upon the boy. When the collection of romances was ended, they turned to other books. They had a good collection, being a portion a

Confessions, p. 6. Mary Shelley follows Musset-Pathy’s correction of the birthdate in M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 22. b Confessions, pp. 10–11. c These authors are not specified in The Confessions. DOI: 10.4324/9780429349775-11

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of the library of his mother’s father, a minister of the church.a The “History of the Church and the Empire,” by Le Seur; Bossuet’s “Discourse on Universal History;” Plutarch’s “Lives;” Ovid’s “Metamorphoses;” the works of Molière, La Bruyere, and Fontenelle, were among them.b The boy read to his father as he sat at work. “I thus,” Rousseau writes, “imbibed a singular taste, perhaps unexampled at my age. Plutarch, above all, became my favourite reading, and the pleasure I took in it cured me somewhat of my love for romances, and I soon learnt to prefer Agesilaus, Brutus, and Aristides, to Oorondates, Artamenes, and Juba.c These delightful books, and the conversations to which they gave rise between my father and me, formed that independent and republican spirit, that proud untameable character, impatient of yoke and servitude, which has tormented me through life, in situations ill adapted to foster it. With my thoughts continually occupied by Rome and Greece, – living, so to speak, with their great men, born myself the citizen of a republic, and the son of a father whose strongest passion was love of his country, – I warmed by his example – I fancied myself Greek or Roman – I became the man whose life I read. The account of acts of constancy and intrepidity which struck me / caused my eyes to flash, and gave expression to my voice. One day, as I was relating at table the history of Scævola, the listeners were frightened to see me advance and hold my hand above a brazier to represent his action.”d These happy days, which, had they continued, might have blotted many pages of error and suffering from Rousseau’s life, ended too soon. The darling of all, he lived in an atmosphere of love. He had one elder brother, who, treated with negligence, ran away, and took refuge in Germany.e Not long after, his father had a quarrel with a French officer; and rather than submit to the short, but, as it appeared to him, unjust, imprisonment with which he was menaced in consequence, expatriated himself, leaving his little son with his sister, who had married his wife’s brother; and the family was thus doubly related. Jean Jacques was now sent, together with a young cousin, to board at Bossey, with a minister named a Susanne Bernard, Rousseau’s mother, was actually Pastor Samuel Bernard’s niece, though he adopted her when his brother Jacques, a clock-maker, died. b Le Seur: i.e. Jean Le Sueur (1602–81), Protestant pastor, author of Histoire de l’Église et de l’Empire (History of the Church and the Empire) (1672–77); Plutarch’s Parallel Lives of Greek and Roman statesmen, were a canonic celebration of republican political values; Ovid (43 BC–AD 16), Latin poet, whose Metamorphoses take change as their theme; La Bruyère’s Caractères were published 1688–94. c According to Plutarch, Agesilas was a Spartan warrior who conquered Persia but regretted the loss of the simplicity of his native culture; Marcus Brutus, idealistic assassin of Julius Caesar; Aristides was exiled from Athens although renowned for his sense of justice. Orondates was the fictional Scythian prince in an heroic romance Cassandre (1642–5) by La Calprenède; Artamenes, the eponymous hero of a romance by Scudéry; Juba, King of Numidia in La Calprenède’s Cléopâtre (1647). d Paragraph based on Confessions, p. 7–9, including quote. Mucius Scaevola, interrogated after attempting to assassinate Porsenna, King of Etruria, thrust his right hand into an altar of coals and watched it burn without flinching. Porsenna, on the point of attacking Rome but, unnerved by this display of Roman resolution, quickly made peace. e Confessions, p. 10.

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Lambercier.a His life here was more pleasurable than generally falls to the lot of childhood; – the boys had their hours of tuition, and their hours of play – they quarrelled and made it up – they had their childish schemes, their holidays, – they were happy. Rousseau, in his “Confessions,” well describes how these days of innocence and childish enjoyment were disturbed by an unjust punishment.b The injustice sunk deep into the children’s minds, – it despoiled their country home of all its charm; and this circumstance deserves mention, as it will always be found that the more children are treated with kindness and familiarity, the more necessary it is to guard against the slightest show of injustice. At a great school, accusation and punishment are often the effect of accident, and the boys lay less store by them; they are not pregnant with disgrace or shame, – many others, like themselves, are subject to the like, and it appears simply as one of the common hardships of life. But in domestic education they feel themselves to be a portion of the whole; and if that whole be harmonious, a discord, an act of / tyranny, that falls peculiarly on themselves, makes a frightful impression; it appears to enfranchise them from the tacit vow of obedience under which they before lived, and causes them to regard their elders as treacherous enemies. Leaving their country pension, the boys continued to lead a happy life at the house of Bernard, who was an engineer. He brought up his son to the same profession, and Rousseau shared his cousin’s lessons. At length it was decided that he must adopt some calling, by which to earn his livelihood: he was placed with a greffier, or attorney; but he disliked the employment, and neglected his duties; he was dismissed, and apprenticed to an engraver.c Here he appears to have been neglected by his relations; and the vulgarity and violence of his master had the worst effect on his character. There was that in Rousseau, which is often found in the early years of genius, – detestation of control – rebellion against all forced application. Eager to occupy himself, if allowed the choice of employment; revolting from a routine, in which his own purposes and inclinations were not consulted; it is one of the Sphinx’s riddles, not yet divined, how to break in the daring and aspiring spirit of youth to the necessities of life, without exciting discontent and rebellion. The heart opening at that age more warmly to the affections, nature seems to point out the way, – but who in society, as it is formed, takes nature for a director? Beaten, maltreated, hard worked, Rousseau became idle, timid, and lying. It is strange, but true, how, in the little republic of Geneva, money is perhaps more the main spring of existence than in larger states, and how early the children of the artizans are subjected to the grinding evils of penury. Brought up to earn their subsistence as soon as is practicable, the parents are eager to cast them wholly on their own exertions: and the numerous class of young people, male and female, decently born and bred, who, in that city, live by attendance in shops, by the a b c

Jean-Jacques Lambercier (1676–1738) was pastor in Bossey, a few miles south of Geneva. Much of this paragraph is taken from Confessions, pp. 12–14, 19–20. Confessions, pp. 32–3.

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needle, or the workman’s tool, suffer / much of the excess of labour and poor living to which the inferior classes in our manufacturing towns are subject. Rousseau, timid of heart, but with an imagination that warmed him to daring, was led into mischievous scrapes: the very ardour of his disposition occasioned his faults: he was treated like a vulgar apprentice, and he fell into the vices of such a position, without at the same time blunting that eagerness and romance that formed the essence of his character. In the midst of disgraceful scrapes, his love of reading returned. He had none of those fixed principles which would lead him to give due time to the work required of him by his master, and his leisure to his books; a new volume in hand, every other occupation was sacrificed to it; – he was beaten and ill-treated for his negligence; he became obstinate and taciturn, but never gave up his point. His books, and the day-dreams founded on them, which fabricated and painted a thousand romantic scenes, filled his heart in solitude; real life was replete with indignity and suffering; in reverie, he was enterprising, noble, and free.a Sunday – the day of leisure and liberty – was spent in rambles and games with his comrades. It is the law of Geneva to shut the gates early in the evening, and they are not opened on any pretence for any one till the following morning.b The lad, once or twice too late, was punished severely for his negligence. On the third occasion he resolved rather to run away than to encounter the menaced chastisement. His last act was to send for his cousin Bernard, to take leave of him: the boy did not press him to stay – did not offer to mediate for him; he returned to his parents, while Rousseau turned his steps from his native city – a vagrant and a beggar. No such aspect of things presented itself to the wanderer himself; – he was in his own eyes a hero in search of adventures; – he dreamt of all of brilliant and festive of which he had read in his romances, and while he slept under the roofs of peasants with whom he was acquainted, and who received him with cordial hospitality, / his reveries pictured castles and enamoured damsels, a fortune the gift of love, and lasting happiness the effect.c Rousseau was unfortunate at the outset. He had wandered about till he found himself at Confignon, in Savoy,d a place two leagues distant from Geneva. He paid the curate, M. de Pontverre, a visit. His own account of his motives is suspicious: he says that he was anxious to see the descendant of men who figured in the history of the republic; that M. de Pontverre received him well, asked him to dinner, and invited him to be converted to the Roman catholic religion; and that a

The above paragraph and the next two are taken from Confessions, pp. 41–9. The circumstance which prevented Justine in Frankenstein from returning home on the evening that William Frankenstein was murdered, thus making it possible for the Creature to incriminate her. c The above paragraph and the one preceding it draw on Confessions pp. 44–9. d Confessions, pp. 49–50. Savoy, on Geneva’s southern and western frontier, was then an independent duchy, linked to Piedmont and Sardinia. b

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he had not the heart to say nay to his kind entertainer. There is – and there was in those days still more – a great spirit of proselytism kept up among the priesthood of Savoy, hovering, as they do, close to a nest of heresy. Still, we cannot help imagining that the scheme was Rousseau’s own, and that he presented himself as a willing convert – expecting thus to be made much of, and introduced in triumph to the houses of the catholic nobility. At any rate, M. de Pontverre behaved ill: he ought to have felt that it was more for the youth’s permanent advantage to send him back to his friends, mediate for his pardon, and exhort him to regular and virtuous courses; and that to make a proselyte of him, and thus render his relations entirely hostile, and him an object of disgrace in his native city, while it opened no future career for earning an honest livelihood, was the worst step in the beginning of life that a young man could take. But M. de Pontverre, as a priest, thought differently; – if he did not invite the youth to abjure the religion of his country, he facilitated a scheme that sprang from any feeling rather than piety. Rousseau felt his pride fall, when his host told him that he would give him a letter to a charitable lady living at Annecy, who would forward his views. He saw, however, no other resource against starvation; and he yielded. Furnished by the curate with a letter, he set out – his head full of princesses, palaces, and castles, and in great hopes / that some fortunate adventure would present a more brilliant prospect than the one before him. None occurred. He arrived at Annecy;a he saw madame de Warens; and in her and her kindness found embodied one of those romances of real life, which, if of less fairy and glittering hue to the eye, are equally magic-like to the heart, and do not less serve to alter the course of existence, and to metamorphose the soul. The comtesse de Warens was a native of Vevay, in the Pays de Vaud:b she had married when very young; and having no children, and not being happy in her marriage, she took occasion, when the king of Savoy, Victor Amadeo, was at Evian, to cross the lake, throw herself at his feet, and claim his protection as a convert to catholicism.c The king, who was zealous in the cause of his religion, received her graciously, and settled on her a pension of 1500 Piedmontese livres. She was much loved at Vevay, and there was some danger of her being rescued against her will: to preserve his proselyte, the king was obliged to have her escorted to Annecy by a detachment of guards; where, under the direction of the titular bishop of Geneva, she abjured protestantism.d She had lived for six years a

Provincial town on Lake Annécy in upper Savoy. Confessions, pp. 50–1. Warens: Louise-Eléonore de la Tour du Pil, baronne de Warens (1700–62). The Vaud, immediately east of Geneva, bordering on the north side of the lake, was a dependent territory of the Canton of Berne, though francophone; Vevey is near the eastern extremity of the lake and overlooks it. c Victor Amadeus II (1666–1732), ruling duke of Savoy and Piedmont, styled king of Sicily (1713), then of Sardinia after 1720. Evian-les-Bains, on the southern shore of the lake, is where Mary Shelley chose to situate the newly-wed Frankensteins’ wedding night. d M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 64. After Geneva had expelled its Catholic Prince-Bishop during the Reformation, the Pope continued to appoint bishops although they officiated in name only. b

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at Annecy, and was eight and twenty, when Rousseau first saw her. She was beautiful, and, above all, an expression of angelic sweetness and benevolence beamed in her face, that inspired him at once with hope, confidence, and gratitude.a She felt the folly of the step he had taken; but, surrounded by priests and spies, she feared to show compassion, or to give him good advice; the few words she did say, to induce him to return to his father, were of no avail. Yet it was not easy to find the means of subsistence for him. At length one of her guests proposed that he should go to Turin,b and enter the hospital established for the instruction of proselytes, where he could remain until his abjuration, when it might be supposed some charitable person would come forward to his assistance. Sad and humble was the prospect held out; but there appeared to be no other resource except / to return to Geneva, – an alternative he obstinately rejected. Some respectable persons were found who were going to Turin, and he accompanied them. The journey was performed on foot, and lasted nine days – nine happy days – when casting away all thought of the future, unincumbered by luggage, his expenses attended to by others, he wandered among the valleys of the Alps, crossed their summits, and beheld the happy garden which Piedmont presents to the traveller, just emerging from the snows of Savoy. The recollection of this delightful journey often made him wish to renew it in after life – and a pedestrian tour always appeared to him one of the chief happinesses of existence.c Once established in the hospital, he began to feel the importance of the step he was about to take. His conscience told him that he was making a traffic of religion, and he dimly appreciated the sin and disgrace of such a proceeding. Brought up in a bigoted calvinist city, he had been taught a holy horror for catholic ceremonies; still he fancied there was no escape: false shame – fear of starvation – a determination not to return to Geneva, caused him to silence his better thoughts. Yet he was eager to delay the fatal act; – he argued with the priests employed to teach him a new religion; and it was found necessary to provide one especially, who was capable of mastering the catechumen’s objections by the arms of logic and learning. Finding that he could not answer the priest’s arguments, Rousseau began to think that he might be in the right; and he yielded with good grace to the act of abjuration. After being received into the catholic church – after being absolved by a father inquisitor for the crime of heresy – twenty francs, collected at the church door, were put into his hands; he was recommended to be faithful to his new religion, and to lead a good life; and then he was dismissed, and found himself – the doors of his late abode closed behind – friendless and alone in the streets of Turin. Newly recovered liberty, however, at first sufficed to inspire him with happy sensations; and the very sight of the well-built / and well-peopled a

Confessions, p 53, and M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 53. The capital of Piedmont and seat of all the duke’s territories. c The above paragraph is taken from Confessions, pp. 57–8, 62–4; the next four (down to ’realities of life.’) from pp. 68–72, 74–6; pp. 78–90 (selectively); pp. 91–95; pp. 96–101, 105; pp. 108–12. b

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streets filled him with hopes for the future. Where there were so many rich and great, there could not fail, he thought, to be found a thousand eligible resources against want. The resources he really found were in ill accord with the pictures his imagination formed. He was obliged to hire himself as a servant. At first he served a fair shopkeeper; and then became the attendant of an old countess Vercelli, with whom he lived till her death, which occurred only three months after. It was on this occasion that he committed that fault, remorse for which pursued him till his death. During the illness of his mistress he had abstracted a riband from her wardrobe, with the intent of bestowing it on a maidservant of the house. The riband was missed, sought for, and found on him. False shame led him to deny the theft; and, when more closely questioned, he declared that the stolen riband had been given to him by the very girl on whom he had intended to bestow it. The two were confronted; the innocent servant implored him with tears to retract his falsehood, but he resolutely maintained his story. He was believed. He tells this tale in his “Confessions;” he declares that the avowal cost him more pain than any other – that remorse never ceased to pursue him – the image of the injured girl, reproaching him for the wrong he had done her, often haunted his dreams – it weighed on his conscience as the most atrocious crime. He had sought merely to shelter himself, and false shame prevented his retracting the accusation once made; but the thought of his victim driven to want and infamy by his lie made him often look on his after sufferings as but the just retribution of his crime. This is one of the laws of life. The shadows of our past actions stalk beside us during our existence, and never cease to torment or to soothe, according as they are ill or good, that mysterious portion of mind termed conscience. Rousseau was now again thrown back upon independent poverty. His time was not all lost: he frequented the society of an excellent man, a Savoyard / abbé, M. Gaime, who enlightened his mind as to his real duties, instructed him in the better part of religion, and corrected his false estimate of society. These lessons were often forgotten, at least, inasmuch as they ought to have served as guides for conduct; but they were as dew upon a field; in due time, the hidden seeds of thought, then sown, sprang up. While thus unemployed, and not looking beyond the hour, the nephew of his late mistress sent for him, and told him that he had found a situation: he was to become a domestic in a noble family of Turin: this was a fall for the youth’s pride, but he had no other resource against want. He was treated with infinite kindness by the various members of the family: he distinguished himself by his intelligence; and the younger son, who was destined for clerical honours, became interested for him: he questioned him as to his acquirements; and, finding that he had received the rudiments of education, undertook to teach him Latin. He might now have been happy: had he shown himself steady, he would have been advanced by his protectors. The Italians, satisfied with the acknowledged distinctions of rank, have no ridiculous pride, and are ready to treat inferiors on an equality, if their education raises them to their 326

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mental level. Many careers, closed against the ignoble in France, were open in Italy; and these were offered to Rousseau’s view as spurs to his ambition. He was won for a brief period; but, though he dreamt of climbing, he did not like going up the ladder – and a caprice ruined all. He fell in with a merry fellow, who had been his fellow apprentice in Geneva, and who was about to return to that city. Rousseau, charmed by his wild gay spirits – allured by the attractions of a mountain journey made on foot, with the idea of madame de Warens in the misty distance – threw up his situation with a careless show of ingratitude that disgusted his protectors, and set out again a beggar, but rendered wildly happy by the project of travelling among the valleys and over the mountains of Savoy, with a little toy fountain as all his / treasure; round which he believed the peasants would gather, and pay for their amusement by their hospitality. The fountain was soon spoiled; but they had a little money, and enjoyed their rambles till the sight of Annecy recalled Rousseau to the realities of life. Madame de Warens had, however, none of that rigid uprightness which thrusts the young into misery because their untaught impulses lead them astray. She received the wanderer with simple kindness. “I feared you were too young,” she said, “for this journey; I am glad, however, that it has not turned out as ill as I expected.”a She received him into her house, and with maternal care sought to find some permanent occupation for which he was fitted. For some time her endeavours were vain. He was pronounced to be incapable of being able even to learn Latin enough for a country curate. Her heart must have been indeed warm with natural charity, not to have been chilled by these rebukes of any vanity she might have felt in patronising the outcast. A taste which Rousseau developed for music at length afforded her some hope. She placed him with M. le Maître, music master to the cathedral choir. Here he remained for a year studying the art. M. le Maître, however, had a quarrel with a canon of the cathedral; and, to revenge himself, absconded with his case of music on the eve of the holy week, when his services were most wanted. Unable to dissuade him from this folly, madame de Warens permitted Rousseau to aid and accompany him in his flight. He did not go far: at Lyons poor Le Maître fell into an epileptic fit; and Rousseau, frightened, hastily gave him in charge to the bystanders, made his own escape, and returned to Annecy. This, he says, is his “second painful confession.”b It is here mentioned, as well as his first, to show – as in the more heinous one that follows – that Rousseau’s real defect was a want of moral courage to meet any menacing and uncertain evil, and absence of fixed principle to enable him to conquer this defect, and to recognise the omnipotent claims of duty. He returned / to Annecy, and found that madame de Warens had departed for Paris.c Thrown on his own resources, he felt uncertain as to the means of gaining his bread. He was asked by madame de Warens’ maid-servant to accompany her to Fribourg, her native a b c

Confessions, p. 113. Confessions, pp. 129, 135, 140–4. In fact Rousseau says it was his third confession (p. 143). Confessions, p. 144.

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place; she also being left without explanation by her mistress.a A wandering life of some years commenced with this journey. In writing this portion of Rousseau’s biography, we labour under the disadvantage, that we but abridge details, which he gives with all the glow and charm of romance and the interest of reality – while, limited in space, we can scarcely do more than mark epochs; – we pass over, therefore, the history of his adventure at Lausanne, where he pretended to furnish a concert of musicians with a piece of music of his own composition, although ignorant of the first principles of the art. Still he had studied music for some time, and had a taste for it, – and this led him to endeavour to earn his livelihood by teaching it. He remained for nearly two years at Neufchâtel,b exercising the calling of music master: the temptation held out by a sort of Greek swindler led him to give up his career: he engaged himself to this man as interpreter, but was rescued out of his hands by M. de Bonac,c the French ambassador, who treated him with great kindness, and gave him an introduction at Paris to be tutor to a young gentleman who had just entered the army. This scheme did not succeed. Rousseau was disgusted by the treatment he met; he left his employer, and returned to Savoy on foot: he had reached Paris in a similar manner.d Arriving at Chambery, he found madame de Warens returned. She presented him on the instant to the intendant-general of the province, who gave him employment as clerk, or, as he was styled, secretary, in an office instituted to make a census of the estates of the nobles of the country. And thus, he says, after five years, which had elapsed since his flight from Geneva – after many follies and many sufferings, for the first time he began to earn his livelihood in a creditable situation.e / He was still a mere boy – or rather, had just arrived at that age where boyhood ceases and manhood begins. – He had led a precarious life. The kindness of madame de Warens was all in which he could put his trust; and that had failed him during the space of nearly two years. Want had frequently stared him in the face. He could gain bare necessaries only by his own exertions. Of a romantic unsteady disposition, any stable position, holding out positive remuneration and demanding regular conduct, was swiftly abandoned; while he also, through some strange conformation of mind, appeared incapable of using the genius then in embryo within him, for the acquirement of such knowledge as would have insured him an honourable position. Thus the precious years of youth wasted away imperceptibly, and all that he gained, apparently, as of account for future years, was a knowledge of music. It may be that this wandering, desultory, precarious exista

Confessions, pp. 159–62. Fribourg is one of the Catholic, francophone Swiss cantons. M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 36. Principality within the Swiss Confederation then ruled by Prussia. c Jean-Louis d’Usson, marquis de Bonnac (1672–1738), diplomat accredited to the Swiss Confederation 1726–36. d This account of his wanderings from Lausanne mostly summarises Confessions, pp. 162–7, 170–96. e Confessions, pp. 196–8, quoting p. 198; M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 36. Chambéry is a provincial centre in upper Savoy, due east of Lyons. b

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ence, fed by romantic dreams and burning affections, was best adapted to develope his peculiar talents – but it certainly was not such as to form habits of mind conducive to happiness. It engendered a sort of bold and restless self-confidence, founded rather on that which he could do without, than on that which he could attain – it inspired mistrust or disdain for the assistance of others as being of no ultimate avail to his welfare; he acquired through it a capacity of living for the present day, without care for the coming one; and an inability to endure restraint, even when restraint was an imperious duty; – in short, a restless sense of unused liberty. Independence is assuredly the basis of true genius – but then it is that which holds fast by duty; – this last better portion was not developed in Rousseau till a later day – and then in so imperfect a manner, and tainted by so much, first of whim, and lastly of madness, that he reaped little benefit from the lessons of experience. He continued to fulfil his duties as secretary for two years; and showed his aptitude for things beyond, by making a study at the same time of arithmetic and geometry.a / But his steady course of life was suddenly interrupted. An illness confined him to his chamber, and during this time Rameau’s treatise on harmony fell into his hands. It served still more to develope a passion for music of which he had already given many tokens. He prevailed on madame de Warens to give a weekly concert;b he became absorbed in the art – neglected his office – and at length proposed to his protectress to give up his situation, that he might devote himself entirely to the study of composition. She struggled against a scheme which offered little prospect of future good, and was to be followed by the immediate sacrifice of a respectable position and habits of sober industry. Rousseau’s ardour caused him to prevail; and he became music master at Chambery, that he might earn a livelihood while he prosecuted his studies. He was thus thrown among the best society of the town; and found it far more agreeable to teach well-born and agreeable young ladies, than to spend eight hours a day in a close dark office, in company with under-bred uncombed clerks. Fortunately, where the salt of intellect prevails, nothing but absolute slavery of mind to an absorbing and uninstructive pursuit can prevent a man of talent from turning the various events of life to profit. Among his pupils was a M. de Conzié – a man of some talent, but with no real taste for the art which Rousseau was to teach: conversation was therefore usually substituted for the lesson; and Rousseau, led by him to read Voltaire’s works, acquired something of the tone of the literature of the day, and felt himself rapidly carried away into the very heart of philosophical discussions; – he himself began to desire to write with elegance, charmed by the brilliant style of his great contemporary.c a

Confessions, pp. 203–4. Confessions, pp. 211–13. Jean-Philippe Rameau (1683–1764), leading French composer, who published a Treatise on Harmony (1722). c Confessions, pp. 246–7. François-Joseph de Conzié, comte de Charras et des Charmettes (1707–89), Savoyard noble. b

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It is impossible to dwell upon the minutia of his life for the five following years; they were important – they led him through early manhood, and during their course he developed his taste for the acquirement of knowledge – educating himself intellectually and morally, / as well as he could, by the light of little else than his own natural reason. At first, his head was perpetually full of projects for advancement. He made many little journeys to Lyons, Geneva, and Niort, for the sake of prosecuting schemes, which he believed to be fraught with advantages; but which failing each in turn, he returned penniless to his home with madame de Warens. By degrees, however, he fell into a bad state of health. Feeling an inexplicable weakness pervade his frame, he believed he had but a short time to live, and lost his desire for advancement in the languor and bodily inaction produced by disease. His protectress, for the sake of securing a friend at the court of Savoy, rented a house of a Piedmontese noble at Chambery, which no one else would take, being close and damp. In the summer, she escaped from this species of prison to a small country house, Les Charmettes, near Chambery. There, in solitude and tranquillity, Rousseau gave himself up to study. Mathematics and Latin were his principal occupations: he worked hard: there was an inaptitude to remember in him which made knowledge difficult to acquire; but he acquired the power of reflection – he learnt to distinguish his ideas – he recognised moral principles and philosophical truths – he penetrated deeply into the secret springs of human action. Man’s nature was often exposed as a map before him – and he knew its various bearings and powers – although he was ill able then, as ever, to control its impulses as they existed within himself.a The confidential domestic of madame de Warens died; and Rousseau, in some sort fulfilling his avocations, discovered the ruin into which his protectress was plunged, through her love of scheming, and the ready ear she gave to every quack and swindler who sought her for the sake of plunder. It became his desire to save her; and, if that were impossible, to make such a fortune as would enable him to be of use to her in his turn.b / It is not our intention to enter into the details of Rousseau’s connection with this lady. To any one who loves to make a study of human nature, the “Confessions” are an invaluable book, and disclose the secret of many hearts to those who have courage to penetrate into the recesses of their own. But, to be useful, they must be read as they are, with the author’s observations and minute anatomy of motive; and a mere abridgment would disgust without advantage. It is not to-day that we have learnt, that it is not true, that when a woman loses one virtue she loses all. The true distinctive virtue of woman’s nature is her promptitude to selfsacrifice, and a capacity to bind up her existence in the happiness and well-being of the objects of her attachment. Experience shows us, that as far as a woman does a b

Paragraph taken from Confessions, pp. 247, 200–1, and (summarising) pp. 255–84. Confessions, pp. 247–8.

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this, and is neither worldly nor depraved, she preserves, in spite of error, the more lovely qualities of her nature. Personal fidelity is the purifier and preserver of the affections; and whoso fails in this, either man or woman, degrades human nature – the glory of which is to ally the sensations of love to the emotions of the heart and the passions of the soul. If we examine the conduct of madame de Warens by this rule, we find her wanting; and whether she be a real personage, and did and felt as Rousseau describes, or an imaginary being, we may pass judgment on her, and assert that the event proves that depravity of conduct led her to fail in fulfilling the duties which the affections impose. Rousseau, having somewhat recovered his health, returned to his projects for worldly advancement, and his journeys that carried him hither and thither in search of it. On one occasion he visited Montpelliera for the sake of consulting a physician; he returned – his hopes of renovated health gone, his resolve to dedicate himself to his benefactress strengthened. He returned, to find another in his place – his friend’s heart changed – the paradise he cherished desecrated. He did not the less resolve to serve her. “Reduced,” he writes, “to form a fate for myself independent of her, and not being / able even to imagine such, I sought it wholly in herself – and I did this so entirely, that I succeeded in almost forgetting myself. The ardent desire of seeing her happy absorbed all my affections. In vain did she separate her happiness from mine; I saw it in hers, in spite of her. Thus the virtues whose seed were in my soul, and which study had matured, began to germinate with my misfortunes, and waited but for the operation of adversity to bud forth.”b This exalted state of mind, however, could not last. Finding his rival totally unworthy of his attempts to educate him, and that he was plunging the unfortunate madame de Warens deeper in inevitable ruin, he hurried from the scene. The employment of tutor to the children of M. de Mabli, at Lyons, was offered him; he undertook it; but soon became disgusted. At a distance, the tranquil happiness of Les Charmettes recurred to his memory; he began to fancy that he was in fault – that he had but to return to find love and peace. He did return, and the illusion was dispelled for ever. For a short time he gave himself up to study, while he revolved a thousand projects for his future life. Music was still a favourite pursuit. He had invented a method of noting music which he considered more facile and perfect than the one in use. He believed that, if known, it would be generally adopted; and that, if he took it to Paris and showed it to the professors, they would at once perceive its advantages, and his fortune would be made.c His imagination speedily warmed with the idea, and he hurried to execute it. “I had brought,” he writes, “some money with me from Lyons; I sold my books to acquire a sum sufficient for my journey. My design was taken and executed within the space of a

Capital of Languedoc, province in south-west France, and a centre of medical excellence. The paragraph to this point is taken and translated from Confessions, pp. 302, 306. c M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 71–2. Jean Bonnot, seigneur de Mably (1696–1729), was a provincial military commander based in Lyons, the second city of France, and brother of the philosopher Condillac. b

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fifteen days. In short, full of magnificent ideas – and ever the same in all times – I left Savoy with my system of music, as before I had quitted Turin with my toy fountain.”a Rousseau pauses – his biographers usually pause – at this epoch, when he was about to enter on a new life, – leaving the country and solitude for the busy capital of / France.b He was nine and twenty; his character was formed. The love of adventure, which had first caused his flight from Geneva, had turned into a love of scheming. While censuring madame de Warens for this turn of mind, he little felt how entirely he participated in it. His life was made up of schemes, which his ardent disposition exalted into passions. The genuine impulses of his soul were, his genius, developed in authorship; his passionate heart, which wasted its fondest impulses on one (madame d’Houtetot) who loved another.c These were not schemes; but his stoicism – his hermitism (if this word be allowed) – his independence carried to an extravagant pitch, were all schemes; and succeeded, consequently, as ill as possible. With this scheming head, a heart yet full of romance, and a mind stored beyond his own knowledge with observation and sagacity, he left every old friend, every old association, and plunged, poor and unknown, into a new life, in the most civilised and most profligate city in the world. Rousseau entered Paris this time, as it appeared to him, under good auspices. He found a friendly and cordial welcome from several French ladies, to whom he had letters of introduction. His system of noting music was examined, eulogised, and neglected by the Academy; and Rameau detecting a radical defect, its inventor cast it aside; but he found employment as secretary to madame Dupin and M. Francueil;d and better prospects opened themselves when he was appointed secretary to M. de Montaigu, ambassador to Venice.e Here the influence of an evil destiny was manifest. Had the ambassador been a man of honour and sense, Rousseau might have passed a happy life, fulfilling an honourable career; but M. de Montaigu was avaricious to a degree that made him sacrifice propriety as well as dignity to his saving propensities. “The character of this ambassador,” says Bernardin de Saint Pierre, “is well known. I have heard from good authority several a

The preceding summarises Confessions, pp. 307–14, quoting p. 314. Part One of The Confessions concludes here. Part Two was resumed two years later. Elisabeth-Sophie-Françoise, comtesse d’Houdetôt (or d’Houdetot) (1730–1813), wife of Claude-Constant-César, comte d’Houdetôt (1724–1806), career soldier. Mary Shelley had already published a portrait of her in The Liberal, no. 3 (1823), 67–83 (‘Madame d’Houtetot’, MWSN, vol. 2, pp. 117–27). ‘Houtetot’ is a misspelling (found also throughout the Liberal essay, but corrected below); it occurs, though rarely, in other British writers of the period. d Louise-Marie-Madeleine Dupin (d. 1799), illegitimate daughter of the French financier Samuel Bernard, through whose influence her husband Claude (1681–1769), was made a taxfarmer. Charles-Louis Dupin de Francueil (1716–80) was M. Dupin’s son by his first marriage. Mary Shelley (or the typesetter, or both) misspells his name as ‘Francenil’ and ‘Franceuil’ (corrected here). e The city-state of Venice was then an independent republic. Pierre-François-Auguste, comte de Montaigu (1692–1764). b c

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traits of his avarice. ‘Three shoes,’ he / often said, ‘are equivalent to two pair, because one is sooner worn out than the other;’ and he therefore always had three shoes made at a time.”a This man, silly, insolent, and grasping, crushed the last ambition of Rousseau. He treated him with such indignity that he was forced to leave him. Plundered and ill treated, while every one at Venice at the time was eager to furnish testimonials of his excellent conduct – and his dispatches had merited high praise – he received no compensation from the court he served. The iniquitous maxim of the French government, never publicly to acknowledge the misconduct of those whom it employed, joined to the circumstance that Rousseau was not a Frenchman, sufficed to render his representations of no avail. This thoroughly, and with reason, disgusted him from seeking employment under a system where all worth was trampled on by rank and wealth.b He returned to Paris, and was kindly received by all his friends, with one exception only, of a high born lady, who could not imagine that a roturier had any right to quarrel with a noble.c His friends madame Dupin and M. Francueil continued their employment; the latter subsequently endeavoured to place him advantageously as cashier in his office, he being farmer-general; but Rousseau could neither rest nor sleep while the money-chest was under his care; and falling ill in consequence, gave up his situation. M. de Francueil was somewhat alienated by this act; he began to think that there were no means of befriending a man who shrunk from a lucrative and easy employment.d On his first arrival from Venice, Rousseau enjoyed the intimate friendship of an enlightened Spaniard, a man of noble nature and great powers of mind. They agreed to live under the same roof, and allied themselves in the closest friendship. D’Alcuna was recalled to his native country, and Rousseau felt the void.e He had been accustomed to domestic society, and in addition he felt that he needed the kind attentions of a woman, and / this want led to the fatal act from which sprung so many of his misfortunes. In his native country, or in England, Rousseau would, under the influence of public opinion, probably have married. He would not have been content in forming so solemn a tie without being satisfied with the connections of her who hereafter was to share his life; he would have desired still more to assure himself of the qualities of her heart and mind. Unfortunately his residence in Savoy and in Paris had deprived him of all primitive simplicity in his principles of moral conduct; and he had none of that fastidious taste that made him shrink from the a Saint-Pierre, p. 44. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, novelist and naturalist (1737–1814), best known for his pastoral idyll Paul et Virginie (1787). b The above paragraph is taken, selectively and in order, from Confessions, pp. 335–8, 332, 339–42, 332, 383, 385. c Roturier, a commoner; the lady was Mme de Besenval, who took pride in her noble Polish descent. M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 83, and Confessions, p. 383. d The above paragraph is derived from Confessions, pp. 427, 401. e Confessions, pp. 385–7. Manoel Ignazio de Altuna y Porto (1722–62), Basque nobleman and naturalist who met Rousseau originally in Venice.

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society of the vicious. For purposes of economy he dined at a sort of table-d’hôte frequented by persons lost to all sense of decency; refinement was out of the question. He found a poor girl there, who was too modest for the depraved and brutalised men who frequented the house. Rousseau took her part, ties of kindness were formed between them, and it appearing a matter of convenience to himself, he induced her to become his mistress. Therese le Vasseur was not an ill-conducted girl on certain points; she was always faithful, as far as is known, to her tie to Rousseau; but she was not only ignorant and illiterate, but wanting in common understanding. Rousseau boasts that she could give excellent advice on emergencies;a but this common sense did not lead her to resist the influence of her mother, a low cunning woman; while Rousseau, not liking to have the burden of her destiny, future as well as present, thrown wholly on himself, felt no inclination, at the commencement of their intercourse, when alone it was possible, to separate her from association with her family, which tended to keep her vulgar-minded and artful. Even in his Confessions, where Rousseau discloses his secret errors, he by no means appreciates the real extent of his misconduct on this occasion. He allied himself to a girl whom he despised too much to allow her at first even to share his home; he took her as a sort of / convenience, and when inconveniences arose from the connection, he was disposed to get rid of them on the easiest possible terms. Theresa was about to become a mother. According to the profligate code of French morals, this fact would dishonour her; though the illicit intercourse, if not openly acknowledged, did not. Rousseau did not like to multiply ties between himself and his mistress and her family: he was needy: he had heard young men of rank and fortune allude vauntingly to the recourse they had had on such occasions to the Foundling Hospital. He followed their criminal example.b He at first acted, he says, without serious examination of the morality of his conduct; but when he commenced author, he gave attentive consideration to the point, and satisfied himself that he did right, and continued his course of conduct.c Five of his children were thus sent to a receptacle where few survive; and those who do go through life are brutified by their situation, or depressed by the burden, ever weighing at the heart, that they have not inherited the commonest right of humanity, a parent’s care. It is insulting the reader to dwell on the flagrancy of this act. But it is a lesson that ought to teach us humility. That a man as full of genius and aspiration after virtue as Rousseau, should have failed in the plainest dictates of nature and conscience, through the force of example and circumstances, shows us how little we can rely on our own judgment. It shows too, that a father is not to be trusted for natural instincts towards his offspring; for the mother wept, and it needed the a b c

Confessions, p. 390. Mary Shelley bases her commentary on Confessions, pp. 388–91, 402–6. Confessions, p. 423.

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control of her own mother, and strong necessity,a to induce the weak-minded and misguided girl to consent to part with her offspring. We say little of Rousseau’s vain excuses as to the probable destiny of his children. They were better, he says, brought up by the public, than rendered rogues by madame le Vasseur, or led into evil courses as dependants on madame d’Epinay and the maréchale de Luxembourg.b / This futile reasoning does not need elaborate refutation. Rousseau talks of public care, as if that were, in such a place as a Parisian foundling hospital, aught else but public desertion. The poor children in all probability died in their infancy. Rousseau was indeed short-sighted. Brought up in virtue and honour, as a man of his talents ought to have brought up his offspring, – or genius were a vainer gift even than it is, – these children might have clustered round him in his days of desolation, have cheered his house with smiles, and been a help and support in his age. He would not have felt friendless, nor been driven to suicide by the sense of abandonment and treachery. He indeed sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. France was on the eve of a sanguinary revolution. The social state of things was about wholly to change. Who knows of what use Rousseau’s sons might have been to check barbarous outrages, to teach justice, or display fortitude? Such ideas are vain, but will present themselves. Our first duty is to render those to whom we give birth, wise, virtuous, and happy, as far as in us lies. Rousseau failed in this, – can we wonder that his after course was replete with sorrow? The distortion of intellect that blinded him to the first duties of life, we are inclined to believe to be allied to that vein of insanity, that made him an example among men for self-inflicted sufferings. We now dismiss this subject. It was necessary to bring it so far forward as to show the evil effects of so bad a cause; it is too painful to dwell further upon. By degrees Rousseau overcame his dislike to its being known to his friends that he had formed this sort of connection with Theresa, and he made common household with her. This species of intercourse was looked upon in a different light in France than in England. She was regarded as Rousseau’s housekeeper, and respected as such; and no one thought that they had a right to scrutinise their real relations, or to censure them. This had been praiseworthy as a proceeding founded on / tolerant and charitable principles; but when we find that this kindlyseeming society was a Moloch, whom to pacify, little children were ruthlessly sacrificed, the whole system takes a revolting and criminal aspect from which we turn with loathing. However, to go back to narrative. Rousseau instituted Theresa his housekeeper, assisted in the maintenance of her relatives, and found, in the convenience and attention which these domestic arrangements brought with a According to the doctrine of Necessity, espoused by Godwin, the stronger motivation will inevitably overcome the weaker. b Louise-Florence-Pétronille d’Epinay (1726–83), salonière and patroness of Rousseau, and sister-in-law of Mme d’Houdetôt; Madeleine-Angélique de Neufville-Villeroy (1707–87), married as his second wife to Charles-François-Frédéric de Montmorency, duc de Montmorency, from 1757 maréchal de Luxembourg; both protectors of Rousseau (Confessions, pp. 423–4).

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them, a great alleviation to his physical sufferings. This same year was memorable on another and important score. Among his Parisian friends, there was none to whom he was more attached than Diderot,a a man of an amiable disposition, and possessed of greater abilities in the eyes of those who personally knew him, than he has developed in his writings. Some people in power were displeased at certain personal allusions in his “Letter on the Blind.” According to the nefarious system of the old regime, the result was, a lettre de cachet, and his being imprisoned in the keep of the castle of Vincennes.b Rousseau was penetrated by indignation and anguish. He fancied that his friend would never be liberated; he figured to himself all that a man of ardent and yet feeble temperament would suffer in solitary confinement. He wrote to implore madame de Pompadour to exert her influence, either to procure his liberation, or to admit of him, Rousseau, being shut up with him. On all occasions he was energetic in representing the unmerited sufferings to which his friend was exposed. After a period, the confinement of Diderot was mitigated.c The castle and park of Vincennes, on parole, were given him for a prison, with liberty to see his friends. Rousseau hastened to avail himself of this permission, and frequently walked to Vincennes to pass the afternoons in relieving the solitude of his friend. The way was long, the summer sultry, his pace slow. He read as he walked along; and once took with him the “Mercure de France” to beguile the way; as he looked it over, he fell upon the question proposed by the Academy / of Dijon, as the subject for the prize of the following year – “Whether the progress of the arts and sciences had tended to corrupt or purify the manners of men.” The words touched a chord that revealed a power, latent in his heart, undreamt of before. The scroll of society unrolled itself before him, such as he found it, blotted and tainted, in the city of the earth that boasted to be the most advanced in the cultivation of the arts and sciences. And beside it he placed a picture of pristine innocence, – of man enjoying the full development of his physical powers; living for the day as it rose, untouched by care, unbewildered by intellectual speculations, – by vanity, emulation, or pride; – man liberated from the control of opinion and the tyranny of his own unreasonable desires. Words descriptive of such a state poured into his mind; expressions of burning eloquence seemed to cluster on his lips, and to demand a voice. Before he could transfer his thoughts to paper, much was lost; but enough remained to gain for him the reputation of being one of the most eloquent authors that ever lived.*d * He describes this moment of spontaneous inspiration in one of his letters to M. de Malesherbes, and in his Confessions, with enthusiastic eloquence.e Diderot denied the truth of the a

Denis Diderot (1713–84), philosopher, dramatist, novelist, art critic and main editor of the Encyclopédie; one of the most important figures of the French Enlightenment. b In his clandestinely published (1751) philosophical essay, Diderot, by exploring the outlook of a blind person, questioned the idea that belief in the deity flowed naturally from the contemplation of the creation. His prison, the fortress of Vincennes, was east of Paris. c Confessions, pp. 411–12. d Confessions, pp. 414–18. e M-P, Confessions, 5 vols in 2, vol. V, pp. 173–4. Rousseau’s Quatre Lettres à M.le Président

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The eloquence with which he represented the evils of civilisation, and the blessings of a state of nature, as he called it, fascinated every reader. The freshness and energy of his style charmed; the heart he put into his arguments served instead of reason, and convinced. The opponents of his system were sufficiently in the wrong, to make him appear absolutely in the right. Yet, in point of fact, nothing can be more unnatural than his natural man. The most characteristic part of man’s nature is his affections. The protection he affords to / woman – the cares required by children; yet Rousseau describes his natural man as satisfying his desires by chance, – leaving the woman on the instant; while she, on her side, goes through child-bearing, child-birth, and child-nurture alone.a Much may be granted to the strength that human beings enjoy in savage life; much to the little needed by the inhabitants of those happy isles where food grows beneath their feet; but, in all, man has ever been found (except in one or two cases, where the human animal descends below brutes,) the protector of women, and the source of his children’s subsistence; and among all societies, however barbarously constituted, the gentler and nobler individuals among them have loved their wives and their offspring with constant and self-sacrificing passion. Let us advance civilisation to its highest pitch, or retrograde to its origin, – and let both bring freedom from political and social slavery; but in all let us hold fast by the affections: the cultivation of these ought to be the scope of every teacher of morality, every wellwisher to the improvement of the human race. Poor Rousseau, who had thrust his offspring from parental care to the niggard benevolence of a public charity, found some balm to the remorse that now and then stung him, by rejecting the affections out of his scheme of the state of natural man. His work had a sudden and prodigious success; and as the ideas that inspired it disclosed a new and intellectual world to him, so did the favour of the public open a new scene of life. It was soon after writing this essay, that M. de Francueil offered him the place of cashier. The uneasiness he felt, and other circumstances, combined to give him a fit of illness. During the delirium of fever, and during the statement, saying, that in fact Rousseau had shown him the question in the newspaper, in the park of Vincennes, and said, that he meant to write in favour of the arts and sciences; but, on the representation of Diderot, he found that finer things might be said on the other side, and consequently adopted it. We doubt all this. Our own experience has shown us the great mistakes people can fall into, when they pretend to recount the thoughts and actions of others. Rousseau would never have written this detail to M. de Malesherbes, had he not believed it to be true; and we think that he is more likely to have known the truth than Diderot.

de Malesherbes, contenant le vrai tableau de mon caractère at les vrais motifs de toute ma conduite appear in M-P, vol. V, pp. 161–91, after Les Confessions. It is not clear what source for Diderot’s version of the quarrel Mary Shelley used. a Mary Shelley conflates Rousseau’s A Discourse on arts and sciences (1750) with his arguments in A Discourse on the Origins of Inequality (1755), where he posited that in the savage state, mankind was solitary, with no fixed settlement or lasting family bonds (M-P, Philosophie, 4 vols in 2, Discours sur l’origine de l’inegalité parmi les hommes, vol. I, pp. 56–7).

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reveries of convalescence, he formed a plan for securing his independence. He believed that he had but a few years to live; and he saw no prudence in working for a fortune he could never enjoy. He resolved therefore to renounce his place of cashier, to give up that of secretary to madame Dupin, and to gain his subsistence by copying music.a In Paris, / men of letters, frequenting the highest society, often live in the most frugal manner, and need only the wherewithal to buy their daily bread. Rousseau determined to reduce himself to this situation, to limit his expenses to bare necessities, and to guard the independence he coveted, by decreasing his wants. His friends heard of his resolution with incredulity, surprise, and subsequent disapprobation. The family of Therese le Vasseur were dependent on him, and he thus condemned them also to indigence. Rousseau was not to be moved. His new reputation as an author caused him to be sought by the most chosen societies of Paris; his idea of adapting his manners and life to his theories gave piquancé to his appearance and society. “I avow,” he says, in his second letter to M. de Malesherbes, “that the name I acquired by my writings greatly facilitated the plan I adopted. It was necessary that I should be thought a good author, to become with impunity a bad copyist, and to find work notwithstanding; without the first title, I might have been disregarded in the other; and though I can easily brave ridicule, I should have supported contempt with difficulty.”b As it was, all he did seemed to increase his reputation. He was considered eccentric, – but he was sought as a man of genius. Another circumstance concurred to raise him to the pinacle of fashion. This was the success of the “Divin du Village.” He had before composed an opera; but the envy of Rameau had robbed him of the fame: the “Divin du Village”c was all his own. It was represented at Versailles before the king and assembled court, and received with enthusiasm. It became the topic of conversation in Paris; he was invited to be presented to Louis XV.; and it was supposed that a pension would be conferred on him. Independence, pride, false shame, all concurred to make him renounce the intended honour and emolument: his friends reproved him severely, but he was not to be shaken. Still he made a few hundred louis by the piece, and was thus, / with his frugal habits, placed above want for several years to come.d The academy of Dijon proposing another question – the Origin of Inequality among Men, Rousseau seized the opportunity of further developing his opinions, and of asserting still more boldly the superiority of what he termed the natural man over the nurslings of civilisation.e

a

Confessions, pp. 428–9. M-P., Confessions, vol. V, pp. 175–6. Le Devin du Village (The village soothsayer). ‘Divin’ is a misspelling. d Confessions, pp. 437, 446–51, 476–7, where the money earned by the opera is two thousand francs. e Confessions, pp. 459–60; M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 88–9. b c

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He soon after visited his native town. He dwells slightly on the motives of this journey: a wish to revisit the scenes which he had quitted a penniless adventurer, and to enter Geneva attended by the celebrity he had already gained, were no doubt principal motives. Theresa and his friend Gauffecourta accompanied him. He saw madame de Warens sunk in a low abyss of poverty; he implored her to leave Savoy, and to take up her abode with him in Paris; she refused, and he left her, never to see her more.b While at Geneva he abjured the Roman catholic religion, and entered again the protestant church. The pedantic clergy of Geneva were very desirous that he should make a speech on the occasion; Rousseau would not have been sorry to comply, but he broke down at the outset. He was treated with great distinction by the most distinguished of his fellow citizens, and the design soon suggested itself of his establishing himself entirely among them; a place of librarian, worth about 50l. a year, was offered him, to secure the respectability of his situation.c After some time spent in revisiting scenes dear through youthful association, and of entrancing beauty in themselves, he returned to Paris; and here he was assailed by many doubts as to his plans for the future. The idea of residing an honoured and distinguished citizen in his native town, so flattering at first, began to lose its charm. In his heart he doubtless felt that the sort of inquisitorial and pedantic tone that reigned in Geneva, clothed in the garb of virtue and reason, was more likely to shackle the free expression of his genius than the versatile society of Paris. Voltaire also had just taken up his residence at les Delices.d Without / any taint of envy, Rousseau might naturally shrink from living under his shadow. Older than him, rich, of established reputation, arrogant beneath all his playfulness, and so mischievously meddling, that even the king of Prussia found him a troublesome inmate, a very little knowledge of the world would have told Rousseau that they could only agree, when in vicinity, through continual deference on his part; and the views they took of the social system were so different, and both were by disposition so eager to disseminate their respective opinions, that deference was out of the question, and open hostilities must have been the consequence. Still Rousseau doubted, and was disturbed. Madame d’Epinay relates the nature of his deliberations, which betray great foresight and prudence. “Rousseau is perplexed,” she says; “nor am I less, with regard to the advice that he asks of me. He has received letters pressing him warmly to return and live in his native country. ‘What ought I to do?’ he said, ‘I neither can nor will reside in Paris, I am a Jean-Vincent or Victor Gauffecourt (1691–1766), the wealthy son of a Genevan watchmaker resident in Paris. Gauffecourt frequented philosophic circles and helped Rousseau on his first arrival in Paris. b Rousseau’s return to Geneva and last visit to Mme de Warens are described in Confessions, pp. 462–4. c Confessions, pp. 464–6. For the offer of a librarian’s place, see Epinay, vol. II, p. 114; see M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 90 for his rejoining the Protestant church. d Confessions, p. 470.

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too miserable. I should be glad to visit and to pass several months in my republic; but the propositions made me are of a nature to fix me there; and if I accept them, I must remain. I have some acquaintance, but no friends. These people scarcely know me, and they write to me as a brother; this I am aware is the result of the republican spirit, but I distrust such warm friends. On the other hand, my heart warms at the idea, that my country invites me; but how quit Grimm, Diderot, and yourself?’”a Madame d’Epinay was, when left to herself, a woman of generous impulses and an affectionate heart. She conceived a method of cutting the gordian knot, and acted on it at once. At the entrance of the forest of Montmorenci, there was a small house belonging to M. d’Epinay, called the Hermitage.b M. d’Epinay was adding a new wing to the château; his wife persuaded him to allow some of the workmen to enlarge and fit up this house: all was executed with zealous speed. She / then offered Rousseau the dwelling with all the grace a woman puts into an obligation she confers; she was desirous, at the same time, of adding to his income; but he at once refused the latter proposition, while he accepted the first. He could not help being deeply touched by so kind and tender a mark of affection. The active attention she paid to the details of his removal, when all was arranged, taking him and his two gouvernantes in her carriage, and herself giving them possession, were marks of real attachment and sympathy.c Rousseau found the spot exactly calculated to please him: however much the society of Paris might be necessary at times to entertain, he had been bred in the country; his young and happy days had been passed there, and he could not view a secluded abode in the midst of forest glades, and the advance of spring, as it clothed the landscape with verdure, without a burst of transport. The house was small, but neat and comfortable; and that all was the gift of friendship rendered it inestimable in his eyes. It is difficult not to dwell, as he has done, on the delight he experienced during the commencement of his abode at the Hermitage. At first he could only enjoy the woodland walks; the budding of the trees; the balmy winds of opening spring; the aspect of nature. He deliberated as to his occupations; he arranged his papers. He still considered copying music as the calling by which he was to gain his bread; but he revolved many literary projects. The editing the manuscripts of the Abbé de Saint Pierre; an original work he named “Les Institutions Politiques;” a metaphysical discussion on the effects of external circumstances on the human mind; and, to crown all, a system of education, on which he had been requested to occupy himself, by a lady to whose sons he had at one time acted as tutor; – such a Epinay, vol. II, p. 113. ‘Grimm’ is Friedrich Melchior Grimm (1723–1809), German diplomat and journalist, best known as a Parisian correspondent for various German courts and as editor of the Correspondance littéraire (1753–73), used for ‘Voltaire’. b A rustic retreat in the forest of Montmorency, 10 miles north of Paris. c Confessions, pp. 469–70, 479.

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were his schemes – the subject of his meditations during his walks.a These meditations were, however, soon merged into reveries and day-dreams, that absorbed his heart / and soul. The long summer days passed beneath the shades of the forest, recalled the wanderings of his youth, and the passions that had warmed his young heart. – A settled life with Theresa; the cares and discontents he had endured in Paris, his literary occupations and theories, engrossing his thoughts, had banished love. Now, in his solitary rambles, as his memory reverted to the illusions of bygone years, his imagination fired, his heart swelled, his being became absorbed. No real object presenting itself, he created chimerical beings, on whom he exhausted the most passionate sentiments, the most brilliant imaginations. His day-dreams became extatic: he was drunk with an abstract love for one who lived only as he painted her, in the form most delightful to his thoughts: he charmed himself by figuring various situations – by addressing letters to her – by fancying those he received in return. He checked himself in his vague reveries, and gave a form and place, a name and a habitation to his creations: the lover and beloved, and the friend dear to both, were imaged and placed in a spot carefully selected as beautiful in itself, and associated with his fondest recollections. Julie, Claire, and Saint Preux, lived and loved at Vevay, beside his native lake, in the midst of the most majestic and lovely scenes that exist on earth.b The winter was passed tranquilly; he occupied himself by completing and copying the first two parts of the “Nouvelle Heloise.” When spring returned he again delivered himself up to his entrancing reveries, and wandered in the woods, as he composed the latter parts of his work.c In these there reigns a sort of paradisaical peace – a voluptuous yet innocent transport of acknowledged bliss, that charms the reader, as it inspired the writer. That to be thus engrossed by ideas of passionate love, however we may imagine that we can restrain them within proper bounds, leads at last to the errors of passion, cannot be doubted. Rousseau instinctively felt this truth when he made death the catastrophe of his novel; not so much to mar the scene, as to prevent sin and remorse / from defacing it still more; he felt it in his own person, when his unguarded and softened heart was suddenly possessed by a passion the most vehement and unfortunate that ever caused a frail human being to thrill and mourn. The countess d’Houdetot was the sister of M. d’Epinay, and was married to a young noble, who had been given her as a husband in her youth, in the way marriages were made in France, neither knowing nor caring for the other. He was an insignificant person, very fond of money, and totally neglectful of his wife. The a

Confessions, blending pp. 479–80, 483–6. Respectively, the fictional heroine, her confidante, and the hero of Rousseau’s novel Julie, ou La Nouvelle Héloïse (1761). Julie and St Preux become lovers, but are separated. She marries an estimable man, Baron Wolmar. St Preux, returning, is welcomed by the Wolmars and endeavours to convert passion to friendship. Passion is, however, mutually rekindled, but before Julie’s marriage-vows can be broken, she dies as a result of a boating accident. The paragraph is based on Confessions, pp. 505–7, 509–11. c Confessions, pp. 516–7, 519. b

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usual course in such marriages was, that the wife should have a lover, and if the husband were content to shut his eyes, and she continued constant to one person, she was looked on as living respectably. Madame d’Houdetot was not even pretty; but she had a look of youth, preserved by the ingenuousness of her mind and the kindness of her heart. Every one loved her. Gay, gentle, full of tenderness, and admirably true and sincere; she added to these qualities a giddiness of disposition – a childish but bewitching frankness – a wit that never hurt, but always charmed, as springing from the natural gladness of an innocent heart; and, protected by these genuine virtues, she escaped the contamination of Parisian society. Her lover, M. de Saint Lambert, was a man distinguished for his talents, moving in the highest society, a gallant soldier, an admired poet, a handsome man; his attachment, according to the code of morals of the society to which they belonged, reflected honour on its object.a She came several times, at the desire of Saint Lambert, to visit Rousseau at the Hermitage. He had desired her to go, believing that the ties of friendship established between the three would be of mutual benefit; and Rousseau being aware of their attachment, the openness of heart that reigned in the intercourse was another attraction. She spoke of her lover with enthusiasm: Rousseau listened, and before he was aware, felt for her all that she expressed for another. When, after her departure, he turned his thoughts to Julie, hitherto the / idol of his imagination, he found her image displaced by that of madame d’Houdetot, and with a pang recognised the new power that possessed him. Sophist, as on many occasions Rousseau undoubtedly was, he reasoned on his feelings till the very causes that ought to have made him resolve to crush the nascent passion, were changed by him into motives for fostering it. He had enounced a severe code of morality, and called the permitted liaisons of Parisian society by the harsh name of adultery; and it would have been base indeed to have been tempted into forming such himself. There was no danger of this. Madame d’Houdetot loved another, superior to himself in all qualities that attract, with warmth and truth. He duped himself, therefore, by the vain sophism, that he only injured himself by nourishing an unreturned passion. Could he have confined it to his own heart, the injury would have been great enough; disturbing his peace, wrecking the little of proud consolatory thoughts which he preserved. But from the first he avowed his love to its object, and continued to pour the fervent expressions it inspired into her ear; secure in the mistaken notion, that as he did not seek to win her, but only to unburden his heart, the indulgence was innocent. He says that he should blame madame d’Houdetot for listening, had he been young and good-looking:b still he was not a Jean François, marquis de Saint-Lambert, was formerly the lover of Mme du Châtelet; see ‘Voltaire’. Mme d’Houdetôt’s marriage arrangements and her relations with St Lambert are more fully described in Mary Shelley’s article in The Liberal, which draws on Mme d’Epinay’s Mémoires (MWSN, vol. 2, pp. 119–20, 122–3, 126–7). b Confessions, p. 522.

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so very old; perhaps suffering added years to his appearance; but at all events the lady acted with great imprudence. Her artless noble character lifts her far above unworthy suspicion; but she was thoughtless and inexperienced; the dupe of mistaken compassion. She allowed Rousseau to visit her frequently; to write to her; to pour out the declarations of his love; never feeling inclined to participate in his sentiments, she yet wished to preserve his friendship and to enjoy his society. For four months they were continually together. He walked over to her house at Eaubonne – they met halfway – they rambled together in the neighbouring country. Such unguarded conduct excited remark. Madame / d’Epinay, to say the least, was exceedingly annoyed that her sister-in-law should thus expose herself to calumny. We have two accounts of these unfortunate events, one by Rousseau, the other from her pen.a She passes rather slightly over them, but expresses even disgust; she was aware, she says, of her sister’s innocence, but pained by her imprudent conduct. Theresa became violently jealous; and while she tried to pacify her, she blamed those who so needlessly excited her jealousy. Rousseau, on the contrary, accuses her of the utmost baseness; of fostering remark; of writing to Saint Lambert a garbled and false statement of facts; of exciting Theresa’s jealousy, and even instigating her to steal any letters she might find, and betray them to her. There is, probably, exaggeration in this; at the same time it is plain that the intercourse between Rousseau and madame d’Houdetot was the chief topic of conversation at the château of her sister-in-law; that they were greatly blamed; and it is certain that Saint Lambert received an anonymous letter, informing him of what was going on. Probably Therese or her mother wrote it; we can hardly suspect madame d’Epinay of so base and vulgar a proceeding. It is remarkable that these accounts not only differ materially in circumstances, but that the notes of madame d’Epinay, as given by her, are written in quite another tone from those quoted in the Confessions. As whenever Rousseau’s copies have been collated with the originals, they have been found faithful, we suspect the lady of falsifying hers. In fact, while Rousseau gains our confidence, even while we perceive that he acted a highly blameable part, there is a studied, though apparently negligent, glozing of facts in madame d’Epinay’s which excites suspicion.b Saint Lambert did not suspect madame d’Houdetot; but he thought that Rousseau was highly blameable for declaring love for her; and that she was very unwise in listening to him. He interfered, though with kindness and consideration for his unhappy rival; the intercourse / was broken off. Rousseau, with a heart worn by passion, and bursting with the struggles that tormented it, was thrown back on himself, to find his friends alienated, his home disquieted, and sympathy nowhere. Many other circumstances contributed to his unhappiness; circumstances which would scarcely enter into the history of any other man as eminent as a

For Rousseau’s account, Mary Shelley selects and condenses, successively, from Confessions, pp. 523–8, 521, 529, 531–4; for Epinay’s, from Epinay, vol. II, pp. 318, 306–8, 246–7. b Mary Shelley may be reflecting Musset-Pathy’s mistrust of the authenticity of Mme d’Epinay’s memoirs, although today they are considered authentic.

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Rousseau; apparently trifling, but rendered important through his sensitive and umbrageous disposition. He had two intimate male friends: Diderot, whom he had known many years, and to whom he was sincerely attached; and Grimm. Diderot was a singular man, and enjoyed during life more reputation than has afterwards fallen to his lot. He had great talents, joined to a sensibility, which was real in him, but which produced a style in France, that may be termed the ejaculatory, the most affected and tiresome in the world. His opinions became feelings; these feelings engrossed him; he was in a perpetual state of exaltation and enthusiasm about trifles. As an instance, we are told, that at one time he could not sleep at nights, because Virgil had not praised Lucretius, till at length he found a verse in the Georgics – “Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas;”

and interpreting it into an encomium on the great metaphysical poet of antiquity, he regained his tranquillity.a He had a tender heart, but though he possessed some genius, he had not understanding enough to serve as an equilibrium. Rousseau was in very bad hands as regarded the gouverneuses,b as he called them. The mother of Theresa was a grasping, artful, gossiping, selfish old woman. Rousseau was poor; she complained to his friends, and Diderot and Grimm thought it right to make her a small allowance. They did this unknown to their friend, and were certainly wrong; for there is nothing more improper than to interfere secretly with the household of others. Giving this money, they thought they had a right to interfere further. The / le Vasseurs, mother and daughter, had no desire to pass the winter, away from their Parisian acquaintance, in the forest of Montmorenci. They complained bitterly, and Diderot wrote to remonstrate with Rousseau.c To read his letter, you would imagine that his friend thought of wintering at the North Pole; his earnestness on stiltsd on such a petty occasion ought to have excited a smile; it gave birth to a storm in the breast of the sensitive philosopher – this was at last appeased – but still the thunder growled. The unfortunate passion of Rousseau for madame d’Houdetot at first made him solitary and abstracted – then miserable. Every demonstration of suffering was interpreted as springing from melancholy engendered by solitude.

a ‘Happy the man who can know the causes of things’ (Virgil, Georgics, II. 490). Others besides Diderot have considered this to be a tribute to Lucretius (98–55 BC ), author of the philosophical poem, De Rerum Natura (‘On the Nature of Things’), expounding the materialism of the Greek philosopher Epicurus, but Mary Shelley seems sceptical. John Martyn’s edition of the Georgics, probably the one owned by her in Italy, says that the reference is to Epicurean philosophers in general. For Mary Shelley’s reading of the Georgics and Lucretius between 1817 and 1822, see MWSJ, II, pp. 660, 681. The source of the anecdote concerning Diderot has not been traced. b ‘Female governors’; Confessions, p. 451; also M-P, Correspondance, 8 vols in 4, vol. II, p. 21. c Confessions, p. 538. d i.e. exaggerated earnestness.

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His other friend, Grimm, was German, who had appeared in Paris in an obscure situation, as tutor to the children of the count de Schomberg. Rousseau was one of his first acquaintance; their common love of music brought them together. Grimm was a man of ambition as far as society went. His personal affectations did not stop at brushing his nails, – a mark of effeminacy indignantly related by Rousseau, – but by painting his cheeks white and red, which gained for him the nickname of Tyran le Blanc.a Rousseau introduced him to madame d’Epinay. This lady was suffering bitterly from the infidelity of her lover Francueil; – she permitted herself to be consoled by Grimm; who, while he became l’ami de maison, seems to have determined that he should be single in that character. He did all he could to undermine Rousseau with madame d’Epinay, inducing her to resent his faults, his sensitiveness, his imperious calls for sympathy and service, which she had hitherto regarded with affectionate indulgence. She was slow to submit to the law, and placed him in the Hermitage against Grimm’s will; – to eject him from this abode was the aim of his false friend.b Of course, there are a thousand contradictions in the various accounts given of these quarrels; and we seek the truth rather from the letters written at the time,c if / these be not falsified. Grimm accused Rousseau of being in love with madame d’Epinay: he denies this; and at least, when he loved madame d’Houdetot, he no longer cared for her sister-in-law. Was she piqued by his coldness, as Rousseau insinuates; or was it merely that she yielded more and more to Grimm’s representations that he was a dangerous person? The final cause of her quarrel, as she relates,d was his speaking of her detractingly to Diderot, who refused to be acquainted with her. There seems some foundation for this accusation. She accuses him of speaking falsely; and there are certainly traces of his having spoken unreservedly. This was inexcusable, admitted as he was familiarly, and covered with benefits and kindness; – especially to one to whom she was a stranger. Grimm pushed things to extremities: he kept madame d’Epinay firm in her resentment; he embittered Diderot’s feelings. The latter acted with his usual exaggerated and absurd sentimentality. Madame d’Epinay was very ill, and resolved on going to Geneva to consult the famous Tronchin. Diderot wrote a violent letter to Rousseau, insisting on his accompanying her, and saying, that, if his health did not allow him to bear the motion of a carriage, he ought to take his staff and follow her on foot. There is no trace that madame d’Epinay wished him to accompany her; on the contrary, she was doing all she could to throw him off.e Rousseau felt himself outraged by this letter – he fell into a transport of rage – he complained to every body, and took the resolution of quitting the Hermitage. When it came to a ‘Tirant the White’, hero of a 15th-century Spanish romance (Confessions, p. 552). It was among the items in Don Quixote’s library. b This paragraph weaves Mary Shelley’s comment with M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 223–4. c Mary Shelley undoubtedly used M-P, Correspondance, vol. II, pp. 60–161. d Epinay, vol. II, pp. 396–7, 432. e M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 107–8.

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the point, winter setting in, he found this inconvenient; and wrote to madame d’Epinay, then at Geneva, to mention his intention of staying till spring. In her answer, she very decidedly tells him that he ought not to delay his departure so long.a Why this abrupt and rude dismissal? Did it spring from Grimm’s advice; or did she really feel resentment arising from the knowledge that he had either traduced her, or revealed her secrets to Diderot? On careful examination, we own, we incline to the latter opinion, and cannot exculpate Rousseau.b / What a pitiful and wretched picture of society does all this present! People of refinement, of education, and genius, – Rousseau, a man so richly gifted with talent – Diderot, enthusiastic on the subject of every social duty – Grimm, a man of sense – madame d’Epinay, a woman of talent, whose disposition was injured by the state and opinions of society, but who was naturally generous, confiding, and friendly, – yet each and all acting with intolerance and bitterness. The passions were the sources of these dissensions, – Rousseau’s for madame d’Houdetot – Grimm’s for madame d’Epinay; – but why should not these feelings have inspired toleration and kindness? They were fostered unfortunately by temper and vanity. Each had microscopic eyes for the faults of the other – neither could perceive his own. Had they at once dismissed their mutual cavillings, reproaches, and explanations, and gone their own way in silence and toleration, they might have been unhappy, – for such must be the result of illicit love, – but they had not presented to all the world, and to posterity, so humbling a proof of the worthlessness of talent in directing the common concerns of life. Rousseau, of course, at once quitted the Hermitage. He had a horror of entering Paris: he was greatly embarrassed as to where to go, when M. Mathas, procureur-fiscal to the prince of Condé,c hearing of his uncomfortable situation, offered him a small house in his garden of Mont Louis, at Montmorenci: he accepted it at once, and removed thither.d But his soul was still in tumults; still passion convulsed his heart, which would not be at peace. He desired to establish a friendship between himself, St. Lambert, and madame d’Houdetot; but they drew back – from the alleged motive that “Rousseau’s attachment was the talk of Paris, and that therefore she could not have any intercourse with him.”e It was likely enough that the old woman, le Vasseur, or twenty others, might have been the cause of this gossip; but Rousseau chose to fix the blame on Diderot, and to quarrel with him outright. Strange that these sensitive / men should have so little real affection in their nature that, for the sake of personal offences, real or imagined, they could at once throw off those whom they had loved, as they pretended, a

The three letters (of Diderot, Rousseau and Epinay) are found in Confessions, pp. 562, 572 and 574. b M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 96–103. c Jacques-Joseph Mathas (d. 1761), legal official to Louis-Joseph de Bourbon, prince de Condé (1736–1818), a Prince of the Blood and soldier. d Confessions, p. 575. e Confessions, p. 586.

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so well and so long; showing how much more deeply rooted and engrossing was self, than the interests and intercourse of their friends. A few years after, Diderot sought to be reconciled to his former friend; he engaged a mutual acquaintance to mediate between them. Rousseau declined his advances. He replied: – “I do not see what M. Diderot, after seven years’ silence, all at once demands of me. I ask nothing of him – I have no disavowal to make. I am far from wishing him ill – and am yet further from doing or saying aught to injure him. I know how to respect the ties of an even extinguished friendship to the end; but I never renew it – that is my inviolable maxim.”a Rousseau was in exile and misfortune when Diderot made this advance, which was honourable to him; he was doubtless piqued by the refusal; but we cannot excuse him when, many years afterwards, after the death of his friend, he attacked him in one of his works.b It would have been better to forget. And gladly would we, in spite of the publicity given, have passed over these details – but that they formed an intrinsic portion of the picture of Rousseau’s life; and were the cause why, in after times, he became suspicious even to madness – miserable even to death. With the new year, Rousseau, quitting the Hermitage, began a new life; as much as an entire casting away of old friends, and seeking fresh ones, can change the tenor of existence. But Rousseau was ever the same. His passions, masked even to himself by their intensity, ruled his destiny; and it was a miserable one. The semblance of tranquillity, however, awaited him at first; and he gave himself to study and authorship uninterruptedly. The “Encyclopædia” undertaken by d’Alembert and Diderot engaged the attention of the literary world: it was made the vehicle of their opinions, and the engine for propagating them.c Voltaire was residing at the Délices. He was disgusted by the / pedantic, austere, puritanic tone of society at Geneva: he considered the drama as an admirable means of enlightening and refining a people; and, in concert with him, D’Alembert, in his article on “Geneva,” wrote in favour of the establishment of a theatre in that city, where hitherto it had been forbidden. Rousseau, in his dreams of primitive innocence, considered this as an innovation on the simple manners of his country-people; and he took up his pen in opposition. He wrote with fervour and eloquence: he detailed the miseries resulting from a sophisticated state of society; and argued that the drama, by treating concerning, nourished the passions, and weakened the principles of morality. In the state in which society was in Paris, he had many arguments in his favour; and he might well consider the introduction of libertinism and luxury as pernicious, contrasted even with the narrow, bigoted spirit reigning at Geneva. The eloquence of his letter gave it vogue. In a note appended, he announced his rupture with Diderot, – accusing him at the same time of a

Cited in M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 248, note. The intermediary was the comte d’Escherney. L’Essai sur la vie de Senèque, as quoted in M-P, vol. I, pp. 248–50. c Although the Encyclopédie was a reference work, its team of contributors and the editors often insinuated liberal political and religious views by ingenious cross-referencing and it acquired a subversive reputation. b

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betraying him. This was fairly regarded as an unwarrantable attack, though he imagined it to be an act of heroism. It was an error, to make the public a confidant in their quarrel; and the doing so arose from the belief that all the world was occupied with him: but it was worse publicly to accuse a former friend.a Rousseau does his best, in the “Confessions,” to show how contented and happy he was in his new abode – the number of friends he still retained – and his delight at being still at a distance from Paris. He, with proper pride, boasts of his contempt for party spirit, and the formation of cabals in literature, in which Paris was rife. Nothing debases literary men more than owning dependence, for praise or blame, on aught but the public at large.b Not far from his abode of Mont Louis was the château of Montmorenci, where the marshal duke de Luxembourg, with his family, usually passed the summer. On their first visit after his arrival, they sent courteous / messages and invitations; but Rousseau, with proper pride, shunned advances, the nature of which he did not fully comprehend. This occasioned further demonstrations. The duke visited him – he became an habitual guest at the château – rooms were furnished for him in a sort of pleasure-house, or smaller château, in the grounds – and he was treated by the whole family with all that cordial and winning grace peculiar to French persons of rank in those days.c He read the “Nouvelle Heloïse” and “Emile” to the duchess, who paid him the most flattering attentions. Both she and her husband displayed warm interest in his fortunes; and the noble, amiable character of the marshal was a pledge that such would prove neither treacherous nor evanescent. They were serviceable, without impertinent interference – kind, without pretension.d This may be considered a happy period in Rousseau’s life. The works on which his fame is chiefly founded were finished or composed during these years. The “Nouvelle Heloïse” was published at the end of 1760. With all its errors, this novel is full of noble sentiments and elevated morality – of true and admirable views of life – and an eloquence burning and absorbing. Its success was unparalleled. Parisian society, engrossed by intrigues and follies, yet felt at its core that passion was the root even of these – depraved and distorted as passion was by their social laws and opinions; and, thus brought back to its natural expression, they were carried away by enthusiastic admiration. The women in particular, who are always the losers in a system of heartless gallantry, – since they seldom, if ever, cultivate a love of pleasure destitute of sentiment – as is the case with a number of men, – were charmed by a book which increased their influence by exalting a The above paragraph on the quarrel summarises Rousseau’s Lettre à M. D’Alembert sur les spectacles (1758) (Letter to M. D’Alembert on the Theatre), drawing on M-P, Correspondance, vol. II, pp. 174–81 and Confessions, pp. 584–6. b Confessions, pp. 590–2, 594–602. c Mary Shelley is possibly echoing Talleyrand’s famous comment, that no-one who had not experienced pre-Revolutionary France could know ‘le douceur de vie’ – the sweet agreeableness of life. d Confessions, pp. 609–18, 629.

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love. Another interest was excited by the notion generally spread, that the book contained the history of the author’s early life. Rousseau was identified with St. Preux, and gained by the idea. This work was followed by the “Emile,” – a book that deserves higher praise. That he adopted / certain views from Lockea and others, who had previously written on education, does not in the least deteriorate from its merit; that, as a system, it is full of faults and impracticability takes little from its utility. He shows the true end of education; and he first explained how children ought to be treated like younger men, not as slaves or automata. His success in casting an odium on the habit of putting infants out to nurse – his admirable aphorism, that children ought to be rendered happy, since childhood is all of life they may ever know – his exhortations to prepare the pupil to be a man in the first place, instead of considering him as a noble or gentleman in embryo – are among the most admirable of his principles. Others may regard the work disparagingly; but every parent who in any degree superintends the education of his offspring – every mother who watches over the health and welfare of her babes – will readily acknowledge the deepest obligations to the author of “Emile.”b It fills the soul with bitterness to think that this admirable work, whence generations of men derive wisdom and happiness, was the origin of violent persecution against the author; and, by expelling him from his home, and exposing him bare to the assaults of his enemies, drove him into a state of mind allied to madness, and devoted him to poverty and sorrow to the end of his life. The printing and publishing of the work had been greatly assisted, not only by the duke and duchess de Luxembourg, but by M. de Malesherbes,c a man of known probity and kindness of disposition. Rousseau had a quality, belonging to the warm of heart, and unknown to the cold and dull, – that of desiring to confide in, and to be fully known to, those whom he respected and loved. The benevolent attentions of M. de Malesherbes, even to the whims and groundless suspicions of a man who, from his state of health, believed himself to be dying, and feared to leave his unpublished works in the hands of enemies, evinced that warmth and truth of sympathy which is the golden treasure of human / nature, wherever it be found. Won by his benevolence, Rousseau addressed four letters to him, explaining and describing his opinions, motives, and conduct.d These letters are, as it were, an introduction to the “Confessions.” They are written with the same persuasive eloquence, and passionate love for the good and beautiful, that reigns in the last parts of the “Nouvelle Heloïse,” and forms their charm.

a

Referring to John Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1693). Émile, ou de l’éducation (1762). Christian-Guillaume de Lamoignan de Malesherbes (1721–94), French statesman and man of letters who as Director of the Book Trade followed a liberal policy. d Quatre lettres à M. le Président de Malesherbes [etc.] (1762); in M-P, ed., Confessions, vol. V, pp. 161–91. b c

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He had been ill during the publication of the “Emile,” and rendered vehemently anxious by delays of the press. At length the book appeared; – but it bore a stamp to intimidate his admirers and silence their public applause; and it was therefore received more silently than any other of his works. The Confession of the Vicar of Savoy is a declaration of pure deism;a and, in particular, is levelled against various pernicious errors of catholicism. The great foundation stone of papacy is auricular confession, which enables the clergy to put all sins against the ordinances of the church in the first class; and to look on falsehood, treachery, and intolerance, as virtues, when exercised for its sake. The Confession allies religion and morals – makes the Gospel a rule of conduct; and, though it doubts the mysteries of the Christian faith, it speaks of them with reverence, but in a protestant spirit, totally at variance with catholicism. This portion of his book excited remark, and exposed the author to the persecutions of the French priesthood. But Rousseau felt perfectly secure. There was nothing said in the Confession of the Vicar of Savoy that had not appeared before in the last part of the “Nouvelle Heloïse.” He had himself, notwithstanding these considerations, been exceedingly averse to publishing his work in France: the method then, with any book bringing forward forbidden opinions, being to publish it at Brussels, which sheltered the author from the French laws.b But the duchess of Luxembourg and M. de Malesherbes persuaded him to let them undertake an edition in France; and it was brought out at their / instigation, against his own conviction: they, therefore, were responsible for his security; and he did not entertain the slightest doubt but that they would provide against his incurring any evil consequences. It was as the shock of an earthquake, therefore, when, a few days after the publication of the “Emile,” he was disturbed in the middle of the night by a message from the duchess of Luxembourg, saying that a decree of arrest of his person would be executed on the following morning, at seven o’clock, if he remained, but that, if he fled, he would not be pursued; and begging him to come to her immediately. It was greatly to the interest of the duchess to get Rousseau away, that the whole affair might be hushed up; since any examinations would betray her connivance in the publication. Rousseau was aware of this. He saw the duchess agitated; – he felt that, however much he might wish to shield her during his examination, any mistake on his part might compromise her; and he knew his habitual want of presence of mind. He consented at once to fly – he was not allowed to deliberate; the morning was given to preparations and adieus; at four o’clock in the afternoon he departed. His friends were safe – he alone the sufferer.c a

Profession de foi du vicaire savoyard (1762, Book IV of Émile). Deism professes belief in a Deity but accords no special role to Jesus Christ. Mary Shelley reveals her Protestant prejudices against Roman Catholicism in her criticism of the Pope as leader of the Catholic faithful, of the status of the priesthood, and their role in hearing spoken confessions from the laity. b Books had to be submitted to pre-publication censorship, and only recognised guild members were officially meant to publish books. c Mary Shelley summarises Confessions, pp. 643–87.

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His first idea was to establish himself in his native town; but this plan was speedily deranged. Nine days after the decree of the parliament of Paris, the council of Geneva, instigated by the French government, sentenced the “Emile” to be burnt, and its author to be imprisoned if he entered their territory. Rousseau might well feel disdain and indignation for the folly and intolerance of his country-people; nor was it in human nature for his heart not to ferment with resentment and scorn at the universal attack levelled against him from all sects, all parties, all countries, on account of a book whose chief pretension was to bear the stamp of impartial truth, and to become (and he succeeded in his attempt) highly beneficial to the human race. Its fault is that it is antichristian; but the most devout follower of our Saviour, if charitable, must be impressed by the sincerity of the / author, and respect the love of truth that dictated his declarations. Rousseau had arrived at Iverdun, in the canton of Berne. Exiled from Geneva, he resolved to remain there. He had friends; and a house was offered him, which he had accepted – when he heard that the council of Berne had sent an order desiring him to quit their state. Thus persecuted, he had but one resource. Neufchâtel and its territory belongs to the kingdom of Prussia: he believed that he should find toleration at the hands of Frederic the Great.a He found far more in the governor of Neufchâtel – marshal lord Keith, a man eminent for his virtue. Marshal Keith had entertained many false notions with regard to Rousseau; but he was filled with sentiments of benevolence towards him; and the king of Prussia, influenced by him, was desirous of rendering his residence in his states agreeable. Rousseau refused the offers of a house, and of supplies of wood, corn, wine, &c., which were offered him in lieu of money, as likely to be more readily accepted; indeed, in his “Confessions,” he speaks with contempt of these offers, as coming from Frederic: but he acquired the friendship – the affection – of the amiable and benevolent lord Keith; and found in it, while it was spared to him, the consolation of his life.b He took up his residence in the village of Motiers, in the Val-de-Travers, in the comté of Neufchâtel. If we read the correspondence of Voltaire, and other writings of his enemies, we should believe that he lived in a state of habitual warfare; – that his soul, ever in tumults, continually exhaled itself in vituperation and philippics; that he was perpetually engaged in underhand cabals and petty manœuvres. Rousseau disdained to be of any party. He admired Voltaire, as a man of vast genius – but refused to bow before the literary throne on which he had seated himself. This was his crime; and his punishment was the insolent sarcasms and brutal railleries of the great master of wit. We may turn in all security from such false pictures to / the reality, depicted not only in his “Confessions,” in his letters, and in his “Promenades d’un a

Confessions, pp. 696–8, 699; M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 211. The above paragraph is derived from Confessions, pp. 703–4, 708–9 and M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 214. George Keith (1686–1778), last hereditary Earl Marischall of Scotland, Jacobite exile, was governor of the principality of Neuchâtel, then a possession of Prussia. b

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Solitaire”a – these, as written by himself, might be open to suspicion – but to accounts afforded by impartial persons. Among these, the comte d’Escherney gives an interesting narration of his intercourse.b A little distrust was shown on one occasion by the persecuted philosopher, but their friendship, except on this one occasion, was unclouded. The comte habitually dined with Rousseau: he praises his simple table, and the excellent cooking of Thérèse; whom, at the same time, he blames severely for the mischief she did by her unbridled and malicious tongue, – exciting against herself, and consequently against Rousseau, a spirit of dislike in the neighbourhood. He felt this – and at one time wished to remove; but did not put his desire in execution. While at Motiers he addicted himself sedulously to botany. In his herborising expeditions, he was accompanied by M. du Peyrou,c an American settled at Bié – an excellent and respectable man, who became his fast friend; by the colonel De Puri, father-in-law of M. du Peyrou – both good botanists; and by the comte – who was obliged to learn the science, not to be thrown out entirely in conversation. Some of these expeditions were extensive; and the comte, after the lapse of years, speaks of them with pleasure, and dwells on the charm thrown over them by the conversation, the genius, the kind heart of Rousseau. The latter had many other friends in the neighbourhood, whom he tenderly loved. He remained at Motiers-Travers three years: he might have spent his life there, honoured, happy, and independent. When we relate the circumstances that drove him from it, we leave to impartial judges to decide whether he were in fault or his persecutors – who, for the most part, soi-disantd philosophers and free thinkers, excited the spirit of bigotry against him, and did not hesitate hypocritically to assume the language of religion to destroy him. Of what was he guilty? The accusations against him are few. The first, that he desired to attain notoriety / by assuming the Armenian dress.e All singularity in externals is foolish; and, though he excuses himself on the score of convenience, it was certainly unwise in him to dress so as to attract universal observation – especially in a country where the ignorant are easily taught to hate and fear that which they do not understand. But this fault is trivial. His second crime was his participating in the communion. He had re-entered the protestant church, some years before, at Geneva. He announced the greatest respect for the religion of the Gospel; but, as his Confession of a Savoyard Vicar argues against the divine a Reveries of a Solitary Walker (Rêveries d’un promeneur solitaire, written 1776–8, pub. posthumously 1782). Mary Shelley read it in July–Aug. 1815 (MWSJ, I, pp. 121–3). b Apparently citing François-Louis, comte d’Escherny, Mélanges de littérature, d’histoire et de philosophie, 3 vols (Paris: P. Bossange et Masson, 1811), vol. III, ‘De Rousseau’, pp. 14–15, 34– 5, 37–40, 41–6, some of which is extracted in M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 235–9. c Confessions, p. 712. Pierre-Alexandre de Peyrou (1729–94), Dutchman born to a colonial family. His mother remarried a native of Neuchâtel on being widowed. By 1767 his friendship with Rousseau had come to an end, although he still possessed some of the latter’s MSS, and published the first edition of the Confessions. d ‘self-styled’. e A kind of long kaftan, more comfortable for Rousseau because of a bladder complaint (Confessions, pp. 743–4).

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nature of our Saviour, he had better have abstained from making this outward manifestation of orthodox belief. The fault most urged against him was his renunciation of the citizenship of Geneva. No further attack on him had been made by the government of that city during the space of a year; and, considering the spirit of persecution abroad against him, it had been more prudent to have remained tranquil; but this very spirit, manifested in all writings, in all societies, roused him to assert himself. He had committed no crime, and he was sentenced as guilty. He had endeavoured to persuade his fellow citizens to rescind their decree; various representations were made to the council, not only by himself, but by the citizens and burgesses of Geneva. There could be no evil motive in his desire, or in the attempts he made to be reinstated in his rights in his native city; but this justice was refused him; and with anger and disdain he renounced his claims as citizen, and thus withdrew from their jurisdiction.a This act can scarcely be deemed blameable; he, however, was attacked, and the council was defended, in several pamphlets, with acrimony and violence. The chief among these were “Letters écrites de la Campagne,” by M. Tronchin.b The talent of the author gained the field for a moment. “Siluit terra!”c Rousseau exclaims: no defender rose for him; it was deemed that he alone was able to reply. For a time he refused; but at last / yielded to the representations of his friends, and, parodying the title of the attack, brought out his “Lettres écrites de la Montagne.”d This had no influence over the council: they persisted in their refusal – and even reiterated their decree.e From that moment Rousseau declared that he would mingle no more in public affairs;f – and he kept his word. But the mischief was already done. The quarrel between the citizens and council of Geneva, on the subject of the right of the latter to enact decrees without consulting the former, was attended with disturbances and bloodshed. The whole country was in tumults. The “Letters from the Mountain” were more anti-Christian than any of his preceding works. The clergy were enraged: the peasantry of Neufchâtel were taught to regard him as a monster; from execration they proceeded to personal attack; stones were thrown at him during his walks – and at last, the ferment arriving at its height, his house was attacked in the night by the country people:g it appeared certain that his life was in the utmost danger; the a

M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 219–20; Confessions, pp. 721–2. Letters written from the Country by Jean-Robert Tronchin (1710–93), Procurator General of Geneva (not Theodore, Voltaire’s physician). c ‘The earth fell silent’ (Confessions, p. 722 and Histoire, vol. I, p. 225). d Letters written from the Mountain (1763) (Confessions, pp. 722–3). e M-P, Histoire, vol. I. p. 225. f Mary Shelley possibly refers to Confessions, p. 760. g His persecution is recounted in Confessions, pp. 743, 745–6. The stoning of his house took place on 6 Sept. 1765. Lord Broughton (John Cam Hobhouse, the friend of Byron) believed that the attack at Motiers was staged by Rousseau himself and that P. B. Shelley had imitated Rousseau in staging a similar attack at Tan-y-rallt (1813) (Broughton to T. L. Peacock, 2 May 1860, BM MSS adds 47225, f. 108). Mary Shelley’s using the word ‘monster’ here suggests parallels between Rousseau’s and the Frankensteinian Creature’s treatment by the peasantry. b

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officers of government were disquieted by the apprehension of more fatal disturbances, and the probability of his being assassinated: he himself was sick at heart at finding himself the object of open and loud execration. Resolving to leave Motiers, he felt uncertain whither to go. His Parisian friends had interested David Hume in his behalf, and exhorted him to take up his abode in England.a Frederic invited him to Berlin, where the friendship of lord Keith assured him a cordial welcome from at least one friend. He was inclined to a far wilder scheme; – the Corsicans had asked him to frame a code of laws, and he entertained the idea of establishing himself in their island.b The sudden necessity of instant removal drove this idea from his mind; and another presented itself that accorded with his tastes. During his botanical rambles he had visited the island of St. Pierre situated in the lake of Bienne, and dependent on the canton of Berne. The aspect of the isle had enchanted him. A difficulty arose, from his having / been ordered to quit the state of Berne on first arriving in Switzerland; but, on sounding the chiefs of the state, he was told that they were ashamed of their past conduct, and very willing that he should establish himself at St. Pierre. Here, then, in the month of September, he took up his abode: Theresa joined him: they boarded with the receiver of the island, who was its only inhabitant: the profits of his works, and a slight pension allowed him by lord Keith, assured him a frugal subsistence. Recurring, in after years, to his brief residence in this island, he fondly dilates on his excursions on the water – on his botanical studies – on the calm that possessed his soul, and his total indifference to all intercourse with the world. As an excuse for the persecutions he suffered, he is accused of intriguing and creating disturbances even in his solitude; but no facts are mentioned – no proofs are advanced. We cannot, indeed, believe that the morbid spirit of distrust so fatal to his peace, which soon afterwards manifested itself, did not in any degree exist; but there are no letters, no documents, to support the accusations – made principally, indeed, by the soi-disant philosophers – and, above all, by Voltaire, who could not endure that any other than himself should be a subject of interest; and who, more than an infidel – a blasphemer – joined with the most bigoted religionists in persecuting Rousseau. Rousseau was not permitted long to enjoy the tranquil pleasures of his island residence. Suddenly, without preparation, he received an order from the state of Berne to quit their territory in three days. It was a clap of thunder – he could but obey – again he was a wanderer: some friends implored him to take up his residence at Bienne, an independent town; he almost consented, when a popular tumult, of which he was the object, drove him away.c a Confessions, pp. 746–7, 755; David Hume (1711–76) Scottish philosopher, sceptic and historian, best known for his Enquiry Concerning Human Nature (1748). b Confessions, pp. 770–2, 775. At this time the Corsicans were establishing their independence from Genoa. c The episode of Rousseau’s sojourn at St Pierre is taken, selectively, from Confessions, pp. 756, 763, 760–70, 775–9.

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He quitted Switzerland on the 29th of October. His first idea was to repair to Berlin.a On arriving at Strasburgh he changed his mind: he gives no reason for this, except that he did not think that he could support the / journey; and that the kindness of the Strasburghers made him meditate passing the winter in their city.b He was, in fact, deliberating between Prussia and England. He feared the influence of the Parisian philosophers on Frederic’s mind; he knew that the king preferred the writings of Voltaire to his; he felt that they would not suit – that Frederic would neither take pleasure in his society, nor reverence him: he would fall into a subordinate position and humble obscurity – not as a private man, whose independence repays him for all, but as a neglected courtier and pensioner of royalty. These natural struggles, founded on common sense and knowledge of the world, were misinterpreted by his enemies. – Horace Walpole, who did not appreciate his genius, wrote a burlesque letter, as if from the king of Prussia – the point of which was, that Rousseau could not be happy unless persecuted: the sorrowful truth, and the miserable effects of persecution which were subverting even his reason, found no pity at the hands of these men.c But he had friends. The duchess of Luxembourg (the duke had died in the interim) and the countess de Boufflers, who were aware of the generosity of his conduct when he fled from France, exerted themselves to procure him an asylum. David Hume offered to escort him to England, and to establish him respectably there. Rousseau did not like the English; but the plan offered many advantages, and he consented. He took Paris in his way, where the prince of Conti received him with princely hospitality.d “The prince,” Rousseau writes, “chooses that I should be lodged and entertained with a magnificence which he well knows does not suit my tastes; but I comprehend that, under the circumstances, he wishes to give public testimony of the esteem with which he honours me.” He received a great many visits; crowds followed him when he walked in the streets;e – it is no wonder that he loved a people and a country where he received such flattering tokens of kindness and admiration. / Yet he was eager to quit Paris; he was in France on sufferance; he even received intimation from the duke de Choiseul not to prolong his stay.f On the 2d of January, he departed with Hume and a M. de Luze, a Genevese and a friend of a

M-P, Histoire vol. I, p. 254; Confessions, p. 780. M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 254–6. c The letter is discussed at length in M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 263–5. Horace Walpole, 4th earl of Orford (1717–97), younger son of the Prime Minister Sir Robert Walpole, a connoisseur who frequented Parisian society and corresponded frequently with Mme du Deffand. d Louis-François de Bourbon (1717–76), Prince of the Blood and soldier, governor of the military Order of the Temple, whose Parisian base was independent of police control, so he could offer asylum to Rousseau there. The countess de Boufflers was his mistress (MarieCharlotte-Hippolyte de Campet de Saujun, comtesse de Boufflers (1724–1800), salonière). e Letter and description from M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 261. f M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 262. Choiseul: Louis XV’s Foreign Minister. b

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his.a There was great difficulty in knowing where to place the exile, when he arrived in England: his scanty income was far too slight to afford mere necessaries in this country: many plans were discussed; Rousseau rejected several. Thérèse le Vasseur was the great obstacle to his comfort. It was with difficulty that the prejudice against her as Rousseau’s mistress could be got over; but worse remained in her own character. De Luze represents her as ignorant, mischievous, and quarrelsome; add to this, that heretofore Rousseau had treated her as a mere housekeeper, and she did not dine at table with his guests – now he insisted that she should be placed on an equality with himself. Still he and Hume continued on friendly terms; and the latter entertained a sincere esteem for him. He wrote: “He is mild, gentle, modest, affectionate, disinterested, and, above all, endowed in a supreme degree with sensibility of heart.” Rousseau insisted on establishing himself in solitude at a distance from London: an eligible residence was at last found for him. He passed two months in London and Chiswick. He was visited by all persons of distinction. “English manners,” he wrote to a friend, “suit my taste; they can testify esteem, without cajolery.” He then repaired to Wotton in Derbyshire – a house belonging to Mr. Davenport, but seldom inhabited by him: his host, to satisfy his delicacy, received nominal payment for his board and lodging; and here Rousseau and Thérèse took up their abode.b Here he wrote the first portion of his “Confessions;” and for a short time he appeared to take pleasure in his retreat, and to feel grateful to the friend who had procured it for him. A few weeks altered his feelings. He became acquainted with the pretended letter of the king / of Prussia, fabricated by Horace Walpole: he began to suspect that Hume allied himself to his detractors and enemies, and he renounced all commerce with him. So far indeed were his suspicions founded, that Hume had changed his opinion with regard to him. He still spoke of him as the most delightful man in the world, when in good humour, but found his distrust and suspicions, and accesses of melancholy, detract from the pleasure which his society afforded. He had joined also in the laugh raised by Walpole’s letter, which, considering that Rousseau was his peculiar guest and friend, was indelicate and insulting.c Brooding in loneliness, with only the ignorant, mischief-making Thérèse for a companion, during a dreary English winter, Rousseau’s mind, ever distrustful, at once became fraught with suspicion. He felt himself deserted by Hume, – he believed himself to be betrayed. Living in obscurity and neglect in a country of the language of which he was ignorant, his imagination suggested that a

M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 263. De Luze’s representation of Thérèse (see below) has not been traced. b Paragraph, including quotes, taken from M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 270, 272–3 and M-P, Correspondance, vol. 6, p. 35. In 1766 Chiswick was a village a few miles west of London. Richard Davenport (1706/7–71), wealthy landowner who lent Wootton Hall on the Staffs/Derbyshire border to Rousseau. c M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 272.

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his enemies had entered into a combination to keep him there, so to gain an opportunity, undetected, of falsifying his writings and calumniating his character. These thoughts fermented in his brain till a species of insanity ensued. He fancied that all his letters were opened; that he was, in a manner, imprisoned at Wotton; and that the object of his enemies was to seize on his “Confessions;” the knowledge of their existence having excited this persecution. A pension of 100l. a year, which was conferred on him by George III. in honourable terms, did not appease his anxieties nor calm the fever of his mind. Under the dominion of these false ideas, – suddenly, after a year’s residence, during which he had been treated with singular consideration and kindness, he left Wotton, traversed England, embarked; and when he arrived at Calais congratulated himself on his escape, as if honour and life had depended on it. The letter he left behinda addressed to Mr. Davenport, and those he wrote to his friends, accusing his English protectors of treachery, and denouncing an universal / conspiracy against his reputation and writings, by proving that he was possessed by insanity, ought to have excited pity; – he met with none. An indignant cry was raised by Hume and echoed by his enemies, accusing him of base ingratitude, and a wicked intention to vilify his friends. This conduct served to excite his monomania to its highest pitch, by giving some colour to his suspicions; and he appeared to himself most calm and reasonable while he was the most entirely under the dominion of the species of insanity that had come over him. We must not, however, be misunderstood. Rousseau was very ill-treated; Voltaire and his sect spared no ridicule, no opprobrium; his friends, even Hume, would join in the laugh excited by Horace Walpole’s fabrication; Baron d’Holbachb and his coterie, reigned over by Grimm, never spoke of him except as a mixture of impostor and madman. Here was much for Rousseau to resent. But his madness consisted in the idea that there was an organised combination formed against him, which was to destroy his reputation while living, falsify his writings, and hand him down to posterity in the darkest colours. Such combinations are never formed; and those who fancy themselves the object of such are decidedly insane.* * There is an admirable letterc addressed by the countess de Boufflers to Hume, which proves the ill-treatment which Rousseau met, and the general spirit of unkindness and treacherous ridicule in vogue against him; while at the same time the writer does not defend Rousseau’s extravagant suspicions and conduct. The good sense and good taste of the whole letter is remarkable. Unfortunately placid David Hume had suffered himself to be led away by anger, and it was of no avail. a

M-P, Correspondence, vol. 7, pp. 22–30. Paul Henri Thiery, baron d’Holbach (1723–89), pseud. M. Mirabaud, German-born Parisian philosophe, ardent advocate of materialism and necessitarianism; his Système de la nature (1770) influenced Godwin’s Political Justice and was read in part by Mary Shelley in 1815 (MWSJ, I, p. 90). His salon or coterie was widely seen as philosophically subversive. c Cited in M-P, Histoire, vol. I, p. 289–8. b

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The consequence was that his personal friends continued to treat him with consideration. The prince of Conti offered him an asylum in his chateau de Trie, near Amiens.a He remained there about a year. The unfortunate disposition of Thérèse soon turned all the servants and dependants of the place into enemies. He quickly felt the effects of the mischief she excited, and fancying that the cause existed not in her, but others, was glad to get away. An exile and a wanderer, he could not tell where to take up his abode. At one time he appears to have / become aware of the bad disposition of Thérèse, and to have resolved to separate from her. It would appear that at this time he was married to her; but this act did not satisfy her discontent.b She deserves blame certainly; but he deserves more for having chosen, in the first place, an ignorant woman, who had no qualities of heart to compensate for stupidity; and, secondly, for having injured instead of improving her disposition by causing her to abandon her children, and taking from her the occupations and interests that attend maternity. Dragging about with him this companion, he resided for some time in Dauphiné.c His time was chiefly spent in herborising. He seemed “The world forgetting, by the world forgot;”d

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but he was not satisfied. His restless dissatisfaction, and the unfortunate notion that an universal conspiracy was formed against him, caused him to renounce the pension which the king of England had conferred. The same passions engendered a thousand varying plans. He contemplated returning to Paris. As a first step, he remained for a short time at Lyons, and here satisfied his vanity as well as his better feelings by subscribing to the erection of a statue of Voltaire.e The subscription, and the letter accompanying it, were applauded, much to the mortification of the latter, who tried vainly to have his name erased. Soon after, he repaired to the capital. As a preliminary, he quitted the Armenian dress which he had worn nearly ten years, being told officially that he would not be allowed to remain in Paris, if he attracted public attention by his singular costume. The permission he received to inhabit that city was, indeed, only tacit, and burdened with the condition that he should not publish any work, – a condition that displays in its most odious light the intolerance and tyranny of the old regime of France. His arrival in Paris created a sensation; he was welcomed with enthusiasm. Madame du Deffand, who did not know him, and who dared not like him, since / Horace Walpole spoke of him with contempt, and who only saw through the eyes of the high society she frequented, speaks slightingly of his reception by what a

In north-east France. M-P, Histoire vol. I, p. 325. M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 330–1, 334. c Province on the south-east French border. d Alexander Pope, ‘Eloisa to Abelard’ (1717), l. 208. The line occurs in a passage where Eloisa wishes that retirement to a convent had calmed her passions; Julie was suggested, like Pope’s poem, by the Letters of the medieval Abelard and Héloïse. e M-P, Histoire, vol. I, pp. 343–4. b

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she calls “the populace of beaux esprits;” but she mentions also that he will have nothing to do with the great ladies of her acquaintance, nor their friends, and courtiers. Grimm (and we must remark that, though Grimm often speaks disparagingly of Rousseau, there is nothing absolutely false in his accounts in his Correspondence) writes that his return was the subject of conversation for many days. The people followed him in crowds in the street; he was invited out to dinner every day; and it only rested with him to frequent Parisian society most distinguished for talent and rank.a His object in returning to Paris appears to have been, in the first place, to give publicity to his “Confessions.” Soon after his arrival he read them aloud before the count and countess d’Egmont, prince Pignatelli, the marquise de Mesmes, and the marquis de Juigné.b We cannot justify his thus dragging the private life of his existent friends before the world: it is the most flagrant dishonesty in civilised society, and ought to be put on a par with picking pockets. We excuse Rousseau in a slight degree, since his act sprung from insanity. He believed that his enemies coalesced to defame him; that he could exculpate himself only by these “Confessions;” which, unless rendered public during life, would be falsified after he was dead; and he endeavoured to keep the secrets of his friends; though he limited his complaisance in this to hinting how much he could tell, if he liked. Madame d’Epinay was justly annoyed, and even alarmed, at the idea of being made the fable of the day.c This lady had no excess of delicacy, since she left behind her memoirs that unveil the secrets of her life; but she could not endure that her name and actions should be made topics of public conversation during her life. She applied to M. de Sartine,d lieutenant of police, to suppress any future readings; and apparently he complied with the wish, as there is only trace of one more, before seven auditors, which took place at / the instigation of a man who sought to establish an intimate friendship with their author.e Rousseau now established himself at Paris. Several persons have detailed their recollections of him during this latter part of his life; and there is something touching in the mixture of friendliness and distrust, of gloom and gaiety, of frugality and hospitality, which the various details record. Every word we read stamps the “Confessions” with truth, and animates them with a living image; for when we find how eloquent, agreeable, and warm-hearted he was, even when oppressed by long physical suffering and heavy mental disquietudes, we may believe that he was fascinating in his younger days. a See Deffand, vol. II, pp. 78–9. References to Grimm’s Correspondence have not been located. b Confessions, p. 780; M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 30–1. Casimir Egmont-Pignatelli (1727–1801), soldier; his wife, Jeanne du Plessis de Richelieu (b.1740), famous beauty and hostess; Louis, prince de Pignatelli (b.1749), Spanish soldier; Anne-Marie, marquise de Mesmes (1732–1819); Jacques-Gabriel-Louis Le Clerc, marquis de Juigné (b. 1727), soldier and diplomat. c i.e object of common gossip; a similar use of ‘fable’ is found in ‘Angelo Poliziano’ (vol. 1, p. 88). d M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 35. e Confessions, p. 743.

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He lived in Paris, in Rue Platiere, in a fourth story.a His one room was furnished with mere necessaries – two little beds, a chest of drawers, a table, a spinnet, and some chairs; and he was triumphantly happy when, having paid for these few things, he could call them his own. Some boxes and pots filled with plants stood in his window, where he often scattered crumbs for the sparrows: all was neat and clean; and the simplicity and peace that reigned in the little chamber imparted the most agreeable impressions. He occupied himself by copying music, which he did with exquisite neatness and correctness: the only use he made of his celebrity was to ask rather a high price for his work. Many persons employed him, so to find a pretence for intruding on his solitude and staring at him. He did not scruple to be rude to those whom he saw were attracted by mere impertinent curiosity – to all others he was civil if not complaisant. The sole real blot on his household was Thérèse, whom every one mentions with dislike and disrespect. The prince de Ligneb describes the visit he paid: he went under the pretence of seeking a M. Rousseau of Thoulouse, and contrived, while excusing himself for the mistake, to slide into conversation. Rousseau submitted to be drawn out by an utter and unnamed stranger, without the slightest appearance of distrust. The / prince asked him about his music, and then alluded to literature, and quoted one of the opinions Rousseau had himself advanced, of the danger of certain literary acquirements: in a moment he was on the alert to reply, entering into the argument with more eloquence than he had ever showed in his writings, and developing his ideas with delicacy and precision; for it is remarkable that the embarrassment and confusion of ideas, of which Rousseau complains as habitual to him in conversation, never occurred, except when he fancied that something was expected, and his extreme shyness interfered to perplex his ideas, and even his utterance. But in the common course of conversation all agree in describing him as more than entertaining, as fascinating, through his eloquence, his perspicuity, and the vivacity and energy of his imagery and ideas; but these were not to be exercised on the trivial topics of the day, but on the high moral and philosophical sentiments and opinions that warmed his soul. On leaving him, the prince wrote him a letter, telling him who he was, and offering him an asylum in his states. His letter is a singular one; he tells him that no one knew how to read in his country, and that he would neither be admired nor persecuted. He continues: “You shall have the key of my books and my gardens; you shall see me or not as you please; you shall have a small country-house a mile from mine, where you can sow and plant just as you like; as, like you, I dislike thrones and dominations, you a

M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 48–9, based on citation of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 42ff., or Mémoires et Mélanges Historiques et Littéraires par le Prince de Ligne, 5 vols (Paris: Ambroise Dupont, 1827–9), vol. II, pp. 148–55. Charles Joseph, prince de Ligne (1735–1815), was a cosmopolitan soldier, letter writer, and noted raconteur with estates in the Austrian Netherlands (modern Belgium). He is referred to in Rambles (MWSN, vol. 8, p. 185). b

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shall rule no one, and no one will rule you. If you accept my offers. I will lead you myself to the Temple of Virtue – such shall be the name of your abode, though we will not call it thus; I will spare your modesty all the triumphs you have well deserved.”a The prince declares that this letter was written in the sincerity of his heart; afterwards it was spread through Paris as a bad imitation of Horace Walpole’s fabrication, and Rousseau himself believed that it was a trick. However, at first he took it as sincere, and called on the prince: he described his misfortunes, his enemies, / the conspiracy of all Europe against him, with an eloquence that charmed while it inspired pity. “His eyes were two stars,” the prince writes: “his genius shone in his face and electrified me; he was touched by the effect he produced, and, convinced of my enthusiasm, he showed gratitude for the interest I took in his welfare.”b Madame de Genlis made acquaintance with him soon after his return to Paris.c She says she never met a literary man with less pretension, and more amiable: he spoke of himself with simplicity, and of his enemies without bitterness; he did entire justice to the talents of Voltaire; he had a most agreeable smile, full of delicacy and gentleness; he was communicative, and often very gay. He talked extremely well on music, in which he was a real connoisseur. Rousseau dined with this lady and her husband frequently. Their first quarrel arose from M. de Genlis sending him two dozen bottles of a wine he had praised, instead of two, which he had consented to accept. Nothing could be in worse taste than the pleasure which all the rich acquaintance of Rousseau took in making him presents, after he had declared he would not receive any. He always sent them back; and they reaped the pleasure of at once displaying their generosity without expense, and of railing at his misanthropy. The quarrel which put an end to his acquaintance with madame de Genlis is somewhat unintelligible. Rousseau took offence at something that passed at a theatre; and, instead of supping with his friends as he had agreed, walked sullenly away. Madame de Genlis was offended in her turn, and their intercourse was never renewed. Bernardin de Saint Pierre, author of “Paul and Virginia,” has left delightful details of his visits to the recluse. They are far too long to quote: we can only mention that they impress the reader with love and esteem for Rousseau. Sometimes Saint Pierre was hurt by outbursts of Rousseau’s umbrageous temper, and on one occasion complained of his morose manner and unjust / suspicions, and asked whether he desired to quarrel with him. Rousseau replied, with emotion, “I should be sorry to see you too often, but still more sorry not to see you at all. I fear intia It is not clear what source Mary Shelley used here as it is not included in M-P. For full text, see R. A. Leigh, Correspondance complète de Jean Jacques Rousseau, (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 1981), vol. 38, p. 47. b Mary Shelley partly quotes M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 47 or de Ligne, Mélanges, pp. 162–5. c Mary Shelley seems to cite Mme de Genlis from M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 23–30, rather than directly from her Mémoires.

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macies, and have closed my heart against them; my temper masters me, do you not perceive it? I suppress it for a time, but at last it overcomes me, and bursts forth in spite of my endeavours. I have my faults; but, when we value the friendship of any one, we must take the benefit with all its burdens.”a Saint Pierre adds, “that these fits of distrust were rare, that he was usually gay, confiding, and frank; when I saw him gloomy, I knew some sad thought perplexed him: I began talking of Plutarch, and he came to himself as if awakening from a dream.” Saint Pierre gives a pleasing account of the respect in which the Parisians held him. They went together to hear the “Iphigenia” of Gluck:b the crowd and pressure were great; Rousseau was old; Saint Pierre felt desirous to name him, and so to obtain protection: he hesitated, fearful to offend; at length he whispered it to one or two, begging them to keep the secret. Scarcely was the word uttered than a deep silence ensued, the crowd looked respectfully on him, and emulated each other in shielding him from pressure, without any one repeating the name that had been revealed.c At one time he suspected Saint Pierre of being in league with his enemies; his friend insisted on an explanation, and succeeded in convincing him of his innocence, though he still believed that his enemies had endeavoured to make a cat’s-paw of him. He thus lived for some years in Paris, occupied by copying music, and sometimes seized with a desire for composing it; herborising in the environs of the capital, seeing a few friends, and too often brooding in solitude over the combination he believed formed against him throughout Europe. As his health grew worse, these last fatal ideas became more and more engrossing. He quarrelled with Gluck for writing music to French words, saying that his only object was to give him the / lie, because he had declared the French language to be unfit for music.d He was angry when he heard that the “Divin du Village” was represented and applauded; saying that it was done under the pretence that the music was stolen.e He occupied himself on his unfortunate work of “Rousseau Juge de Jean Jaques,” which is a monument of the frenzy which it served to confirm;f yet at the same time he wrote his “Promenades d’un Solitaire,” which, with the exception of some of the letters of the “Nouvelle Heloise,” and a few passages in the “Confessions,” are the most finished, the most interesting, and eloquent of his works: the peculiar charm of Rousseau reigns throughout; a mixture of lofty enthusiasm, of calm repose, and of the most delicate taste. a Saint-Pierre, pp. 66–7. The next passage of quotation from Saint-Pierre has not been located. b Christoph Willibald Gluck (1714–87), German composer and operatic innovator, based in Paris 1773–9. Iphigenia in Tauris was premièred there in 1779. c M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 58–9; the source of the next sentence, referring to Saint-Pierre, has not been located. d Mary Shelley looks back to the musical controversies of 1753 over the rival merits of French and Italian opera, in which Rousseau had participated. e M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 86, citing memoirs of Olivier Corancez, journalist (d. 1810). f Rousseau, the Judge of Jean-Jacques (written 1772–6).

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The friends about him saw traces of attacks of absolute madness: he could no longer apply himself to his task of copying music, and the miseries of poverty began to be felt in his household. M. de Corancez tried to bring a remedy, by offering him a house at Sceaux, in which to live: Rousseau refused, yet hesitated.a M. de Girardin offered his house at Ermenonville, where the superb gardens, of which he was proprietor, might well tempt a lover of nature. Thérèse favoured this offer – Rousseau consented to accept it, and his removal was effected with some precipitancy. It might have been supposed that the charm of his new abode would have calmed his mind and restored his health. It was not so. Great obscurity hangs over the last scene of his life. He died suddenly at Ermenonville, on the 2d of July, two months after his departure from Paris. The surgeons who examined his body pronounced, at their examination, that he died of a serious apoplexy.b Many circumstances combine to engender the suspicion that this opinion was given merely to prevent scandal, and that in reality he shot himself. It is certain that, at the moment of death, instead of being senseless, he was carried to the window, which he caused to be thrown open; the weather was beautiful, and he /contemplated the fair scene spread around, the shady gardens and serene sky, while he bade a calm adieu to life.c The cause of his suicide, if he really committed it, must be found in his perpetual physical sufferings, in his weariness of life, and in the accesses of insanity with which he was certainly sometimes visited: to this M. de Corancez adds a discovery of the worthless character of Thérèse. The last is merely conjecture. She married a groom of M. Girardin, a year after her husband’s death; and he gives her credit for a criminal intercourse with this man, discovered by Rousseau, during his life. His existence had become a dream of bodily and mental suffering; and whether the disease that preyed on him affected his brain with death, or excited him to arm himself against his own life, is a secret difficult to penetrate. The latter seems most probable. He died peacefully, and the heart that had beat so wildly, and the brain pregnant with an ardent love of truth, and with so many wild delusions, were delivered over to the peace of the grave. As a protestant he could not be buried in sacred ground, he was therefore interred in the island of Poplars, in the gardens of Ermenonville. The funeral took place in the evening. The solitary spot shadowed over by trees, through whose a Mary Shelley confuses Corancez, whose memoir is being cited in M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 94–5, with a note on the same page explaining that Jean Louis Bravard Deyssac, comte Duprat (1744–94), a career soldier who served with the prince de Condé, made the offer. b Rousseau’s hesitation in accepting Girardin’s offer is told in M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 76; M. de Girardin: René-Louis, marquis de Girardin (1735–1808), wealthy French dilettante who protected Rousseau at Ermenonville, his estate south-east of Paris. Rousseau’s death is recounted in M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 97. c This paragraph is taken, in order, from details in M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 100, 99. The possibility of Rousseau’s suicide is thoroughly canvassed in M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 100–9, 153– 97, 211–23. Examination of Rousseau’s skeleton in 1897 discovered nothing to support rumours that he had shot himself.

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foliage the moon shone, the calm of the evening hour, and the lonely grave, were in accordance with the singular but noble character of the man.a On his tomb was inscribed – I CI REPOSE L’H OMME DE LA N ATURE ET DE LA V ÉRITÉ . Vitam impendere vero.b

These last words he had adopted as his device. His grave ought to have been held sacred; but, in the rage for desecration that possessed the French at the period of the revolution, the body was exhumed and placed in the Pantheon. When the allies invaded France, out of / respect for his memory, Ermenonville was exempted from contribution.c Rousseau has described himself; but, though sincere in an unexampled degree, it is difficult to appreciate his character from the “Confessions.” A recent writer, Barante, founding his opinion on this work, considers him a proud and envious egotist, full of vague aspirations after virtue, incapable of a virtuous deed; yet we find Saint Pierre, who knew him during the latter years of his life, when the struggle between circumstances and his disposition had ceased, and his character was formed, applaud his firm probity, his mild benevolence, his frankness and natural gaiety of heart. One fact stamps Rousseau with nobleness of soul. We turn to the pages of Voltaire’s Correspondence,d and find it full of the most vilifying and insolent epithets applied to his great contemporary – the opprobrium and insult with which he loads his name bearing the stamp of the impurity and arrogance of his own heart. Rousseau never spoke ill of Voltaire: when others dispraised, he defended him; this might be the result of pride, but it was a noble and generous pride. Rousseau was proud; nourished in dreams of ancient virtue or chivalrous romance, he respected himself, and he felt deeply aggrieved if he did not meet respect in others. It is a strange anomaly to find this proud man confessing the most degrading errors; but this arose from the highest pride of all, and the most mistaken: he declared his faults, and yet assumed himself to be better than other men. Was Rousseau envious? Grimm says,e that anger at finding men of greater genius preferred engendered most of his ill-humour against society. But who were these superior men? not Voltaire, with whom, as older than himself, he never competed: it was Helvetius, Thomas,f and, above all, Diderot. Whatever merits a

M-P, Histoire, vol. II, p. 98. ‘Here rests The Man of Nature and of Truth.’ The Latin motto means ‘To submit one’s life to the test of Truth’. c i.e. military requisitioning in 1814, when Britain and Prussia occupied France after defeating Napoleon. The former church of St Geneviève in Paris was made into the Pantheon or shrine for national heroes by the French Revolution. See ‘Mirabeau’, p. 428. d Mary Shelley possibly draws on M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 276–81. e M-P, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 229 and note. f Claude-Adrien Helvétius (1715–71), philosophic materialist whose book De L’Esprit (1758) Rousseau opposed; see also vol. 2, ‘Rochefoucauld’. Antoine Léonard Thomas (1732– 85), poet, eulogist, and feminist historian. b

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Diderot had in society and conversation, he is so poor a writer that Rousseau could never have been really hurt by any mistaken preference shown / him. Envy, base as it is, does not stoop to envy that which is immeasurably inferior. Rousseau had certainly sufficient cause to be displeased with Diderot, the tone of his letters being arrogant and presumptuous; but his real displeasure was caused by the belief that he had betrayed him, when he confided to him his sentiments for madame d’Houdetot: balked and trampled on all sides, he was stung to resent his disappointment somewhere, and he selected Diderot for his victim. This was very wrong and self-deceptive: he quotes good authority for proving the propriety of declaring to the world that he and Diderot were no longer friends, and there was no great harm in so doing; but when he appended the quotation from Ecclesiastes in a note, accusing Diderot of a great social crime, the betraying the secret of a friend, he erred grossly, and cannot be defended.a Rousseau had passed his existence in romantic reveries. This abstraction of mind always engenders an indolence that concentrates the mind in self, and hates to be intruded upon by outward circumstances. Pride and indolence conjoined, created the independence of spirit for which he took praise to himself. Independence is of two sorts. When we sacrifice our pleasures and our tastes to preserve the dear privilege of not deferring our principles and feelings to others, we foster an exalted virtue; but the independence that finds duty an unwelcome clog – that regards the just claims of our fellow-creatures as injurious and intolerable, and that casts off the affections as troublesome shackles – is one of the greatest errors that the human heart can nourish; and such was the independence to which Rousseau aspired when he neglected the first duty of man by abandoning his children. He often dilates on simple pleasures – the charms of unsophisticated affections, and the ecstasy to be derived from virtuous sympathy – he, who never felt the noblest and most devoted passion of the human soul – the love of a parent for his child! We cannot help thinking that even while Rousseau defends / himself by many baseless sophisms, that this crime, rankling at his heart, engendered much of the misery that he charged upon his fellow-creatures. Still Barante is unjustb when he declares Rousseau’s life to have been devoid of virtuous actions. He was unpretendingly charitable; and his fidelity to Thérèse, unworthy as she was, deserves praise. It would have been easy to cast her off, and gain a more suitable companion; but he bore her defects; and even to the last, when it has been suspected that her worthlessness drove him to suicide, he never complained. There was, with all his errors, great nobleness in Rousseau’s soul. The pride and envy of which he is accused led him to cherish poverty, to repel benefits, to a In Confessions, p. 587, Rousseau cited the precedent of the political philosopher Charles Louis de Secondat, baron de la Brède et de Montesquieu (1689–1755), who had made his quarrel with Père de Tournemine public; for Rousseau, this justified his coded reference to his breach with Diderot by means of the verse from Ecclesiastes (in fact, from Ecclesiasticus). b Summarising Barante (De la littérature française pendant le dix-huitième siècle, 4th edn (Paris: Ladvocat, 1834)), pp. 257, 235–6, especially p. 235.

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suspect his friends, but never to cringe, or grasp, or lie. Distrust was his chief error – a mighty one – but it did not injure others, while it destroyed himself. Of his works, the “Emile” stands in the first rank for its utility: his theories however engendered some errors. The notion to which he was attached, that entire independence, even of natural duties, was the state congenial to man, mars many of his views. He would not allow a man to be a father, scarcely a woman to be a mother; yet such are the natural and imperative duties of life, even in the most primitive states of society. We may add a further defect, gathered partly from the continuation he projected. Sophiea proves faithless; and Emile, meditating on the conduct he ought to pursue, makes himself the centre of his reflections, nor reverts to the claims which his unhappy wife and blameless child have still on him. He leaves both to the mercy of a hard world, and affords another proof of Rousseau’s natural deficiency in a sense of duty. Barante well observesb that the “Emile” is the less useful, because it gives no rules for public education; and public education is doubtless the best fitted to form the character of social man. Properly carried on, it prevents all need of having recourse to those plans and impostures which deface Rousseau’s system. The little world of boys / brings its own necessities and lessons with it: the chief care devolving on the master, to prevent the elder and stronger from domineering over the young and weak. He perverts virtue and vice in the “Heloïse” still more glaringly, and clashes against the prejudices of every country. In France, the fault of an unmarried girl was regarded as peculiarly degrading and even ridiculous, and the early error of Julie therefore could find little sympathy in that country. In ours we commiserate such; but we turn disgusted from her wedding another man; and the marriage with the elderly Wolmar, which Rousseau makes the crown of her virtue, is to us the seal of her degradation. His ideas also of a perfect life are singularly faulty. It includes no instruction, no endeavours to acquire knowledge and refine the soul by study; but is contracted to mere domestic avocations, and to association with servants and labourers, on their own footing of ignorance, though such must lead to mean and trivial occupations and thoughts. No author knows better than Rousseau how to spread a charm over the internal movements of the mind, over the struggles of passion, over romantic reveries that absorb the soul, abstracting it from real life and our fellow-creatures, and causing it to find its joys in itself. No author is more eloquent in paradox, and no man more sublime in inculcating virtue. While Voltaire taints and degrades all that is sacred and lovely by the grossness of his imagination, Rousseau embellishes even the impure, by painting it in colours that hide its real nature; and imparts to the emotions of sense all the elevation and intensity of delicate and exalted passion. / a

The fictional wife given to Émile in the novel of 1761. ibid., pp. 242–3. Like Mary Shelley, Barante (pp. 230–5) also stressed Rousseau’s repudiation of duty. b

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CONDORCET. 1744–1794. M ARIE JEAN A NTOINE DE C ARITAT , marquis de Condorcet, was born at Saint Quentin, in Picardy,a on the 17th of September, 1744. It is said that at an early age he gave tokens of the talents that distinguished him. The bent of his genius led him to the study of the exact sciences. It is the distinction of these pursuits that they lead at once to celebrity. A discovery in mathematics can neither be denied nor passed over.b Condorcet, at the age of twenty-one, was the author of a memoir on the integral calculus, one of the highest branches of the pure mathematics, in which at that time but small advances had been made, although it has since become one of the most powerful instruments of physical investigation. This essay gave him at once a title to be regarded as a successor worthy of Newton and Leibnitz, whose discoveries in the infinitesimal analysis he subsequently extended.c This essay was published in the Mémoires des Savants Etrangers, and he was elected coadjutor of Grandjean de Fouchy, in the secretaryship of the Academy of Sciences.d Eager to justify the choice of the Academy, he continued successfully to direct his labours to the higher mathematics. Among his essays on these branches of science may be mentioned a general method of finding the integral of an equation in finite terms whenever such an integral exists, and the general solution of the problem of maxima and minima.e Had he continued to cultivate pure mathematics, there can be no doubt that he would have attained the greatest celebrity in that department of science. Condorcet’s mind was one of those in which reason preponderates to the exclusion of the imagination, so / that whatever could not be definitively proved to his understanding he considered absurd. This texture of intellect, at a time when philosophy was at work to discard, not only the errors of catholicism, but to a

Province on the NE frontier of France. BUP, vol. I, p. 1058, or Notice, pp. 5–6. c Newton created modern calculus and analytical geometry, summarised in the Principia Mathematica (1684–7); Leibniz did significant work in logic and infinitesimal calculus. d Condorcet was published in Essays from Learned Men Abroad; he was nominated in 1772 to succeed Jean-Paul Grandjean de Fouchy (1707–88) as Permanent Secretary of the Academy of Sciences. e ‘Integral’ ‘maxima’ and ‘minima’ are, in this context, terms relating to the calculus of variations. b

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subvert Christianity itself, led him to ally himself with men who, while they exerted themselves to enlighten and enfranchise their fellow-creatures from the miseries of superstition,a unfortunately went a step beyond, and overthrew, though they knew it not, the boundaries of morals as well as of religion. These men, for the most part, benevolent, studious, and virtuous, believed it easy to lead their fellow-creatures into the same road which they themselves trod; and that, bigotry and superstition being overthrown, persecution would vanish, and mankind live in a brotherhood of peace. Their passions being under their control, they supposed that, could reason be equally developed in all men, they would become, like themselves, dispassionate and tolerant. Condorcet was the intimate friend of D’Alembert; he visited Voltaire with him at Fernay, and was hailed as the youngest and most promising of his disciples.b The latter certainly did not possess the calmness and disciplined mind of D’Alembert, but his genius and ardent benevolence brought excuses for the errors of his temper; and Condorcet, while he saw his faults, paid the tribute of flattery which the patriarch of French literature considered his due. As he became intimate with these philosophers, and participated in their views, he began to consider that there were truths of more importance than mathematical demonstrations, – truths that would subvert the impostures of priests, and give men nobler and higher rules of action than those instituted by the papal church. It is the misfortune of catholicism that, by entangling the absurd and the true, those who throw off its errors are too apt, without examination, to cast away the truths which it has overgrown and distorted; but which minds of truer discernment can see and acknowledge. Condorcet, on first engaging in the labours of moral philosophy, took the easier path of refuting / others, rather than developing novel ideas of his own. His application and his memory had caused his mind to be richly stored with every kind of knowledge – add to this he was a profound logician. His first work of polemical philosophy was a refutation of the “Dictionnaire des Trois Siécles,” by Sabathier de Castres.c He assumed the epistolary form of argument, which is at once the easiest, and affords the fairest scope for the various arms of ridicule and reasoning. Voltaire hailed his work with delight, and bestowed a degree of praise highly encouraging to the young author.d

a

The phrase ‘miseries of superstition’ was often used by enlightened philosophes to imply all forms of religious belief, and not merely traditional folk beliefs, or customs engrafted on mainstream religious practices. b As permanent secretary of the Académie Française, D’Alembert ensured the election of like-minded protégés such as Condorcet. c This book, Trois Siècles de Notre Littérature (Three Centuries of Our Literature) (1772) by the Abbé Antoine Sabbatier (1742–1817), was an attack on the French philosophes in the form of a philosophical dictionary written from the ‘devout’ point of view. Condorcet’s radical riposte, published anonymously in 1774 as Lettres d’un Théologian à l’auteur du Dictionnaire des Trois Siècles (Letters of a Theologian to the author of the Dictionary of Three Centuries) is described by modern historians as an embarrassment to the philosophes, Voltaire included. d BUP, vol. I, p. 1058 or Notice, pp. 7–8.

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His next labour was the arrangement and examination of the “Pensées” of Pascal. That illustrious christian founded his system on the original weakness and sin of man. He represented him as a miserable, feeble, suffering being; spawned, as it were, by eternity, and cast on a narrow shoal of time; unknowing of the past, terrified by the future, helpless and lost in the present; and showed that the knowledge and the promises of the Redeemer were the only stay and the only consolation of his trembling, painful, and yet sinful existence. Condorcet took an opposite view of human nature. He regarded it as a power that by its laws assimilated all reason, all good, all knowledge, to its essence, but that tyranny and error stepped between; and the frauds of priests and the oppression of political institutions, taking from this being leisure and freedom of thought, reduced him to the feeble, ignorant, erring state in which most men are sunk. Casting the blame of the faults and ignorance of man on governments, he declared that these ought to be the objects of improvement and enlightenment to the philosopher; for, if these were in the advance of human knowledge, instead of lagging so far behind, mankind would speedily rise to a higher level, and grow, like the laws they obeyed, wise, just, and equal. This work appeared of such importance to Voltaire that he reprinted it himself, adding a preface, in which he said, “This true philosopher holds Pascal in the scales, and is the weightier of the two.”a / Condorcet was the friend of Turgot, a minister whose virtues and genius attached to him all the more enlightened men of the day. His ministry, however, was stormy, since he was among the first who endeavoured to bring a remedy to the ruined finances of France, without being permitted to strike at the root of the evil – unequal taxation and extravagant expenditure. His edict touching the sale of corn excited popular commotions, and was attacked by Necker.b Condorcet undertook to answer Necker’s book, but was on the unpopular side, and therefore not read.c He wrote a series of laudatory biographical essays on various academicians, and men of science and celebrity, Euler, Franklin, D’Alembert, and others.d In these he, at the same time, developed his scientific knowledge and his theory of the perfectibility of the human species. Every useful and liberal cause found him its partisan. He was one among the opponents of negro slavery; and, feeling that diatribes against the cruelty and wickedness of the slave trade would not a

Cited in BUP, vol. I, p. 1059 and Notice, p. 13. Turgot’s removal of controls on free trade in grain was intended to lower prices, but prices rose because merchants then stockpiled grain. His opponents wanted the government to regulate the grain trade in the interests of social welfare. c Notice, pp. 9–10. Jacques Necker (1732–1804) Genevan banker, economist and moralist, based in Paris, was a reformist Finance Minister (1777–81) and the father of Mme de Staël. Condorcet’s furious attack was Réflexions sur le commerce des blés (1775) (Reflections on the Grain Trade). d As Permanent Secretary of the Academy of Sciences, Condorcet wrote eulogies of Buffon, the naturalist, and his mentor D’Alembert, as well as Leonhard Euler (1707–83), the Swiss mathematician who made important advances after Newton, and Benjamin Franklin (1706– 90), the first American to gain an international reputation in science, especially for his work on electricity. b

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avail with those who regarded it as advantageous to the country, he argued to prove its political and commercial inexpediency. He was a laborious and prolific writer, urged on by a strong sense of duty; for, firmly believing that the wisdom of philosophers was of vast influence in improving the moral condition of mankind, he believed it to be the primal duty of thinking men to propagate their opinions. In his life of Turgota he details his theories of the perfectibility of his species, which the minister had also entertained. He undertook an edition of the works of Voltaire, and wrote the life of that great wit, one of the best and most elegant of his works.b To escape persecution, or to give greater force to his writings, he published several of his writings under fictitious names. In this manner, he brought out his “Reflections on Negro Slavery” under the name of Swartz, a pastor of Bienne. A biographer observes on this work, that “the simplicity, elegance, and precision of the style; the forcible arguments, respect for misfortune, and indignation at / crime; the tone which inviolable probity inspires, and which art cannot imitate, obtained signal success for this work. Those who were fortunate enough to be intimate with Condorcet easily raised the veil under which he concealed himself.”c In the same way, he adopted the name of a citizen of Newhaven, when he wrote to refute a book by De Lolme,d in praise of the English constitution, insisting, in particular, on the benefits arising from two legislative chambers. Condorcet argued that all just government ought to be founded on giving preponderance to the majority; and he brought all his logic to prove that to confide the task of legislation to two chambers, one of which should propose and the other sanction laws, was to give to the minority a power superior to that enjoyed by the majority; since that which had been proposed unanimously in one chamber might be rejected by a slight majority in the other. He went on to establish maxims and legal fictions by which it would be possible to ascertain the desires of the majority in a state, – a question that occupied his serious consideration in other works. Condorcet, in these writings, showed his attachment to all that should ameliorate the social condition, and enlarge the sphere of intellect among his fellow-creatures. He did not, in his reasonings, give sufficient force to the influence of passion, especially when exerted over masses, nor the vast power which the many have when they assert themselves, nor the facility with which the interested few can lead assembled numbers into error and crime. D’Alembert called Cona

Vie de Turgot (1787). This was the 1784–9 edition, published in Kehl, co-edited with P. A. C. Beaumarchais and others. For Mary Shelley’s probable use of this edition and for her reading of Condorcet’s life of Voltaire see the Introductory Note to ‘Voltaire’. c BUP, vol. I, p. 1059, which ascribes this quotation to Diannyère, where it is not to be found. If Mary Shelley consulted Notice, she possibly perceived the BUP error and refrained from identifying him as the ‘biographer’, but too much should not be read into this omission. d BUP, vol. I, p. 1059. The Genevan Jean Louis de Lolme published Le Constitution d’Angleterre (The English Constitution) in 1771. In Notice, pp. 18–19, it is Condorcet’s support for women’s suffrage, not the structure of legislatures, that is discussed. (At the time of writing The Last Man Mary Shelley appears to have been a supporter of the unicameral system; Britain is envisaged in the year 2073 as a republic with only one House of Parliament.) b

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dorcet a volcano covered by snow.a There are men of great personal susceptibility, uncontrolable passions, and excitable imaginations, who have the same power over their fellow-creatures that fire has over materials cast upon it – they impart their energy, even though it be for self-destruction, to all around. There are others, and among such was Condorcet, of great but regulated enthusiasm of soul; – which enthusiasm, derived from abstract principles and founded on severe reason, is more steady, more disinterested, / and more enduring than that springing from passion; but it exercises little immediate influence over others, and is acknowledged and appreciated only in hours of calm. Amidst the tempest of political struggles it is passed by as timid, cold, and impotent. A philosopher of this sort was destined to have great influence at the commencement of the French Revolution, while men acted from a sense of right and a virtuous desire to found the changes they brought about on reason, justice, and the good of mankind. His integrity caused him to be respected, and his powers of mind to receive attention. He anticipated change, and had contributed to it by spreading abroad his opinions for the enfranchisement of the French people from the laws and customs that ground them to the earth. When the ferment began he assisted in directing it by his writings, and assembled at his house the most distinguished men of the liberal party. He was now no longer a young man. Habit had confirmed all his opinions, while mature years imparted that calm which caused him to see clearly and act firmly, but without precipitation or violence. On the convocation of the states general, he wrote a declaration of the rights of man, to serve as a guide and model to the future legislators of his country.b He caused it to be translated into English by Dr. Gems, and brought it out as the work of an American. When the states general met, he became more and more absorbed by the political state of his country. He did not make one of the assembly; but the influence from without was of vast importance, not only to inspire the members with energy and constancy, but to daunt the court and the nobles, who scarcely understood and longed to spurn the claimants of a power of which they had long held possession, while they misused it to the ruin first of their country and then of themselves. Condorcet wrote a refutation of an address presented in favour of the court and the privileged orders, and demanded a partial confiscation of church property to pay the a Cited in BUP and Notice, p. 56. Mary Shelley’s reflections may involve some oblique selfalignment of her temperament with Condorcet’s; she was described as a ‘torrent of fire under a Hecla snow’ (Leigh Hunt to Vincent Novello (c. 1823), quoted in Miranda Seymour, Mary Shelley (London: John Murray, 2000), p. 324); cf. ‘The hottest fire is […] that which is close pent up in the recesses of the heart’ (Godwin, Essay on Sepulchres (1809), in Godwin, Political and Philosophical Writings (Pickering & Chatto, 1993), vol. 6, p. 21 [p. 73n.]). b In November 1787 Louis XIV agreed to summon the traditional representative body of the nation, the Estates-General, which had not met since 1614, in order to strengthen confidence in the monarchy and mobilise support for tax reform. A bilingual edition of Condorcet’s Déclaration des droits (London [?for Paris], 1789) gives Filippo Mazzei, ‘citizen of Virginia’, as author. Dr Gems: unidentified.

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national debt.a He published / a pamphlet, entitled “On what has been done, and what remains to do,” full of clear and useful views for the future.b He thus became a portion of the revolution, and allied himself with its more illustrious chiefs, who afterwards formed the girondist party,c – a sect which was republican in heart, but which would have been satisfied with a limited monarchy, could they have depended on the fidelity of the king to the constitution. The chief object of Condorcet’s attacks was the church. He was an infidel, and believed philosophy to be a better guide than religion both for states and individuals; besides this, he looked on the French clergy as a peculiarly obnoxious priesthood. The quarrels of the molinists and jansenists, – the extermination of the huguenots, – the war they carried on against all knowledge and freedom, – made him ardently desire to limit their power within strict bounds, and he was eager to lessen their wealth, as the first sure step towards decreasing their influence.d On every occasion he came forward to enlighten and guide the decisions of the assembly by his published arguments. He discussed the injury to arise from a division of the legislative power into two chambers, and showed great sagacity when he demonstrated the evils attendant on the system of assignats.e The weakness of the unfortunate king, who yielded to the new state of things only on compulsion, and turned his eyes towards the emigrants and foreign potentates as deliverers, still hoping for a restoration to absolute power, caused the moderate party of girondists to abandon the cause of royalty altogether, and to believe that there was no possibility of confirming the blessings which they believed that their country reaped from the revolution, nor of protecting the nation from invasion, and the re-establishment of absolutism armed with foreign soldiers for the execution of vengeance, except in the dethronement of the king and erection of a republic. The flight of Louis to Varennesf put the / seal of cona The political crisis in France had been precipitated by the monarchy’s chronic indebtedness and failure to borrow except on expensive short-term credit. A sale of church lands was implemented in 1790. b BUP, vol. I, p. 1060 or Notice, pp. 30–1. c The Girondins were a grouping in the Legislative Assembly and then in the Convention, so called because some of them came from the Gironde region around Bordeaux; see ‘Madame Roland’. They differed from the Jacobins (who were to supplant them) over war against the emigrés, the trial and execution of the king, and the centralising tendencies of the Jacobins after the declaration of a republic in August 1792. d For the religious controversies alluded to here, see ‘Pascal’ and ‘Fénélon’. The view of Voltaire, D’Alembert and Condorcet that the Church, which played a large part in the state’s censorship of publications, was bigoted and obscurantist, is central to Mary Shelley’s understanding of the Emlightenment. e Notice, pp. 31–2. Assignats were a kind of paper money issued during the period 1789–96 in the form of mortgage bonds on land owned by the crown or confiscated from the Church. Assigned to creditors of the state, they conferred the right to buy such land. At first they succeeded in their primary aim, i.e., to raise money for the state, but successive revolutionary governments debased the currency by over-issue and they rapidly lost value. f On 20 June 1791 the royal family was arrested at Varennes, near the eastern French border, attempting to link with the emigrés and restore the pre-revolutionary status quo. Attempts were nevertheless made for another year to salvage Louis XVI’s reputation and persist with creating a limited, English-style monarchy.

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viction on these opinions. It was believed that he fled only to return with the Austriansa and the emigrants, armed to exterminate the friends of liberty. Condorcet pronounced on this occasion a violent speech against monarchy, and followed up his attack by a series of bitter articles in a paper called “The Republican.”b His popularity increased greatly through this course. He was designated by the jacobins as governor of the dauphin,c but Louis refused to ratify the nomination. He was also appointed commissioner of the treasury; which, at his desire, changed its name to the national instead of the royal treasury; and he was elected member of the new representative assembly by the electors of the city of Paris itself.d He drew up the article of “The National Assembly” in the “Chronicle,” on this occasion, to enlighten his colleagues on the state of the nation, and the measures proper to be taken for its security.e In all his speeches and projected decrees he mingled the most determined opposition to such acts and establishments as he believed to be hostile to the liberty of his country, with mildness and justice towards individuals. Thus, on the 25th of October, he made a speech on the subject of emigration, which at the time that it was delivered excited the warmest applause, and the printing of it was voted. In this discourse, he drew a line between the emigrants who left their country for the sake merely of withdrawing from the political disturbances, and those who entertained the nefarious project of exciting foreign powers to invade France, and meditated carrying arms themselves against their countrymen. He denounced the connivance of the court with the intrigues at Coblentz.f He showed the necessity of firm measures, and asserted that an unasked pardon held out to the emigrants gave birth to contempt merely among the haughty nobles who expected a speedy triumph over a class of men whom they despised. A few days after, the mountain partyg attacked his purposed decree as insufficient and feeble, and it was abandoned. / This alliance with foreign governments and the complicity of the court with the emigrants, roused a spirit in France, at first noble and heroic, till, led away by base and sanguinary men, grandeur of purpose merged into ferocity, and heroism became a thirst of blood such as mankind had never displayed before towards men a Queen Marie Antoinette of France was sister to the Habsburg rulers of Austria and its associated territories, which declared war on France in April 1792. b BUP, vol. I, p. 1060 or Notice, pp. 37–8. c Louis, son and heir of Louis XVI (1785–95), imprisoned along with his family in 1792. d The 1791 Constitution created a new representative body, called the Convention. e The Chronique de Paris ran from 1789–93, adopting a Girondin platform from 1791 (BUP, p. 1060 or Notice, pp. 39–40). f BUP, vol. I, p. 1060. Emigré French forces commanded by Louis XVI’s brother Charles, duc d’Artois, had their headquarters at the fortress-city of Coblentz (Koblenz) on the Rhine. g The group of deputies sitting high up on benches near the wall first of the Legislative Assembly and then its successor, the Convention, were nicknamed the Mountain (les Montagnards). They sharply differed from the Girondins and had a firm power base in the Jacobin club. They provided the radical leaders, including Robespierre, who inaugurated the Reign of Terror (see next page) (BUP, vol. I, p. 1060).

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of the same colour and language as themselves, and can be compared only to the conduct of the Spaniards in the newly discovered world.a But the first burst of generous indignation against the traitors who carried arms against their country, and the crowned foes who denounced the actual government of France as rebellious, to be punished by the devastation and subjection of the nation, found an echo in every patriotic heart not misled by enthusiasm for royalty. On the 27th of December Vergniaudb proposed an address to the French people, which was greatly applauded though not adopted. Two days after Condorcet presented his declaration, which was received with triumphant and unanimous acclamations. This declaration is dignified and firm, and shows the just as well as generous spirit which animated the greater portion of the assembly, till the panic engendered by the advance of the armies threw the power into the hands of the ferocious minority. “At the moment when, for the first time since the acquirement of liberty,” – thus ran his manifesto, – “the French people may find themselves reduced to exercise the terrible right of war, her representatives owe to Europe and to all humanity a declaration of the motives that have guided the resolutions of France, and an exposition of the principles that will rule their conduct. The French nation renounces the entering on any war with a view of making conquests, and will never employ her force against the liberty of any country. Such is the sacred vow by which we have allied our welfare to the welfare of every other nation, and to which we will be faithful. France will take up arms with regret but with ardour, to insure her own safety, her internal tranquillity; and / will lay them down with joy when she no longer fears for that liberty and equality which are become the only elements in which Frenchmen can live.” When, soon after, the country seemed menaced by civil war, the departments regarding with fear and jealousy the proceedings in Paris, Condorcet again ascended the tribune to propose an exposition of their conduct, as due, not to the calumniators of the revolution, but to those timid and mistaken men, who, at a great distance, were led astray by false and fabricated accounts. He then read an address which contained the history of the labours of the assembly and an exposition of its principles. The address was voted by acclamation, and ordered to be printed and distributed in the departments.c The integrity of Condorcet raised him high in the esteem of his countrymen; as springing from the class of nobles, his disinterestedness could not be doubted. He loved his country, he loved reason and knowledge, and virtuous conduct and a Alluding to the atrocities committed against the indigenous Americans by Spanish conquistadores and to the Reign of Terror, a period during which a policy of denunciation, summary trial and execution, against those deemed non-patriots within France, was introduced by Robespierre and other Montagnards. b Pierre-Victurnien Vergniaud (1753–93), a disciple of Turgot and a Girondist who became increasingly outspoken in criticism of the Montagnards, guillotined in Oct. 1793. c The address, ‘Déclaration de l’Assemblée nationale’ was sent to all the administrative districts or départements into which France had been divided since Feb. 1790. Paragraph, including quotation, from BUP, vol. 1, pp. 1060–1.

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benevolent sentiments. He was, with all this, a determined republican. His favourite theory being the perfectibility of mankind, he rejected that view of human nature which inculcates the necessity of ruling the many by the few, and sinking the majority of his fellow-creatures in ignorance and hard labour; he wished all to be enlightened as to their duties, and all to tend equally to the improvement of their intellectual and moral nature. These theories, if they be mistaken, emanate from benevolent and just feelings. They made him a democrat, because the very corner-stone of royalty and aristocracy is the setting apart a class of men to possess the better gifts of fortune and education, and the reduction of the rest to a state of intellectual dependence and physical necessity. When the king exercised his veto,a and put a stop to the measures considered necessary by the assembly for the safety of France, Condorcet, even as early as the month of March, represented the monarchical power as at open war with the nation, and proposed that the / king should be considered as having abdicated. His view met with few co-operators at that crisis, and was set aside. He busied himself, at the same time, in forming a plan of national education, and brought forward a system on a more philosophical and comprehensive scale than had hitherto been meditated. It was his design to secure to the human race, to use his own expressions, the means of satisfying their necessities, and securing their welfare; of knowing and exercising their rights, and of understanding and fulfilling their duties; giving scope to all to carry their industry to a state of perfection, and to render themselves capable of the social functions which they were called upon to exert; to develope to their extent the talents given them by nature; and thus to establish in the nation a real equality, so to meet the political equality established by law. The system of instruction which was to realise so blessed a state of society he considered as properly placed in the hands of government. He looked forward, indeed, to the time when public establishments for education would become superfluous and even detrimental; but this would only be when right reason prevailed, and it was no longer necessary for the wiser few to labour to destroy the prejudices and mistakes of the ignorant many; when superstition should be no more; and when each man should find in his own knowledge, and in the rectitude of his mind, arms sufficient to combat every species of imposition. Condorcet looked on virtue as capable of exact demonstration, as conducive to public and individual happiness, and on man as a sufficiently reasonable being to follow its dictates, if sufficiently enlightened, without the aid of religion or the coercion of punishment. He regarded the passions as capable of being controlled by the understanding. He, benevolent and conscientious, practising no vice, carefully extirpating from his mind all that he believed to be error, was to himself a mirror in which the whole human race was reflected. / Also, like all the French a The king’s insistence on his right of veto precipitated the breakdown of a working relationship between himself and the Legislative Assembly. This paragraph is based on BUP, vol. 1, p. 1061.

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politicians of that day, he wished to treat mankind like puppets, and fancied that it was only necessary to pull particular strings to draw them within the circle of order and reason. We none of us know the laws of our nature; and there can be little doubt that, if philosophers like Condorcet did educate their fellows into some approximation to their rule of right, the ardent feelings and burning imaginations of man would create something now unthought of, but not less different from the results he expected, than the series of sin and sorrow which now desolates the world. It is not for this that we would throw a slur over the upright endeavours of the pious and the good to improve their fellows; but we do over any endeavour of government to bind the intellect in chains.a It was, therefore, in some degree, for the best, that his views were not followed out. When his plan for national education and a national society of arts and sciences, charged with the duty of overlooking and directing public instruction, – for the purpose not only of enlightening the present generation, but of preparing the human species for an indefinite advance in wisdom and virtue, – when this plan was presented by the chief Girondists to the court, a friend of Condorcet, struck with dismay at the degree of power that would accrue to the rulers, said, “If they adopt your plan, our freedom is destroyed.” “Fear nothing,” replied Condorcet, “ignorance and vanity will make them reject it.”b Unfortunately, the treaty carried on by the Girondists with the court on this occasion injured their popularity. The French were at a crisis that demanded that their rulers should think only of measures and acts adapted to it. The mountain party felt this, and acted for the day, and thus succeeded in overthrowing their rivals, who philosophically and calmly legislated for future generations, while their single object ought to have been to save the living one from the foreign foe and their own evil passions. / The manifesto of the duke of Brunswickc was the first cause of the madness which was soon to make France an example of the crimes that may be committed by a people in the name of liberty. When first this manifesto spread indignation and fear through France, Condorcet made himself conspicuous by a speech proposing an address to the king to express the discontent of the assembly at his lukewarm disapprobation of the actions of the emigrants, and his want of energy in repulsing the offers of foreign potentates to deliver him from the hands of his subjects and the shackles of the constitution which he had accepted. The subsequent dethronement of the king and establishment of a republic were events after his own heart. A commission had been named, during the first days of August, to examine the question of the abolition of monarchy, and Condorcet was named a

Here Mary Shelley expresses her Godwinian distrust of state centralism, however benevolently intended. b BUP, vol. I, p. 1061. c Charles William Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, was Commander-in-Chief of the Prussian forces in 1792. His manifesto of July 1792 threatened death to all National Guardsmen and citizens opposing the advance of the allied Austrian, Prussian, and other troops opposing the revolution, and exemplary violence against Paris if the royal family was harmed.

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reporter. He considered it, in the first place, necessary to explain to the people the grounds on which he went, and drew up a paper which he called “Instruction préparatoire sur l’Exercise du Droit de Souvraineté;”a in which he expounded, that as foreign potentates had denounced every Frenchman who defended the liberties of his country as rebels to be punished by death, and as the monarch treacherously weakened their powers of defence against the foe, so was it right and necessary that the nation should take the sovereignty into their own hands. When the events of the 10th of Augustb had sealed the fate of the unhappy Louis, Condorcet proposed a declaration of the motives that led to his being set aside, which, while it strongly accused the monarch and his court of betraying the cause of the people, was animated by a spirit of fairness, moderation, and dignity, that did honour to the cause which he espoused. Condorcet’s popularity was now at its height and he was courted even by the jacobins and the mountain party. He was invited by several departments to represent them in the new convention.c Madame Roland accuses him of pusillanimity: perhaps her accusation is partly / founded on the fact that at this moment of fierce rivalship and strife between the Girondists and Mountain, he rather strove to conciliate the latter than to drive the struggle to extremities.d He had a high esteem for the talents of Danton,e and often remarked, with regard to the jacobins, that it were better to moderate than to quarrel with them. He was named at this time one of the committee to draw up a constitution, and his labours were chiefly employed on this object. Looking upon the king as the treacherous enemy of the new state of things in France, and therefore, according to his reasoning, of France itself, he did not hesitate to name Louis a traitor during the debate that followed the monarch’s trial; but he did not vote for his death. “All different degrees of punishment for the same offence,” he argued, “was an offence against equality. The punishment of conspirators is death; but this punishment is contrary to my principles, and I will never vote it. I cannot vote for imprisonment, for no law gives me the power; I a

‘Preparatory instructions for the exercise of sovereign rights’; the rest of this paragraph follows BUP, vol. I, p. 1062. b The monarchy was suspended (a prelude to its abolition) by the Legislative Assembly after the storming of the Tuileries by violent demonstrations, instigated in part by the Jacobins, who were both a political club and a grouping within the various representative bodies. The club, founded in 1789 and nicknamed the Jacobin club because it met in a former Jacobin monastery, had branches throughout the provinces and acted as a parliamentary pressure group for radical opinion. Leaders included Barnave, Lameth, Pétion and Robespierre. By Aug. 1792, the club had become dominated by the even more radical Parisian politicians and Robespierre (see p. 379 note b) came into even greater prominence. c The new representative body created by the 1791 Constitution. d Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, p. 193. e Georges-Jacques Danton (1759–94) was a lawyer by training. He gained a following among the revolutionary artisans in 1789 before joining the Jacobins in 1791. He was involved in the fall of the monarchy, and disliked by most Girondins for his emigré links and his corruption.

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vote for the heaviest punishment established in the penal code that is not death.”a He afterwards voted for the reprieve for the king until the peace; but the struggle of the Girondists to save the monarch’s life was, as is known, useless. In drawing up a constitution the philosopher thought more of future generations than the present: he considered France as ground cleared of all encumbrance, on which to raise an edifice of government designed in strict accordance to justice and the permanent welfare of mankind: to continue the metaphor, he gave no heed to the more than inequalities of soil, – the gulfs and chasms produced by the earthquake-revolution. His report of the labours of the committee, together with the speech he made on presenting it, was, however, received at first with acclamation, and ordered to be printed. The jacobins disapproved tacitly in the commencement, but by degrees they raised accusations against Condorcet on account of the limited power / which he committed to the people. Underhand disapprobation was spread abroad, but did not become so current, but that the committee of public safetyb applied to him to draw up a manifesto, which the convention wished to address to every nation and government, with regard to the violation of the law of nations in the persons of four deputies delivered up by Dumouriez to the Austrians: they admired him as a writer, and believed that their cause would be eloquently and well defended by his pen. He wrote with great fervour both against Lafayette and Dumouriez, as having betrayed the cause of their country, and appealed against the conduct of Austria to the interests and sense of justice of every free country.c Even on the approach of the 31st of May,d notwithstanding his intimacy with Roland and other Girondists on whom the Mountain party were about to seize, Condorcet continued to be consulted and employed by the committee of public safety. Those of the girondists who, foreseeing the anarchy that must ensue from a

BUP, vol. I, p. 1063. Most Girondins wanted the king put on trial but did oppose his execution on 21 Jan. 1793. b From Apr. 1793 until Aug. 1794, executive power was strongly concentrated in the notorious Committee of Public Safety, which was responsible for the excesses of the Reign of Terror. c BUP, vol. I, p. 1063. Marie-Joseph-Paul-Roch-Yves-Gilbert Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (1757–1834), liberal aristocrat, hero of the American War of Independence, and constitutional monarchist. An early advocate of reform and the commander of the Paris National Guard, he lost popularity after the king’s flight to Varennes. He tried to rally the army against the Jacobins and defected to the Austrians, who imprisoned him until 1797. Mary Shelley, who met him in 1827, was an admirer, describing him as the ‘hero of three Revolutions’ (see MWSL, II, pp. 39n., 114n., 117, 124). Charles-François du Périer Dumouriez (also spelled Dumourier; 1739–1823) was a career soldier who at first welcomed the revolution, associated with reforming nobles such as Mirabeau, and joined the Jacobin club. He became Foreign Minister in Mar. 1792 and was dismissed from the ministry with other Girondins in June, when he resumed his army career, winning the crucially important victories at Valmy and Jémappes. By Apr. 1793 he defected, tried to march on Paris to restore the monarchy, then emigrated. Four deputies, including Bancal (see p. 441n. in ‘Madame Roland’), were arrested and held by the Austrian forces when he defected. d On 31 May popular demand began for the purge of Girondist deputies from the Convention, which followed on 2 June.

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the triumph of the jacobins, considered their overthrow of more immediate importance than the repulsing the foe from the soil of France, disapproved of Condorcet’s working for their enemies: he kept apart from both, while he laboured for the cause of the republic, and remarked that his friends were offended because he did not break with the committee of public safety; and the committee, on the other hand, desired that he should refrain from all intercourse with his friends. “I endeavour,” he added, “that each party shall think less of itself and a great deal more of the commonwealth.”a He began to perceive, however, that it was impossible any longer to use measures of conciliation with Robespierre,b but he hoped to restrain him by fear: the latter, however, triumphed. The 31st of May brought with it the decree of arrest of twenty-two Girondists: Condorcet was not among them. He might by silence and prudence have continued for some time longer to sit in the convention; but he saw with indignation the empty benches on which his friends / used to appear, and the growing power of a ferocious oligarchy. He denounced the weakness of the convention, and the tyranny exercised over it by a few ambitious and resolute men, in a letter to his constituents, which was denounced and sent for examination to the committee of public safety. From this moment the jacobins marked him out also for a victim; and the ex-capuchin Chabotc denounced him for having written against the new constitution of 1793, which superseded the one he had drawn up: he was summoned to the bar, and a decree of arrest passed against him. The sanguinary characters and tenets of the leading jacobins had already made him say that no one was sure of six months of life, and he considered the decree of arrest synonymous to a sentence of death.d He escaped pursuit, and concealed himself. A generous woman, before unknown to him, and who has never revealed her name to the world, gave him refuge in her house. Denounced on the 3d of October, as Brissot’se accomplice, there was no doubt that had he been taken he had shared the fate of the deputies who were guillotined in the month of November; but his place of concealment was not suspected, and he remained in safety till the August of the following year. During this long seclusion, he projected occupation in writing. At first, he meditated detailing the history of his political career; but he reflected that his many labours for his country were irrefragable a

BUP, vol. I, p. 1063, or Notice, p. 58. Maximilien-François-Isidore Robespierre (1758–94), lawyer from Arras and deputy in the Estates-General who quickly became known for his democratic views. He was behind the Aug. 1792 declaration of the republic and emerged as a strong opponent of Girondin policy toward the war and a strong supporter of the trial and execution of the king. He became a leading member of the Committee of Public Safety, but in July 1794 he was denounced and guillotined. c François Chabot (1756–94), dissolute former Capuchin priest and later Radical republican; executed partly because of his involvement in a financial swindle. d This remark, and the account of Condorcet’s arrest, are taken from Roland, Memoires, p. 190. The ‘generous woman’ of the next sentence was later in the 19th century identified as a Mme Vernet. e Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville (1754–93); see ‘Madame Roland’, p. 441. b

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documents; and, more attached to opinions which he considered pregnant with the welfare of mankind, than to facts which were but the evanescent forms of change, he applied himself to developing his theories in an “Historical Sketch of the Progress of the Human Mind.”a This is his most celebrated work. It is full of error and even of intolerance; still the clearness of the views, the enthusiasm with which he developes them, the order, precision, and the originality of his theories, render it remarkable. He glances over the past, and argues that each succeeding epoch in the history of mankind has brought / moral improvement and increase of knowledge. There are two views to be taken of human nature. Condorcet insists that the moderns have more knowledge and wisdom and moral power than the ancients. He founds this opinion on the great progress made in scientific truths, and does not hesitate also to oppose French literature to the Greek, as demonstrating the advance of the human intellect in every branch. He compares also the states, wars, and crimes of antiquity with modern society and institutions, and deduces that we are more virtuous, more humane, and more reasonable than preceding generations. No greater poet has appeared since Homer composed the Iliad, – no more acute philosopher than Aristotle, – no more virtuous character than Socrates, nor sublimer hero than Regulus. By standing on ground reached by the ancients, the mass may climb higher than the masses that went before; but, in making progress, we do not develope more genius and sagacity, but rather less, than those who prepared our way. It is to be doubted, therefore, whether mankind can progress so as to produce specimens superior to Homer, Aristotle, Socrates, Regulus,b and many others who adorned antiquity. But it cannot be doubted, on the other hand, that progress has been made in the general diffusion of knowledge and in the amelioration of the state of society. Philosophers ought, therefore, not to dream of removing the bounds of human perfection, such as we find it among the best, but in bringing the many up to the standard of the few, and causing nations to understand and aim at wisdom and justice with the same ardour as individuals among them have been found to do. Condorcet developed his views of human perfection while the principle of evil was making giant inroads in France, and blood and terror were the order of the a

Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrès de l’esprit humain (1795). An important text for both Godwin and P. B. Shelley, on whose concept of progress it had a profound effect. Godwin cites it in his revisions to the second (1796) and third edition of Political Justice; P. B. Shelley, who ordered Condorcet’s works in French in 1812 (PBSL, I, p. 345), cites it in a Note to Queen Mab (1813). Both used Condorcet to support their hopes that the average span of human life might gradually be indefinitely prolonged through the elimination of disease, something which Mary Shelley tactfully refrains from mentioning here. b Marcus Atilius Regulus, Roman Consul in 265 and 256 BC , commander in the 1st Punic War. Captured by the Carthaginians, he was sent to Rome to negotiate peace terms but persuaded the senate to reject those offered. Keeping his oath to the Carthaginians to return if the terms were rejected, he was tortured to death. He was admired for his patriotism, courage and fidelity to his sworn word.

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day. Separated from all dear to him, his wife and child, and not daring himself to see the light of heaven, / he did not lose the cheerfulness of his temper, nor mourn vainly over his disasters. In this situation, he wrote an epistle to his wife in the character of a Pole exiled to Siberia in 1768. In this are to be found a couplet since often quoted relative to political victims, – “Ils m’ont dit, ‘Choisis d’être oppresseur ou victime;’ J’embrassai le malheur, et leur laissai le crime.”a

A couplet peculiarly applicable to him who would have been gladly received by the violent party, and had the way open to him to rule, instead of being sacrificed as a victim. He declares in this poem that the anticipation of a violent death did not alter the serenity of his soul, and speaks of the occupations that banished ennui from his solitary place of refuge. He was soon to lose this shelter: a newspaper fell into his hands in which he read the decree that outlawed him, and denounced the pain of death against any one who should harbour one of the proscribed. He instantly resolved no longer to endanger his generous hostess, – she endeavoured to dissuade him from this fatal step, but in vain: he disguised himself as a countryman, and passed the barriers without a passport. He directed his steps to Sceaux,b where he hoped to find refuge in the house of a friend; but he was absent in Paris, nor expected back for three days, and Condorcet was obliged to hide in the neighbouring quarries. After several days spent miserably in this spot, hunger forced him to enter the little inn of Chamont.c The avidity with which he ate the food placed before him, and his squalid appearance, drew the attention of a member of the committee of public safety of Sceaux, who happened to be present. He was asked for his passport, and, not having one, was arrested and interrogated. No ready lie hung on the lips of the worshipper of truth, and his unsatisfactory answers, and a Horace found in his pocket with marginal notes in pencil, contributed to reveal his name. He was taken / to Bourg-la-Reine. Such was his state of exhaustion that he fainted at Chatillon, and it was found necessary to mount him on a vine-dresser’s horse. On his arrival at Bourg, he was thrown into a dungeon, and forgotten by the jailor for the space of twenty-four hours, when he was found dead; some suppose from the effects of poison; but the probabilities are that he died of exhaustion, hunger, and cold.d The accusation against Condorcet, found in madame Roland’s memoirs, where she speaks of his cowardice, cannot be passed over, though we do not give it absolute credence. Her asperity is not measured, though she speaks highly of his intellect. “It may be said,” she remarks, “of his understanding and his person that a

‘They told me, “Choose between being oppressor or victim”: I embraced misfortune and left crime to them’ (BUP, p. 1064; also cited in J.-B. Sarret, Observations pour les instituteurs sur les élémens d’arithmétique précédées d’une notice sur la vie de Condorcet pendant sa proscription (Paris: Didot & Deternlie, 1799)). b Small cathedral town near Paris. c Sarret (see above) and BM (p. 299) say the village was Clomart. d BM, p. 300, and BUP, p. 1064.

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it is a fine essence absorbed in cotton. The timidity that forms the basis of his character, and which he displays even in society, in his countenance and attitudes, does not result from his frame alone, but seems inherent in his soul, and his talents have furnished him with no means of subduing it.” There must be both misapprehension and exaggeration in this picture. We find no pusillanimity in his last acts or writings. When he might have saved himself among the Mountain party, he chose to share the fate of the proscribed Girondists. This conduct could spring only from conscientious and noble motives, and a courageous spirit. His numerous political labours give no sign of lukewarmness or tergiversation. They are clear, fervent, and bold with regard to those principles which he held dear. If not profound, nor endowed with the highest order of genius, yet his erudition, ready talent for argument, and admirable memory, give him a high place among men of talent. As a politician, his unflinching war against royalty and aristocracy place him among those politicians who look on mankind as a species, and legislate for them as an equal whole, instead of dividing them into ranks and tribes. His benevolence made him the enemy of oppression, and he expressed this when / he exclaimed, “Peace with cottages, war on castles!”a which, had it comprised the history of revolution, the history of France were not stained with its darkest pages. The sans-culottesb did not spare cottages: they made war on all who were not as ferocious as themselves: Condorcet was among the victims. Benevolence, justice, and attachment to the cause of freedom, remained warm in his heart to the end. Not long before his death, anticipating the speedy close of his existence, he put on paper his last wishes with regard to his daughter. He desired that she should be educated in republican simplicity, and taught to crush every feeling of vengeance towards his destroyers. “Let her know,” he wrote, “that none ever entered my heart.”c His wife was a woman of great beauty, merit, and talent, and was the author of some philosophical works. She was thrown into prison by Robespierre, but escaped the guillotine, and did not die till 1822, having lived many years in Paris, surrounded by the remnants of the French republicans and philosophers of 1793. His daughter was distinguished for her unpretending virtues and accomplished mind. She became the wife of the celebrated Arthur O’Connor.d / a

BM, p. 300. Term given to the revolutionary and increasingly radical small property owners and artisans in Paris, who did not wear the breeches signifying gentlemanly status. c BUP, p. 1064. d Sophie de Grouchy (1766–1822) was the sister of a marshal of France. She learnt English to assist Condorcet in his scientific work, and published translations of the philosopher David Hume. She co-edited the first collected works of Condorcet in 1804. Alexandrine-LouiseSophie, always known as Elisa (1790–1859), married Arthur O’Connor (1766–1852). He was celebrated chiefly as an Irish republican rebel general and associate of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, taking part in rebellion of 1798. He was captured, released and later took service with Napoleon. After the war he became a naturalised Frenchman and added his wife’s surname to his own. b

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MIRABEAU. 1749–1791. I T is impossible to imagine a greater contrast of character than that between the subject of the preceding memoir and the present. Condorcet was a man of warm affections, well regulated mind, and clear precise understanding; his enthusiasm was lighted up by benevolence, and the love of that which he considered truth. He was timid, yet firm; mild, yet resolute. Mirabeau resembled his Italian ancestors, rather than the usual French character. His violent passions governed him, and caused him to govern others through his earnestness and vehemence. His intellect showed itself rather in eloquent bursts than in works of reason, and yet he could apply himself more sedulously than almost any other man when he had an object in view. Profligate, extravagant, and proud, ardent and ambitious, with a warm kind heart, and a mind which erred only under the influence of passion, he passed a life of adversity and oppression, to die at the moment he reached a degree of power which is allotted to few men not born to its inheritance. The family and progenitors of Mirabeau were all remarkable. He left, in manuscript, a sketch of the family history,a and a more detailed life of his grandfather, in which we find singularly displayed the energy, iron will, and pride of the race. The name they originally bore was Arrighetti; the family was Florentine, and driven from that city in 1268, during one of the revolutions occasioned by the quarrels of the Guelphs and Ghibelines.b A sentence of perpetual exile was pronounced against Azzo Arrighetti and his descendants, / and Azzo took refuge, as many other ghibelines had done, in Provence; and the name of Riquetti is found on various occasions in the history of Marseilles.c Those who bore it played at all times a foremost and bold part: they were eagle-eyed men, fierce and headstrong, yet discerning. During the war of the fronde the family was royalist, and was rewarded by a patent of Louis XIV., which erected their estate of Mirabeau into a marquisate. Jean Antoine, grandfather of the subject of this memoir, was one of five sons, who all ran an eccentric, bold, and active career. He passed his younger days in the army, and went through many hairbreadth perils and incredible a

Included in Montigny, vol. I, pp. 56–189. Labels for supporters respectively of civic autonomy and of the Holy Roman Emperor in medieval Italian political struggles. Mary Shelley follows Montigny, vol. I, p. 8. c Provence is the SE region of France; in Azzo’s time it was an independent kingdom, with Marseilles its most important port. b

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adventures. The last campaign in which he served was that of the duke de Vendôme, in Italy. He performed prodigies of valour in the battle of Cassano, and was left for dead on the field. Found by the enemy with some slight signs of life, prince Eugene, who knew and esteemed him, sent him, without ransom, to the French camp, that the operation necessary for his preservation might not be delayed. His life was saved, but he survived frightfully mutilated, and a martyr to severe physical suffering to the end of his life. He returned home to find his fortune dilapidated, but never to lose that intrepidity and pride that formed the foundation of the family character. He married, and found in the admirable character of his wife the reward and solace of his sufferings: she had been struck by the heroism of his character; and it is related of her, that some expressions of pity for her being the wife of a cripple, and of a man of a haughty, imperious character, having met her ear, she exclaimed, “Ah! if you knew how happy one is to be able to respect one’s husband.” He was an admirable landlord and a careful father; and his family flourished under his superintendence, till implicated, through the imprudence of his wife’s brother, in the system of Law, he was ruined on the breaking of the bubble. From that time he lived in retirement, bending all his efforts to the paying his debts and repairing his fortune. He died in 1737, at the age of / seventy-one, feared yet beloved by all in connexion with him.a He left three sons: Victor, the eldest, succeeded to the honours and possessions of the house. This man was a strange mixture of good intention and evil doing; – a general philanthropist, and yet the persecutor and enemy of his own family; against various members of which he obtained, at different times, fiftyseven lettres de cachet, nearly a score of which were levelled against his eldest son. He had more vanity than pride, and his haughtiness was unaccompanied by a spirit of justice, yet joined to a perfect conviction that he was always in the right. Implacable towards others, indulgent with regard to himself: hence spring the contradictions observable in his character; we find displayed a mixture of sternness and softness, rancour and good humour. Had he been as severe with himself as others, his whole character had been rigid, but he would have been more just and virtuous: as it was, we find him plastic to the influence of his own passions or vanity, and become gentle and even playful under their influence: whatever jarred with these found him despotic and unforgiving. Thus he grew into a domestic tyrant, and while he ran after popularity in his own person, he disdained and crushed the talents of his son. His literary reputation did not begin till he had passed mid-life; it was founded on “L’Ami des Hommes,” a work in five volumes, a

The Italian campaign was part of the War of the Austrian Succession (1702–13). At Cassano, near Milan, the French scored a decisive victory against superior odds (1705); Eugène, Prince of Savoy (1663–1736), was the leading general of the Austrian Habsburgs. John Law, a Scottish financier and gambler, founded a bank in France in 1716 to take advantage of trade in its American colonies. This created an unfounded investment boom or ‘bubble’ which collapsed spectacularly in 1720. For this paragraph, Mary Shelley follows Montigny, vol. I, pp. 132, 138n., 165–6, 179–80, and 184–5, including quotations.

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which, in the midst of great diffuseness and confusion, is yet remarkable for the knowledge it displays in agriculture and statistics, and for many clear and liberal views. His “Theorie de l’Impôt,” published in 1760, caused him, through his attack on the financiers of the day, to be imprisoned in the fortress of Vincennes.a He wrote many other works on the same species of subjects. It is a curious circumstance that, while he adopted in his publications a bad, inflated, and obscure style, his private letters are witty, gay, and flowing. He had, of course, served in his youth; but disappointment with regard to promotion, combined with his desire / to acquire a literary reputation, caused him to quit the army. He married a young widow of good birth and fortune, Marie Genevieve de Vassam, who had been previously married to the marquis de Saulvebeuf. His desire of shining in literature made him approach Paris, and he bought the estate of Bignon, not far from Nemours,b and gave himself up to what he considered his vocation. For many years the disturbances of his domestic life were confined under his own roof. He had a family of eleven children: he was passionately attached to his mother, whom he regarded with a filial veneration that belonged to the old school of manners and piety. Fifteen years changed the scene; quarrels and litigations arose between him and his wife.c She was violent and indiscreet; he was tyrannical and unjust; and conjugal infidelity rendered their separation final. Madame de Pailly, a young woman of great beauty, to whom he was attached, installed herself at Bignon, and exercised a most powerful and sinister influence over his conduct towards his family. His wife was indignant: he replied to her resentful representations by the most odious acts of despotism, and conceived a violent hatred against the mother of his children. A scandalous lawsuit was the result; the fortunes of both parties were irreparably injured; and the unfortunate offspring were in a worse situation than orphans; – hated by their father, – not daring to see their mother, who was shut up in a convent, – treated with the utmost severity on one hand, and without resource in maternal affection on the other. Added to his matrimonial dissensions were the attacks made on him in his quality of author. “L’Ami des Hommes,” as the marquis de Mirabeau was commonly called from his book, carried all the impetuosity, self-sufficiency, and haughtiness of his race into his literary career; and it may be supposed that that became as stormy as his father’s had been on the field of battle. His confidence in his own talents and powers was unbounded: he never attributed the misfortunes that / pursued him to any error or rashness of his own; he looked on them as the dispensation of Providence, or as arising from the folly and injustice of his fellow-creatures. No hesitation, no doubt with regard to himself, ever entered his mind; every thing was sacrificed to a Victor de Riqueti, marquis de Mirabeau (1715–89), pursued a military career before becoming a founder of the ‘Physiocratic’ school of economics, which stressed the importance of agriculture. L’Ami des Hommes (The Friend of Man) appeared in 1756, followed by A Theory of Taxation. b In the southern part of the Île de France, the region surrounding Paris. c The next five sentences summarise Montigny, vol. I, p. 122.

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his opinions, his convictions, his mistaken sense of his duties. He was blinded, as a French biographer observes, by the most deceptive of all fanaticisms – that of his own infallibility.a The passions that in another he would have regarded as crimes, he looked on as virtues in himself: he could never perceive the shadow of right or justice in any cause or views at variance with his own. Such was the father who became the bitter enemy and persecutor of a son, endowed with all the genius, passions, and faults of his race. Gabriel Honoré was the fifth child of the marquis: through the previous death of a brother in the cradle, he was, at the time of his birth, the only son. He was born at Bignon. He came into the world with teeth, and was an enormously large infant. It was remarked of him, that, destined to become the most turbulent and active of men, he was born with a twisted foot; and, gifted with extraordinary eloquence, he was tongue-tied. At three years of age he had the small-pox, and his mother, who dabbled in medicine, making some experiments on the pustules, the result was that he remained frightfully seared and marked. His father was evidently deeply mortified, and wrote to his brother, “Your nephew is as ugly as if he were Satan’s.”b His other children being remarkably handsome, this circumstance became more disastrous to the sufferer. The boy, however, early showed talent, which was nurtured by an excellent tutor, and less judiciously overlooked by his father, who resolved to give him an education of unequalled excellence – that is, one of perpetual restraint, reprimand, and chastisement. We have interesting details of his infancy and youth, in extracts from a series of letters which passed between the marquis and / his brother.* The bailli de Mirabeau was entered by his father into the order of knights of Maltac in his infancy. He served in the French navy for the space of thirty-one years, when he retired without recompence, except such as he derived from a high reputation. He was a proud, austere, and resolute man, possessing at the same time extreme piety, great goodness, and unblemished integrity of character, together with a foundation of good sense that contrasts with his brother’s intemperate sallies. Uncompromising even to roughness, he was ill suited to a court, while his bravery and sound understanding fitted him for public service. Proud of the antiquity of his race; openly disdainful of the * These extracts form the best part of the “Memoirs of Mirabeau,” by M. Lucas Montigny, his adopted, or, rather, his natural son, – a work of zeal and labour, but undigested, diffuse, and ill-judged. Had the author published a selection from these letters, which were placed in his hands by the family, we should have an invaluable work. As it is, we are often as much tantalised by what is omitted, as edified by what is given, of the correspondence. When the extracts from it cease, the pages of the memoirs lose all their charm and value: they degenerate into little else than extracts from newspapers, and vapid discussions by the author. a

Source unlocated. Quotation and previous remark from Montigny, vol. I, pp. 238 and 241. c A monastic and military order, founded during the Crusades, whose role was to limit Turkish control of the eastern Mediterranean. b

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new-created noblesse; frank, upright, but somewhat discontented, as he well might be, at the small reward his services received; yet at the same time too haughty to wait obsequiously on the great, or even to take the measures necessary to refresh their memory, he passed the latter part of his life in retirement. He devoted his fortune to his brother’s service, whom he respected as the head of the family, and regarded with warm fraternal affection. A correspondence subsisted between the one, living either at Paris or Bignon, and the other, who was serving his country at a distance, or established at Mirabeau, which discloses the secrets of the family, and unveils the motives and passions that swayed the conduct of the marquis. The bailli was deeply interested in the child who was to transmit the family name, and, being at the time of the boy’s birth governor of Guadaloupe, wrote earnestly home for information with regard to him.a The child early developed quickness of intellect and turbulence of temper, joined to kindness of heart. Poisson, his tutor, was a / careful but severe guide, and if ever he was softened, the marquis stepped in to chastise. Soon, too soon, the paternal scoldings and punishments became angry reprimands and constant disapprobation, which verged into hatred. These feelings were increased by the imprudences and vivacity of the boy, the misjudged quarrels of the mother, the artful manœuvres of madame de Pailly, and the bitter hatred conceived by an old servant named Gervin, who, from some unknown cause, exercised extraordinary influence over the marquis. The chief fault particularised by the father was the boy’s habitual untruths. A love of or indifference to truth is one of the characteristics with which human beings are born. The former may be cultivated, the latter checked, but the propensities do not the less remain; and it is the most painful discovery that a parent can make, to find that his child is not by natural instinct incapable of falsehood. This innate and unfortunate vice, joined to the boy’s wildness and heedlessness, caused the father to write of him in severe terms, scarcely suited to his childish years. “He seems to me,” he writes, “in addition to all the baseness of his natural character, a mere fool, an unconquerable maniac. He attends a number of excellent masters; and as every one, from his confessor to his playmate, are so many watchers, who tell me every thing, I discern the nature of the heart, and do not believe that he can come to any good.” The first master, Poisson, set over him, however, took a liking to the boy, and praised his prodigious memory and good heart. The father, instead of being pleased, grew angry. He declared that he would now be utterly spoilt, and took him out of his hands to place him in those of an abbé Choquart, a severe disciplinarian, who was bid not to spare punishment.b The severity of the marquis may be judged by this one circumstance, that taking his son from a tutor whom he loved, and placing him in a school to which he was sent as to a prison, he insisted that he should go by another name. “I did not choose,” he writes, “that an illustrious name should / be disgraced on a Guadaloupe: Caribbean island, French colony for most of the 18th century; now part of Overseas France. Biographical details are from Montigny, vol. I, pp. 199–208 and 244. b The abbé had a military pension.

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1767. Ætat. 18.

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the benches of a school of correction, and I caused him to be entered as Pierre Buffière. My gentleman struggled, wept, argued in vain. I bid him win my name, which I would only restore when he deserved it.” Had the father been just the youth would soon have regained his affections and name. The abbé Choquart, at first severe with his pupil, soon became attached to and proud of him. His progress was astonishing, his memory prodigious. The dead and living languages, mathematics, drawing, and music, and various manly exercises, occupied him by turns, and he distinguished himself in all. In the midst of the marquis’s vituperations we find no absolute facts. He calls his son lying by nature, base, and so vicious that the worst consequences are to be apprehended: this is carried so far that, when he mentions that his masters applaud and his comrades love him, he adds that the boy ought to be smothered, if it were only for his powers of cajolery and fascination.a This severity frightened but did not conquer the youth. He worked hard to obtain his father’s approbation; but indiscretions came between to widen the breach. Perpetually in expectation of some degrading or excessive punishment, he lived in a state of excitement, and even terror, ill fitted to inspire the gentleness and repose of spirit which is the best ingredient of honour and virtue. As he grew older his turbulence became more dangerous; and his father, considering it necessary to tame him by increased hardships, placed him in the army. “I am going to send him,” he writes, “as volunteer, to the strictest and most laborious military school. A man, a chip of the old times, the marquis de Lambert, has founded one in his regiment. He pretends that the exclusive atmosphere of honour, and a hard and cold moral regimen, can restore beings the most vitiated even by nature. I have requested him to name as Mentor an officer who, not from reason and deduction, but from instinct, should have a disgust and natural scorn for all baseness. I have named Gervin as his other / Mentor, and the only servant-master of this young man. Severity will cost me nothing, for with him it is my right and my duty.” The perpetual recurrence to the accusation of baseness affords some excuse for the father’s inveteracy; yet it was certainly ill judged to set a servant over a proud aspiring youth as master, and this servant, who hated him, was one of the chief engines of perpetuating the marquis’s bad opinion. However, by placing him beyond the paternal control, under the impartial jurisdiction of a regiment, the young man had a chance of being fairly treated, and the consequence was that his good conduct was acknowledged and a brevet rank promised him. He was not allowed to reap any advantage: his father kept him so wholly without money that he incurred a few debts; he lost, also, four louis in play, a vice to which he showed no predilection in after life, and we may therefore judge that this trifling loss was accidental. His father’s wrath flamed out. “He is cast,” he wrote to his brother, “in the mould of his maternal race, and would devour twenty a This paragraph draws on Montigny, vol. I, pp. 273, 276–8; the father’s last remark is untraced.

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inheritances and twelve kingdoms if he could lay his hands on them. But I can endure as little as I like of that species of evil, and a close and cool prison will soon moderate his appetite and thin him down.” Added to this error was the unfortunate circumstance of an amour, the first outbreak of his passionate nature on emerging from boyhood, in which he was the successful rival of his superior officer, who thus became his enemy, and joined with the father to crush the young man’s spirit. Mirabeau, in after years, always spoke with great bitterness of M. de Lambert’s discipline. He escaped from it on this occasion, and took refuge in Paris with his father’s intimate friend, the duke de Nivernois. His brother-in-law, husband of his sister, the marquis du Saillant, mediated between him and his father: he defended himself against accumulated accusations. His father speaks of his defence as a mass of falsehood and ingratitude: he meditated, or, rather, was instigated, to send him to the Dutch colonies in India, but milder / thoughts prevailed; – he would not kill, but only tame, as with blows, the fiery-spirited boy; so he caused him to be imprisoned in the fortress of the Isle de Rhé; and the youth felt that all the world was his enemy, and the chief his harsh implacable parent. In his eloquent letter to the marquis, written some years after, in the prison of Vincennes, he alludes with bitterness to this period of his existence.a “I may say,” he writes, “that from my earliest years, and on my first entrance into life, I enjoyed few marks of your kindness; that you treated me with rigour before I could have merited it; and yet that you might have soon perceived that my natural impetuosity was excited, instead of repressed, by such treatment; that it was as easy to soften as to irritate me; that I yielded to the former, and rebelled against the latter. I was not born to be a slave; and, in a word, that, while Lambert ruined, Vioménil would have preserved me. Allow me also to remind you, that, before you restored me to your favour, you confessed in one of your letters that you had been on the point of sending me to one of the Dutch colonies. This made a profound impression, and influenced prodigiously the rest of my life. What had I done at eighteen to merit a fate the thought of which makes me tremble even now? – I had loved.”b In his prison, Mirabeau acquired the friendship of the governor, whose mediation only added to his father’s irritation. He was, however, induced to liberate him, and permit him to join an expedition to Corsica. He was entered as sub-lieutenant of foot in the regiment of Lorraine. The same mixture of wild passion, unwearied study, and eager aspiration for distinction, marked this period. He wrote a history of Corsica; he fabricated an itinerary of the island, founded on his personal inquiries and perambulations; the manuscript, the voluminousness of a The above paragraph, and the one preceding it, including quotations, draw on Montigny, vol. I, pp. 282–3 and 288–9. Nivernois: Louis Jules Barbou Mancini-Mazarini, duc de Nivernais (1716–98), grandee, soldier, minister and man of letters. The Dutch colonies in India were the island of Ceylon (modern Sri Lanka), with other ports on the SE and SW coasts. b Montigny, vol. I, pp. 292 and 288.

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1771. Ætat. 22.

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which testified his industry, were deemed of such value by the Corsicans themselves, that they desired its publication; but it was / destroyed by the marquis. In addition, he studied his profession – he felt a vocation for a military life – the aspect of danger calmed his fiery spirit, and he was ambitious of glory – he dedicated all his time to the study of tactics, and declares that there was no book in any language, living or dead, that treated of the art of war that he had not read at this period, making, as he went on, voluminous extracts. In after times he wrote to his sister – “I deceive myself greatly, or I was born for a military life; for in war alone I feel cool, calm, gay, and without impetuosity, and I am sensible that my character grows exalted.”a On returning from Corsica, he was allowed to visit his uncle, the bailli, at Mirabeau, and soon acquired the favour of this unprejudiced man, who was astonished by his talents, his industry, and his genius. His heart warmed, and the praises that overflowed had some effect on his father, still distrustful, still fearful of showing favour. The first mark of kindness which he gave was to insist that his son should throw aside all his favourite pursuits, and dedicate himself to political and agricultural economy, studying them in the works which he had himself written. Mirabeau, per force, obeyed, and thus somewhat propitiated his parent, so that he consented to see him during a visit he paid to Provence. He put the young man to hard trials, and made him labour indefatigably, preaching to him the while, and forcing political economy down his throat.b The marquis was averse to his following the military profession, and by turning him from it plunged him in adversity. The excessive activity of Mirabeau’s mind, and his physical vigour, could be satisfied in no other career: his exuberance of spirits and unwearied strength rendered every other vocation tame and trivial; however, he laboured at various occupations devised for him by his father, and was rewarded, at the earnest solicitation of all the relations, by being restored to his name – he having for some years gone by that of Pierre Buffière. His father was so far won by his manifestations of talent as to permit / him to visit Paris, and pay his court at Versailles: – “He behaves very well,” the marquis writes; “his manners are respectful without servility – easy, but not familiar. The courtiers look on him as half mad, but say that he is cleverer than any of them, which is not discreet on his part. I do not intend that he shall live there, nor follow, like others, the trade of robbing or cheating the king: he shall neither haunt the dirty paths of intrigue, nor slide on the ice of favour; but he must learn what is going on: and if I am asked why I, who never would frequent Versailles, allow him to go so young, I reply that ‘he is made of other clay.’ For the rest, as, for 500 years, Mirabeaus, who were never like the rest of the world, have been tolerated, he also will be endured, and he will not alter the reputation of the race.”c a b c

Source unlocated. The paragraph so far summarises Montigny, vol. I, pp. 317–30. Montigny, vol. I, pp. 370–1, shortened.

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This gleam of paternal favour was soon clouded over. Mirabeau himself accuses those around his father of inspiring him with distrust; but there was something in the young man’s character that jarred with the father’s, and produced a perpetual state of irritation and dissatisfaction. The self-will, pedantry, economy, and self-sufficiency of the marquis were in perpetual contradiction with the genius, activity, recklessness, the winning frankness and plausible fascinations of his son. In vain the youth transacted some troublesome business for his father with diligence and success – in vain he entered into his agricultural projects – the father writes bitterly, “His infancy was monstrous, his adolescence turbulent, and both seem the worthy exordium of his life, which is now a mixture of indiscretion, misconduct, and garrulity; and at the same time so turbulent, so presumptuous, and so heedless, that the enterprise of saving him from the dangers which his years and his character present, is enough to fatigue and deter thirty Mentors, instead of one.” At length, tired of the young man’s society, and urged by those about him, he sent him (December, 1771) to Mirabeau, to endeavour to pacify and regulate the dissensions subsisting / among the tenants of the marquis, which his usual agents were incapable of rectifying. The young man fulfilled his task with zeal and ability: he became known and liked in Provence, and his success inspired the idea of settling him in marriage – so to calm down his turbulence in domestic life: his father had before entertained this project, believing that a woman of good sense would exercise the happiest influence over his mind.a The young lady pointed out was an heiress. A number of men of higher pretensions than himself on the score of fortune aspired to her hand. This circumstance, and the avarice of his father, who acted with his usual parsimony, at first deterred Mirabeau; but, urged on by the marquis’s sarcasms, he exerted himself to overcome all difficulties and succeeded, though the measures he took, which compromised the reputation of the young lady, were highly reprehensible, and naturally excited the disgust and disapprobation of his father.b Marie Emilie de Covet, only daughter of the marquis de Marignane, was then eighteen: she was a lively brunette, scarcely to be called pretty, but agreeable, witty, and superficially clever. Although an heiress, she enjoyed a very slender fortune during the life of her father; and the marquis, while he entailed the family estate on his son, allowed him scarcely any income, and advanced him nothing for the expences of his nuptials. This was the worst sort of marriage that Mirabeau could have made. Marrying in his own province a girl of good family, and surrounded by the éclat that attends an heiress, he was led to desire to make an appearance suitable to his name and his father’s fortune. He incurred debts. Madame de Sevigné remarks that there is nothing so expensive as want of money.c Debt always begets debt. Mirabeau was constitutionally careless with regard to expense. His father lent him a

Paragraph based on Montigny, vol. I, pp. 376–7, 379–82, including quotation. According to BUP, vol. III, p. 609, Mirabeau appeared daily each morning in a state of undress, claiming he had spent the night with his intended bride. c Unlocated. b

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the chateau of Mirabeau to live in: he found the ancestral residence as furnished by his progenitors; and, obliged to make some repairs, he went to the other extreme, / and fitted up the apartments destined for his wife with splendour. False pride caused him to load her with presents, and to dress her richly, in spite of her remonstrances. At the same time he had projects for the improvement of the culture of the estate, the proceeds of which, he believed, would cover all his expenses. His father still pursued the degrading plan of employing hirelings as spies over him. These men, to cover their own peculations, represented that he was selling the furniture of the chateau and injuring the property. Every plan Mirabeau formed to pay his debts, as the best foundation of retrenchment, was opposed by his father. Feeling the storm about to break, and resolved to proceed no further on the road to ruin, he commenced a system of rigid economy; but his father, deaf to all explanations, excited by the representations of his servants, and exasperated in the highest degree, obtained a lettre de cachet, and used it to order his son to quit the chateau, and to confine himself in the little town of Manosque.a This sort of confinement was ill calculated to appease the spirit of Mirabeau, who ought rather to have been thrown into an arduous career, so to fill and occupy his mind. At Manosque he was reduced to a scanty income of about 50l. a year, to support himself, his wife, and child; his only employment was study, to which he gave himself up with ardour, but it was not sufficient to tame and engross him. He wrote here his “Essay on Despotism,” a work full of passion and vigour, into which he poured his own impatience of control. He left behind him no good reputation among the people of Manosque; and, if his wife afterwards refused to join him, she had the excuse that his behaviour as a husband was such as to disgust any young lady of feeling and delicacy. His own conduct did not, however, prevent him from being jealous himself, and this passion, awakened toward his wife, renewed, by the actions it occasioned, the persecutions of his father. A girlish and innocent correspondence had been carried / on by his wife before her marriage with the chevalier de Gassaud. This, and other circumstances, combined to excite jealousy in the mind of the husband; a duel became imminent; till, pacified by the representations of the young man’s family, and consideration for the reputation of Madame de Mirabeau, he became willing to listen to an explanation. The previous scandal, however, threatened to break an advantageous marriage, on foot between the chevalier and the daughter of the marquis de Tourette. Mirabeau, resolving not to be generous by halves, left Manosque secretly, and repaired with all possible speed to the town of Grasse:b he pleaded the cause of the chevalier with such earnest eloquence that the family dismissed their objections, and he hastened to return to his place of exile.

a b

The preceding is based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 1–18. In Provence, north of Cannes.

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Most unfortunately he met on his way back the baron de Villeneuve-Moans. This man had, a short time before, grossly insulted his sister, the marquise de Cabris. The brother demanded satisfaction, which being refused, he now, meeting him by accident, struck him. The baron proceeded legally against him, and thus his evasion from his place of exile came to light. The implacable father demanded a stricter imprisonment; and Mirabeau, taken from his wife and his infant son, then dangerously ill, was conducted to the chateau of If, a dismal fortress, built on a naked rock by the sea-shore, near Marseilles. He was here at the demand of his father, interdicted all visits and correspondence; and the marquis also took the pains to write to the commander of the castle, Dallegre, exaggerating the faults of his son, and blackening his character; but here, as before in the Isle de Rhe, the commander was won by the frankness, courage, and fascinating qualities of his prisoner, and wrote to the marquis to entreat his liberation. “All the province knows,” he wrote, “that you have made the freedom of the count de Mirabeau depend on the report I shall make of his good conduct. Receive, then, the most authentic attestation that, since the count has been confined at the chateau d’If, he has / not given me, nor any other person, the slightest cause of complaint, and has always conducted himself admirably. He has sustained with extreme moderation the altercations I have sometimes entered into for the purpose of trying his temper, and he will carry away with him the esteem, friendship, and consideration of every one here.” Madame de Mirabeau made a journey to Bignon to intercede with his father, who at length explained that his purpose was to try his son; that he meant to keep him yet longer in the chateau of If; and if, by a miracle, he committed no new fault, he should be transferred to some other fortress where his perseverance in a good course should continue to be put to the test, till by degrees he should be restored to his privileges of husband and father. When we consider that Mirabeau really filled these sacred functions, and that his sole crime towards his father was debt, – a crime the consequences of which visited him only, and visited him severely, – we revolt from the insolent tyranny exercised against him. In pursuance of this plan, he was transferred to the fortress of Joux, near Pontarlier, and placed in the hands of the governor, count SaintMauris. He submitted to this new exile among the mountains of Jura, away from his wife and child, from every friend and connection, with entire resignation; still hoping, by patience and good conduct, to vanquish the prejudices and gain the good will of his father.a Until now we appear to detail a series of cruel and causeless persecutions. The conduct of Mirabeau, tried by the laws of morality, had been vicious, but not criminal, and was punished as the latter. He had, to a certain degree, redeemed his extravagance, by living for a considerable period within the limits of an income scarcely sufficient to afford the necessaries of life. He had obtained the a The preceding two paragraphs are based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 30–44 (quotation shortened), 49–50, 52–3. The Jura mountains are on the east central border of France, adjacent to Switzerland.

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favourable attestation of the man under whose guard he was placed: it was evident to every one, except his inexorable father, that the husband ought to be restored to the young wife, already suspected of indiscretion – the father to his child; a / young man of ambition and talents, to the enjoyment of liberty and of the privileges of his birth. Mirabeau painted his feelings eloquently in a letter to his uncle, dated from the fortress of Joux, 22d of August, 1775. “Ought I,” he writes, “to be for ever excluded from a career in which my conduct and endeavours, aided by your counsels, might give me the means of one day becoming useful and known. Times are mending, and ambition is permitted. Do you believe that the emulation that animates me ought to remain sterile, and that, at the age of twenty-six, your nephew is incapable of any good? Do not believe it; deliver me; deign to deliver me: save me from the frightful agitation in which I live, and which may destroy the effects produced on me by reflection and adversity. Believe me, that there are men whom it is necessary to occupy, and that I am of that number. The activity which accomplishes all things, and without which nothing is achieved, becomes turbulent, and may become dangerous, if left without object or employment.”a His father was insensible to these representations, and, although the pretence of his continued imprisonment was, that he should regain by degrees the paternal favour, the marquis’s letters prove that it was his heartfelt wish to drive his son to extremities; and he too fatally succeeded. Mirabeau had hitherto wasted his ardent nature on vulgar amours; he had never felt real love. Had he been allowed to follow an active career, it is probable that love, in an absorbing and despotic form, had never governed him. Driven into solitude, separated from all the ties of nature, friendless and persecuted, his heart in an unfortunate hour became inflamed by a passion that sealed his ruin. The fortress of Joux is situated in the neighbourhood of Pontarlier; the only family of note resident in that town was that of De Monnier. Madame de Monnier belonged to a family of the name of Ruffey, distinguished for a piety carried to bigotry, and a parental severity, that caused them to devote several children to a monastic life. Sophie was married at eighteen / to M. de Monnier, who was more than fifty years her senior. She joined to gentleness of disposition and sweetness of temper great decision and ardour of character. The young people became acquainted. She saw only the bright side of Mirabeau’s character; and, while she consoled him in his misfortunes, she became entangled by the fascinations of passion. It is impossible to conceive a more unnatural position, than that of a girl sacrificed according to the old customs of France. Sophie de Ruffey was taken from the nursery, and given, even without her consent being asked, to a morose, avaricious, decrepit old man; who only married to annoy his daughter. He was unamiable in all the relations of life; and the home of the ardent girl was dull, and yet full of harassing cares. She had no children; none of the sweet hopes and a

Montigny, vol. II, pp. 55–6.

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expectations that ought to attend opening life; and, while she devoted herself to an existence full of ennui and annoyance, she reaped no reward in the kindness and confidence of her husband. It is not strange that, placed in this position, her heart should be open to impression, and before she knew her danger she was in love. The enthusiasm and fervour of her disposition caused her to exalt her lover into the idol of her imagination. Misled by passion, she began to regard her tie to her septuagenarian husband as criminal – fidelity and devotion to her lover as a paramount duty. Mirabeau knew better what life was. He felt love for the first time in all its truth and intensity, and he trembled at the prospect. According to a wise poet, “Love is too young to know what conscience is; Yet who knows not that conscience is born of love?”a

and thus he, who hitherto had looked on love as a mere sensual enjoyment, and who, accustomed to occupy himself in arduous study for the third of each day, had little leisure to employ in pursuits of empty gallantry, became aware of the absorbing nature of real passion, and to fear the misery that must ensue from its indulgence. He wrote letters of eloquent supplication, imploring to be removed / from a neighbourhood which he found so dangerous: his father treated his appeals with contempt; he then wrote to his wife a long letter, entreating her to join him with their child, feeling that the presence of those who were united to him by such sacred ties would check his pursuit, and at once crush the affection of her he loved. Madame de Mirabeau was a frivolous and weak woman: a separation of more than a year had alienated her from her husband, whose conduct had been far from irreproachable, and she replied to his supplications by a dry note of a few lines, in which she treated him as out of his wits. Still Mirabeau struggled against the seductions of love, and had the unfortunate pair been treated, not to say with kindness, but with prudence, all had been well. It so happened that the governor, count de Saint-Mauris, who was nearly seventy years of age, was also in love with Madame de Monnier, who had received his declarations with the disdain which they deserved. His rage knew no bounds, when he perceived the success of his prisoner. He roused the suspicions of the husband, and, the better to wreak his revenge, took advantage of his knowledge of a promissory note for a small sum, which Mirabeau, left in a state of destitution by his father, had been obliged to grant to procure necessary raiment, to report him to the implacable marquis as incurring new debts, and so obtained a fresh order to confine him strictly in the fortress of Joux. Mirabeau learnt the fate awaiting him, and finding that his system of resignation had availed him nothing, and shuddering at the prospect of a dungeon guarded by a malignant rival, escaped from his surveillance, and secreted himself at Pontarlier.b a b

Shakespeare, Sonnet CLI, ll. 1–2, with ‘that’ inserted. The account of Mirabeau’s love affair is based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 77–8, 84–6.

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His position demanded the most careful reflection. His angry father spared no pains to discover his place of refuge: he wrote to Saint-Mauris, telling him to prepare a “healthy and dry, but well barred and bolted dungeon for his son; and not to permit him the slightest communication by writing or in person with any one.”a Hopeless of softening the marquis, Mirabeau / wrote to Malesherbes, the minister so distinguished in France for benevolence and liberality; but Malesherbes mediated in vain with his father, and, at length, told Mirabeau that he had but one resource, which was to withdraw from his country, to enter foreign service, and pursue the career of arms, for which his birth, talents, and bravery, fitted him. Mirabeau was averse to renouncing his country: again and again he applied by letters, written either by himself or mediating friends, to his father, who at last replied, that he renounced having any thing to do with him – told him that no country was so foreign to him as his own; and, banishing him for ever from his family, dissolved all natural and social ties that still held his son to France.b Treated with this haughty cruelty, Mirabeau could not avoid contrasting the marks of hatred and scorn. which he received from every other, with the devoted love of her who was ready to sacrifice all to him. But, though conjugal fidelity was held in slight regard and little practised in France in those days, the carrying off a married woman was treated as a crime to be punished by death or perpetual imprisonment, and Mirabeau could not yet consent to lose himself or his mistress utterly. M. de Monnier, informed by Saint-Mauris of the attachment of his wife, surrounded her by spies, and treated her with the utmost severity. By the advice of Mirabeau she left her husband, and took refuge with her own family at Dijon.c She found no kindness there; her angry father refused to see her – her mourning mother caused her to be strictly watched – her brother and sister taunted and insulted her. She was driven to despair, and declared to her lover that she would destroy herself, if by no other means she could escape the cruelty shown by all around. For several months Mirabeau combated the passion rooted in his own heart, and that which drove madame de Monnier to desperation. He had escaped from France and gained the frontier: he might easily have now entered on a military career in a foreign state, but devoted love bound him to Sophie, who was on the / eve of being imprisoned in a convent, and who, revolting from such tyranny, believed that every genuine duty and affection of life bound her to him she loved, and had become resolved to devote her life to him. After much hesitation, many months spent in wanderings in Switzerland, dogged close the while by emissaries of his father, whose pursuit he baffled, and whose strength and patience he wearied out; after many fruitless endeavours to avoid the catastrophe, the hour at last arrived, when Mirabeau, cast off by father, wife, and country, doomed to exile and a career dependent on his industry, and feeling in the affection of his mistress his only solace in this accumulation of disaster, and assured also that, if he deserted a b c

Montigny, vol. II, p. 90. Paragraph based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 114, 106. The capital of the province of Burgundy, eastern France.

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her, Sophie, driven to desperation, would destroy herself, consented to their flight. She escaped from her husband’s house and joined him at Verrières Suisses, whence, after a fortnight’s delay, they proceeded to Holland. On the 7th of October they arrived at Amsterdam, and took a lodging at the house of a tailor, where, destitute and friendless, Mirabeau was at once forced to earn their daily bread, and to conceal his name and identity, so to escape further persecution. He sought for occupation in translating for a bookseller. After some delay he obtained work from Rey, and was able to earn a louis a-day by means of extreme hard labour. From six in the morning till nine in the evening he was at his desk: his only recreation was an hour of music: but the lovers were happy together.a Sophie, fallen from a life of ease to one of privation, yet regarded it no sacrifice to exchange annoyance and ennui, though surrounded by luxury, for seclusion with one whose ardent affection, brilliant imagination, and entire confidence, could easily supply every void, and fill her existence with interest and delight. The social law that bound Sophie to her husband was nefarious and unnatural; but in breaking it she devoted herself to all the misfortunes which attend an attachment not sanctioned by society: for a time love may gild / the scene, and, as was the case with Sophie, conscience be satisfied that she had a right to exchange her forced ties with a decrepit old husband, to whom she owed nothing, for a union with the man of her choice. But the world and its laws dog the heels of a felicity they condemn, and are sure at last to hunt down their prey. M. de Monnier proceeded against his wife and her lover in a court of law, and on the 10th May, 1777, sentence was passed on Mirabeau for rape and seduction. He was condemned to be decapitated in effigy and to pay 40,000 livres as damages to the husband; while Sophie was condemned to be confined for life in a house of refuge established at Besançon, to be shaven and branded in common with the other prisoners, who were girls of depraved life, and to lose all the advantages of her marriage settlement.b Such was the severity of the old French laws against matrimonial infidelity – laws which permitted the most depraved state of society ever known, and only made themselves felt in cases of exception, when the most severe moralist would find excuses for, and be inclined to pardon the errors of passion, which society punished only because the victims refused to practise the hypocrisy which would have been accepted as atonement. The marquis de Mirabeau at first rejoiced in the catastrophe which exiled his son for ever from the soil of France, and was willing to forget his existence. Not so the family of Sophie: her mother, induced by mixed feelings of religion, resentment, and even affection, was eager to obtain possession of the person of her a The account of their elopement is based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 107–9, 117–56, 163–5. Marc Michel Rey (1720–80), Genevan by origin, was one of the most important publisherbooksellers in 18th-century Europe, publishing Rousseau among others. b Montigny, vol. II, pp. 172–3. Besançon was the capital of the eastern frontier province of Franche-Comté, in which Pontarlier was also situated. On their elopement journey of 1814, P. B. Shelley and Mary Godwin passed through both these places en route to Switzerland.

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daughter, to separate her from her lover, and induce her by severity or persuasion to return to her husband. Through an imprudence the place of their retreat was discovered, and the marquis writes to his brother, “He is in Holland, and lives on the earnings of his pen. De Brugnierres is setting out to fulfil a bargain made with madame de Ruffey, to seize her mad daughter, for which he is to be paid 100 louis. I have profited by the occasion and made the same arrangement – to be paid only if the man is taken to his destination.”a / Mirabeau and his companion had lived eight months at Amsterdam: they had made friends; and some among these told them that their retreat was discovered, and an arrest impending. At first a treaty had been commenced to induce Mirabeau to place madame de Monnier in the hands of the French authorities, offering money and liberty as his reward: he spurned these propositions and prepared to fly with her to America; yet still the lovers were too secure, and delayed for the sake of obtaining a sum of money. The very night on which they were to depart they were arrested. Sophie, who, till the crisis arrived, was calm and serene, though serious and resolved, was seized by despair: she resolved to destroy herself. Mirabeau was her stay: he gained the goodwill of the men about them, revealed his fears, and obtained the consent of M. le Noir, lieutenant-general of police, to see her once, and afterwards to correspond with her. His persuasions were all powerful, and she consented to live.b She was taken to Paris and imprisoned in a sort of asylum for women, while Mirabeau was shut up in the donjon of Vincennes. At first no gleam of hope lighted on the prisoners: all that bound them to existence was the correspondence they kept up with each other, and the fact that Sophie was about to give birth to a child. The letters that Mirabeau wrote to his mistress from his prison fell afterwards into the hands of a man who published them:c certainly Mirabeau would have been the last person in the world to have permitted the publication of letters intended for the eye of his mistress alone, and drawn from a nature whose paramount vice was excess of passion, now wrought to intensity by close imprisonment and enforced separation from her whom he ardently loved. These letters are in parts grossly indelicate and unfit for perusal; but they display the burning ardour of his nature, and the excess of his attachment for the unhappy woman whom he had drawn into participation in his wretched destiny. For nearly two years these letters are stamped with a hopelessness, often carried to desperation. / “There is no peace with my implacable enemies,” he writes, at one time; “there will be none except in the tomb. No pity can enter their souls of gall: as barbarous a

Montigny, vol. II, pp. 176–7, edited. Paragraph to this point based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 189–92, 228. c Louis-Pierre Manuel (1751–93), former schoolteacher who became an ardent republican; he published Lettres Originales de Mirabeau écrites du donjon de Vincennes (1792), which included letters to Sophie. See ‘Madame de Staël’ (p. 472). The letters’ allusions to the lover’s physical passion and to Sophie’s symptoms of pregnancy would have been considered too frank for the Cyclopaedia readership. b

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as they are unjust, their commiseration will never yield that which their iniquity denies. It is too much! I know not whether, proscribed by that destiny which permits guilt to triumph, and innocence to suffer, I am destined to die of despair, or to merit my fate by the perpetration of crime, but the agony that precedes the catastrophe endures too long, and I feel transports of indignation and hatred, such as never before had influence over my soul.” Again he writes, “The rules of this house are so excessively, I had almost said so atrociously severe, that I must perish if I remain longer. No species of society is permitted: the turnkeys who wait on us are forbidden to remain in our cells, or to speak to us – we have but one hour of exercise out of the twenty-four. Alone with sorrow – no literary occupation – few and bad books – interminable delays in the fulfilment of our most innocent wishes and our simplest wants – no musical instruments – in a word, no recreation – every consolation denied by a barbarous tyranny, such is but a feeble sketch of our situation. A man who has any soul or mind cannot resist such a mode of life, in which his talents, his acquirements, and his most praiseworthy sentiments, instead of solacing, must produce his ruin.”a As a proof of the energy and fortitude of Mirabeau’s soul, it must be mentioned, that frequent opportunities of escape presented themselves, but he declaredb that he would not desert Sophie and unlink his fate from hers; nor renounce all hope of being restored to his station and rights in his country. While he strung his soul to endure, his very strength of purpose gave additional force to his hatred of tyranny. He, as being the victim of his family, and not a state prisoner, was in the sequel permitted many indulgences not allowed to any other. Books – materials for writing – connivance at his correspondence – more time allowed to his walks / – the visits of some of the superiors, who became his friends – such were the licences permitted him; but we find him complaining that he was forbidden to sing in his cell, and detailing the frightful physical sufferings, to which he was the victim through confinement.c A state prisoner would have been treated with yet greater rigour; and the sense of this, and the knowledge that others whose crimes were often their virtues, were his fellow-sufferers, lighted up a horror of despotism in his heart, which made him ever after its determined and bitter enemy. With all his energy and fortitude, Mirabeau bore up with difficulty under the hardships of his dungeon: at one time, he resolved on suicide, and was saved only by the remonstrances of M. le Noir, whose kindness to his prisoner was zealous and unalterable.d Consenting to live, he found study his sole resource, and he dedicated himself with ardour, and to the injury of his health, to his pen. His works during his imprisonment were numerous. He translated the “Kisses” of Johannes Secundus, with abundant notes, containing extracts from all the erotic a

Montigny, vol. II, pp. 270–3, abbreviated, citing from letters. Montigny, vol. II, p. 197. c Possibly based on quotations from Manuel’s edition of the letters included by Montigny. d Montigny, vol. II, pp. 242–3. b

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poets of antiquity. He wrote a treatise on mythology; an essay on the French language; another on ancient and modern literature; works undertaken for the instruction and amusement of madame de Monnier. His “Essay on Lettres-decachet and State Prisons” belongs also to this period.a His father, meanwhile, felt no compunction, no doubt as to the justice of his conduct; no pity softened his heart, nor did he by any notice of his son answer his many supplications. He declared that, having searched and purified his heart each day before God, he is only the more determined to persist;b and the resolution in which he was to persist was that of suffering his son to languish and perish in his dungeon. A circumstance happened, however, to change this resolve. His grandson, the only son of Gabriel-Honoré, died. The mother resided with her child at her father’s chateau. She was surrounded by relations, / collateral heirs to her fortune if she died childless: some suspicion arose that these persons had poisoned the boy; he was five years old, and of great promise from the sweetness and docility of his disposition. The grandfather was deeply afflicted: he could not doubt the uprightness of his conduct nor the purity of his motives, so blinded was he by the passions that urged him to persecute his family; but he was led to doubt the support of Providence on which he had heretofore relied. From this moment he began to meditate the liberation of his son. He was not induced by justice nor compassion, but by pride: he could not endure that the name of Mirabeau should be extinguished. “I reflected,” he wrote afterwards to his brother, “for a long time. It is certain that, if my grandson had not died, I had insisted on the maintenance of the promise made me, to keep the father in prison, and even to destroy all trace of him. But, after the death of our poor little Victor, I found that you felt as I did with regard to the extinction of our race; for, however one may argue, however one may submit and resign one’s self, a feeling once entertained cannot be effaced.”c The marquis, however, proceeded fair and softly in his design. Resolved both to punish and to tame his son, he issued fresh orders, that he should be allowed no indulgences; but he put several persons in action, through whose suggestions Mirabeau commenced a correspondence with his uncle: the letters were shown to his father, and some were addressed to the latter; but he was not moved either by the protestations or representations they contained to move faster or to alter his plan. In pursuance of this, he declared that the liberation of his son depended on the intercession of his wife. The countess de Mirabeau accordingly wrote to her father-in-law, requesting that her husband should be set free; and Mirabeau, hearing this, was touched by the generosity of her act. From the moment, indeed, that hope gleamed on him of softening his father’s resolves, he became much / more humble, and very ready to acknowledge his faults. Sophie, a Johannes Secundus: Renaissance Latin poet; his Basia or Kisses influenced Thomas Moore. Mirabeau’s version was published in 1793 with the Elegies of the Latin poet Tibullus. Mary Shelley appears to follow the list of books given in BUP, vol. III, p. 611. b Source unlocated. c Paragraph, excluding last quotation, based on Montigny, vol. II, pp. 300–1.

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also, with that generous ardour of disposition that was at once the cause and excuse of her actions, wrote to the marquis, taking all the fault of their attachment and flight on herself. Even the old economist felt the nobleness of her conduct. The affair, however, still lagged. M. de Marignane detested his son-in-law. It was the interest of the relations around to prevent the reunion of husband and wife: the countess was a weak and timid woman; she resolved never to disobey, she feared to offend her father; and besides, living as she did, in the midst of ease, luxury, pleasure, and freedom, she had no wish to return to a life of penury with a husband whom she no longer loved. Often, therefore, while receiving harsh letters from his uncle, Mirabeau was ready to sink under multiplied delays. He tried to cheat time by occupation; he gave himself up to study – he learnt Greek, English, Italian, Spanish – translated a portion of Tacitus – and this, in spite of failing eyes and ruined health.a Another event, sad to a parent’s heart, and deeply lamented by Mirabeau, happened to facilitate his freedom. His child, the daughter of Sophie, died of a fever of dentition: this event acted as a spur to the marquis. He permitted his only child with whom he was on friendly terms, madame du Saillant, to correspond with her brother, dictating her letters, and reading the replies – he allowed (for no step was taken except by his permission, and even suggestion,) his son-in-law, M. du Saillant, to offer to become his surety. And, at last, after many disappointments and delays, he gave the signal, and the prison gates were opened. It was impossible to avoid giving the details of this unfortunate portion of Mirabeau’s life. Forty-one months spent in a dungeon forms too important an epoch in a man’s existence for a biographer to pass it over; or to shun the detail of the causes and effects. Forty-one / months of solitude and privation – of alternate hopes and fears wound to their highest pitch – of arduous study – of excessive physical suffering – must colour a human being’s whole after-existence. The devoted love of Sophie ennobled his sufferings. She erred – but her error was redeemed by her heroism and self-abnegation. Resolved in her own thoughts that she was not the wife of the poor old man to whom her parents had forced her to give her hand, but of him who possessed her heart, she believed it to be her duty to bear all rather than concede. That her too ardent nature required the stay of religion cannot be denied, but her generosity and heroism are undoubted, and shed a grace over details which would otherwise be revolting.* * The subsequent history of this hapless victim of a depraved state of society which set the seal of guilt on her attachment, may be briefly stated. After the birth of her child, Sophie was taken from the asylum in which she was first placed, and confined in the convent of SaintesClaires, at Gien. By degrees many indulgences were allowed her, and she received visits. Mirabeau became jealous, and angrily expressed his jealousy, both in letters, and in a single interview which they had after his liberation from Vincennes. Had Mirabeau come to this interview with

a

Summarises Montigny, vol. III, pp. 151, 178–80.

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Mirabeau quitted his prison, eager to gain his father’s good will, and redeem himself in the eyes of the world. He stept out, from so long a series of suffering and imprisonment, with a spirit as vigorous and free as in boyhood. All were astonished by his mingled gentleness and vivacity; his submission to his father, joined to reliance in his own powers. Some months / passed before the marquis would see him, but, when he did, he expressed himself to his brother in more favourable terms than he had ever before done. Occupied in the task of reforming, he even began to praise him. It is to be remarked, that the interloper in the family, madame du Pailly, was absent at this time, and the son was allowed to make his own way with his father.a The end of all the marquis’s actions was to reunite his son to his wife. This was a matter of difficulty, and the greater on account of the sentence pronounced against Mirabeau at Pontarlier, on occasion of his flight with madame de Monnier. Many plans were projected to get rid of this sentence; the readiest was, to obtain letters of abolition from the king. But Mirabeau refused a line of conduct which would have saved him only; he was determined that his cause should not be separated from that of Sophie. With a resolution worthy of his impetuous and energetic nature, he surrendered, and constituted himself prisoner at Pontarlier while the cause was again tried. He was counselled to take the line of a timid defence, but he refused. Convinced of the irregularity of his trial, and the want of all judicial proof against him, he met the most imminent danger calmly and resolutely. His father writes: – “His conduct is firm, and his position as advantageous as possible. He is praised for his nobleness and audacity in the singular tone of his appeal against a capital sentence. Now that I see him in saddle, he holds himself a candid mind and a constant heart, he had at once have acknowledged Sophie’s innocence. But his attachment had waned, and he was intent on completing his reconciliation with his father, and contriving one with his wife. He played the part of the wolf with the lamb in the fable;b and, to the utter destruction of the nobler portion of his nature, the ties of love and affection, the knitting of which had occasioned misery and ruin to both, were broken for ever. Soon after, the death of her husband restored Sophie to her liberty, but she chose to continue to reside within the precincts of the convent, though she used her liberty to make visits and excursions. She was greatly loved by all who knew her. Her sweetness and gentleness attached many friends; her charity and kind sympathy caused her to be beloved by the poor, by whom her memory was long gratefully preserved. She formed a second attachment for a gentleman to whom she was about to be married, but his death prevented their union. Sophie resolved not to survive him. Immediately on receiving his last sigh, she prepared to die. She shut herself up with two braziers of burning charcoal; and was found on the morrow dead. She died on the 8th September, 1789, in the 37th year of her age.c a

This paragraph summarises Montigny, vol. III, pp. 138–9, 199–200, 215–17. Aesop’s fable of the Wolf and the Lamb illustrates the truth that power is never at a loss for an excuse. The wolf sees a lamb downstream and accuses it of fouling his drinking water. The more the lamb tries to exonerate itself, the more accusations are brought against it by the wolf, who cuts short the lamb’s protests by eating it up. c Based on Montigny, vol. III, pp. 284–97. Gien: in the Loiret Department, central France. b

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well, and has this real advantage with the public, of entirely exculpating his accomplice, on which he is resolved at all events. You have no idea of what your nephew is on great occasions.” Nor did the imprisonment of months in an unhealthy and narrow dungeon move him. When his father desired to attempt measures of conciliation with the adversary, he declared that the view of the scaffold under his window would not make him accept any propositions while in prison. “I have said to my father,” he wrote to his brother-in-law, M. du Saillant, “and I repeat to you, that, before God and man, / no one has a right to interfere in my affairs against my will, my consent, my opinion; and with this firm conviction I declare, that I will consent to no accommodation until former proceedings are reversed; and I will sign nothing in which my simple and entire acquittal, that of madame de Monnier, the restitution of her dowery, an annuity for her, and the payment of my own expenses, are not comprised.” His memoirs and defence are eloquent and resolute, and in them first shone forth that brilliant genius which afterwards ruled France.a At length an accommodation on his own terms, with the exception of the pecuniary condition that regarded himself, was completed. Mirabeau left his prison on the 14th of August, 1782. He left it, indeed, a beggar and in debt; his father denied him every assistance, and refused, in opprobrious terms, to become his surety. His courage sank under these misfortunes; he wrote to his sister, “I am free, but to what use shall I put my liberty? Disowned by my father; forgotten, hated perhaps by my mother, for having desired to serve her; avoided by my uncle; watched for by my creditors, not one of whom has been paid, though I have been deprived of the means of subsistence under the pretence of satisfying them; menaced by my wife, or those who govern her; destitute of every thing – income, career, credit – O! that it pleased God that my enemies were not as cowardly as they are malicious, and a thrust of a sword would end all!”b To please his family and obtain an income, Mirabeau next entered into a lawsuit to force his wife to become reconciled with him. This was an unworthy act. In the pleadings, where he stood forth as his own advocate, he exerted an overwhelming eloquence, that silenced his adversaries, and drew an immense audience of gentry belonging to Provence to the hall where the trial was carried on.c He however failed, and a decree of separation was passed in the law courts of Provence, and confirmed in Paris.* By this time the marquis / had become as * The subsequent life of Madame de Mirabeau was singular. For some years she continued under her father’s guidance, and, at his wish, to live a life of pleasure; theatricals and every sort of dissipation being the order of the day. A reconciliation was set on foot, and had nearly been accomplished between her and her husband at the period of his death. She emigrated with her

a Paragraph based on Montigny, vol. III, pp. 188, 224, 234–5, 240–1 (quotation shortened), 256, 263–4. b Montigny, vol. III, pp. 279–80, shortened. c Montigny, vol. III, pp. 400–2.

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inveterate as ever against his son: he did not imprison him, but he kept the royal order, permitting him to assign him his place of residence, hanging over his head, so to be able to remove him from his own vicinity if he became troublesome. Mirabeau felt the necessity of forming a career for himself, and earning a subsistence. He failed in his first attempts in Paris, and, as a last resource, turned his eyes towards England. His visit to London, however, was full of mortification and disappointment. He found no path open by which a French author could maintain himself. His letters are full of bitterness at this period; his father refused him the slightest provision, and, he says, used all his address to cause him to die of hunger, since he could not hope to make him rob on the highway.a It is difficult for those who live in the sunshine of life, as well as for those who are brought up to earn their bread in a profession, or by trade, to understand the degree of exasperation engendered in the heart of a rich man’s son, reduced to penury by the injustice of his parent. He finds it impossible to make money of his talents, and indignities, unknown to the merest labourer, swarm around him. It is much if he can earn a bare and precarious subsistence, eaten into by previous debts, and dependent on the selfishness and caprice of others. Mirabeau tasted of the dregs of poverty; his natural inaptitude to calculation / increased his difficulties; he was generous and profuse, even when what he gave or spent reduced him to absolute want. On his return to France, he found the public mind engrossed by questions of political finance. Mirabeau entered on the discussion with his accustomed eagerness. He published several pamphlets, which attracted general attention and added to his notoriety. The minister Calonneb at first made use of his pen, but they afterwards disagreed. Under his patronage, Mirabeau endeavoured to get diplomatic employment in Germany. He visited Berlin at the period of Frederic the Great’s death, and several times subsequently. His correspondence from Berlin is not, however, worthy of his character or genius. It was not published at this father during the revolution, and suffered a good deal of poverty. She subsequently married a count de Rocca, and visited Paris, to endeavour to recover some portion of her property. Her husband died soon after, and she resumed the name of Mirabeau, of which she became proud, reviving the recollections of past times, surrounding herself with every object that could remind her of the husband of her youth. She lived in intimacy with his sister, madame du Saillant, and extended her kindness to the young man whom Mirabeau had adopted. Though frivolous, she had never been ill conducted, and her faults, being those of timidity, are chiefly to be attributed to her father, who, loving ease and pleasure, and glad to have his daughter with him, prevented her by every means in his power from fulfilling her duties towards her husband. She passed her last years in the hotel de Mirabeau, and died in the year 1800, in the same room where her husband had expired.c a

Possibly alludes to Montigny, vol. IV, pp. 192–251; second comment unlocated. Charles-Alexandre de Calonne (1734–1802), Controller-General of Finances (1783–7), who tried unsuccessfully to reform the French crown’s finances. c The note summarises Montigny, vol. IV, pp. 425–30. b

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time; he kept it back till 1789, when, under the necessity of acquiring money to carry on the expenses of his election in Provence, he had no other resource except bringing out a book, sure to acquire notoriety from the scandalous anecdotes it contained, but not adapted to sustain the credit of the author. His pamphlets on finance, which attacked that system of gambling in the public funds, called, in France, agiotage,a which, while it enriches individuals, is ruinous to the country, deserve the highest praise for their utility. They, however, attacked powerful interests; and one of them was suppressed by a decree of government, and even his personal liberty was menaced. He saved himself by a timely retreat to Liege. He here entered into a financial controversy with Necker, which was rendered the more conspicuous by the allusions made by Mirabeau to the necessity of assembling the states-general and establishing a constitution. The convocation of notables,b which occurred during this year, was a sort of commentary on his views. He expected to be named secretary to the assembly, but that place was given to Dupont de Nemours;c and, when he returned to Paris in September, the notables were already dismissed. Mirabeau, in his letters at this period, displays that deep interest in politics which / afterwards was to engross his life, and led to his success and triumph. “It is impossible,” he writes, “to witness the excess of shame and folly which combine to engulf my country without consternation. It is not given to human wisdom to guess where all this will find a term.” Meanwhile his pen was never idle; and in the midst of various journeys, and multiplied occupations, he published a variety of political works, which drew public observation on him; though now for the most part they are forgotten, as belonging to a state of things sunk in perpetual oblivion. In these he never ceased to attack the abuses of government; to urge the necessity of framing a constitution for his country; and to announce with enthusiasm his love of political liberty and independence.d In the history of Mirabeau, so far, we find his life divided into two parts.e The first, up to the age of two and thirty, was stormy and disastrous; but the accidents that marked it did not take him from private life. Proud of his station and name, and ambitious of distinction, yet the vices of youth wrecked him at the very outset, and the conduct of his father, who acted the part of Cornish wrecker,f rather a Referring to his Dénonciation de l’agiotage au Roi et à l’assemblée des Notables (1787) and replies to counterattacks. b In 1787, the government hoped to avoid convening the Estates-General by creating an Assembly of Notables, i.e. figures of high rank and importance within the French state, who would agree to tax reform. c Pierre-Samuel Dupont de Nemours (1739–1817), watchmaker’s son and economist. d The preceding paragraph summarises Montigny, vol. IV, pp. 179–485; quotation taken from p. 448. The political works include La Monarchie Prussienne (The Prussian monarchy), Adresse aux Bataves sur le stathoudérat (Address to the Batavians on the Stadhoulderat), Observations d’un voyageur anglais (Observations of an English Traveller) and Sur la liberté de la presse (On the Liberty of he Press), summarised with extensive quotations in Montigny, vol. V, bks 6 and 7. e As observed in Montigny, vol. III, pp. 430–40. f Smugglers used to light bonfires on the rocky coast of Cornwall to wreck ships and steal their cargo.

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than taking his natural post of pilot, threatened his perpetual submersion. As lord Brougham observes, in his observations on his character, “There is, perhaps, no second instance of an individual whose faults have been committed under such a pressure of ill-treatment, to besiege and force his virtue, rather than of temptation, to seduce and betray it.”a The extraordinary energy of his character alone saved him; and he merited the praise, not only of delivering himself, through his resolute and unwearied exertions, from the dungeon in which, had he been a weaker man, he had been left to perish, but also of making good use of the leisure which the sad and solitary hours of imprisonment afforded, to store his mind with knowledge. In the second portion of his life, till the election of deputies for the states-general, he was no longer pursued by private enemies; and his passions, though they were / not sobered, yet, not being violently opposed, no longer afforded a topic for public scandal. At first, he chiefly endeavoured to obtain a maintenance, since his father’s parsimony reduced him to indigence. His pride and fortitude continued to support him in so hard a trial. We have no instance of any application of his for help from the rich and powerful – he was extravagant, but never mean; and he could labour industriously without stooping to any dishonourable shifts. By degrees he acquired such name and esteem among men in power as induced them to employ him in public services. Then, as the political atmosphere of France became overcast, and the howlings of the coming tempest audible, Mirabeau felt within himself that the hour was approaching when he should acquire greatness. He had displayed his wonderful power of public speaking, during his law-suit with his wife, some years before: the recollection of the effects produced by his forcible and impetuous eloquence, which almost gained his cause against reason and justice, gave foundation to his hopes of distinction, if he should be allowed to speak for the public cause. These feelings did not make him weakly eager to put himself forward; he was calm in the knowledge of his power. “Leave me, then, in my obscurity,” he wrote, in 1787, to the satellite of a minister, – “I say, in my obscurity, for it is really my design to remain unalterably in it, until a regular order of things arises from the present state of tumult, and till some great revolution, either for good or ill, enjoins a good citizen, who is always accountable for his suffrage and even his talents, to raise his voice. This revolution cannot be long delayed. The public vessel is in a strait, equally short and difficult. An able pilot could doubtless guide it into the open sea; but he cannot, without the consent of the crew, and at this moment no one sailor can be despised.”b Mirabeau deserves the praise of keeping at this season far above all petty traffic of his influence and pen. He saw the safety and glory of France, and the rise of a national constitution, in the opposition of the parliament to / the court, and in a

Brougham, ‘Mirabeau’, vol. V, p. 144. Henry Peter Brougham, baron Brougham and Vaux (1778–1868) was a lawyer, politician and man of letters, espousing many reformist causes including popular education; he was acquainted with Lardner. b Montigny, vol. IV, pp. 451–2, quoting a letter to M. Soufflet.

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the consequent necessity of assembling the states-general. He represented these convictions to the minister Montmorin,a but without avail; on the contrary, Montmorin earnestly requested him to undertake his defence, and to attack the parliament. Mirabeau, in reply, set before the minister the errors of his views, and refused, with dignity, the task offered him. “Do not,” he concludes, “compromise a zealous servant, who will despise danger when called upon to devote himself for his country, but who would not, even for the price of all earthly crowns, prostitute himself in an equivocal cause, the aim of which is uncertain, the principle doubtful, and the progress fearful and dark. Should I not lose all the little talent of which you exaggerate the influence, if I renounced that inflexible independence which alone gains me success, and which only can render me useful to my country and my king? When the day arrives, when, animated by my conscience, and strong in my conviction, an honourable citizen, a faithful subject, an honest writer, I cast myself into the melée, I shall be able to say, ‘Listen to a man who has never varied in his principles, nor deserted the public cause.’”b And it must be remarked, in honour of Mirabeau, when doubts are cast upon his subsequent career, that, at the moment that he refused the aid of his pen to a powerful minister, he was suffering the extreme of penury, aggravated by its being shared by a dear friend. When, therefore, he afterwards accepted the pay of the court, we may believe, unworthy as was the act, that he compromised no principle; but, though a reformer, not being a republican, the support he engaged to give to the king had the suffrage of his conscience. The reputation of Mirabeau was now at its height; but, though his genius was acknowledged, he was not esteemed a good member of society. It is strange on what reputation depends: it may seem a paradox to say, that it often depends on modesty. Notoriety, and even success, may follow the unblushing man; but the good word of our fellow-creatures clings rather to him / whose worth is crowned by the graceful and conciliating virtue of modesty. Mirabeau had been oppressed – he had suffered much; his ostensible errors were venial, and such as many a man might have committed without entire condemnation; but the publicity that attended them, and the readiness with which he exposed his faults, and his family persecution, to public view, displeased and offended. He was feared as a false friend, as well as a dangerous enemy. Yet, wherever he appeared, he gained the hearts of those whom he addressed. He had the art of rendering himself agreeable and fascinating to all. The truth is that, though in theory and absence, we may approve the unblameable, the torpid, and the coldly good, our nature forces us to prefer what is vivacious, exhilarating, and original. This is the secret of the influence exercised by men, whose biographers labour to excuse and to account for the spontaneous ebullitions of sympathy and affection that follow their steps. a

Armand-Marc, comte de Montmorin Saint-Herem (1745–92), soldier, diplomat and minister, who remained loyal to the court. b Montigny, vol. IV. p. 484.

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Mirabeau was easy, complaisant,a gay, and full of animation and variety in his conversation; he had, in a supreme degree, what his father named the dangerous gift of familiarity. It was his delight to cast aside all etiquette, and to reduce his intercourse to the interchange of the real emotions of the heart and expression of ideas, unaccompanied by any disguise or conventional refinements; – for this, he did not scruple to appear at times rude and even vulgar; but also by this he inspired confidence, as being frank and true. At length, the hour long expected, long desired, came, when the states-general were convoked by a royal decree of the 27th December, 1788. Mirabeau passionately desired to belong to the assembly; and, relying on the popularity which he enjoyed in his native province, departed for Aix early in the following month. The nobles and high clergy of Provence were vehemently opposed to the changes they apprehended in government, and were zealously wedded to the privileges of their order. They entered a protest against / certain portions of the royal decree which threw power into the hands of the people. When Mirabeau arrived among them as the partisan of the dawning liberty of his country, he was received as an enemy. He raised his voice against the protest, and naturally took his place at the head of the liberal party. The nobles commenced their attack against him by excluding him from among them, on the pretext that he did not (as an elder son merely) possess any fief. Mirabeau protested against this exclusion, as well in his own name as in those of every other in a similar situation with himself; but in vain. On the 8th of the following February, in an assembly of the nobles, on the proposition of the marquis de Fare, his exclusion was pronounced, as not possessing either estate or fief in Provence. Mirabeau spared neither pamphlets nor speeches on the occasion; though, occupied by the calls made on him by his party during the day, he could only give the hours of night to composing and publishing. “I do not write a line,” he says, in one of his letters, of the date of the 8th February, “that I am not interrupted thirty times, and to such a degree, that I can only labour at public affairs by night. You know what cardinal de Retz said: – ‘The chief hinderance of the head of a party is his party.’ A thousand minor annoyances, a thousand important arrangements, a thousand inevitable interruptions, deprive me, during the day, of all presence of mind to compose, and of all coherence of ideas and style.”b Besides these labours, he had the more difficult task of keeping clear of brawls and duels among a class of men whose dearest wish was to provoke him to the committal of an outrage. Proud and arrogant themselves, they hoped to taunt one yet prouder into some deed of violence that would give them the advantage over him. But haughty as Mirabeau was, he was yet wiser; the peculiarity of his genius a

Obliging. His father’s remark (next sentence) has not been located. Paragraph based on Montigny, vol. V, pp. 231–3, 260, 267–8, including quotation. A fief is a landed estate which can impose various dues and labour obligations on its tenants and peasants and can restrict their ability to move away. Resentment against these emerged clearly during elections to the Estates-General. b

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was a quick perception of the proper line of conduct, and he preserved his dignity, while he showed himself forbearing. / He had to meet yet another difficulty. He published his correspondence from Berlin at this moment, for the purpose of acquiring the funds necessary for his election: this work was condemned to be burnt, by the parliament. It had been published anonymously; but, as the name of the author was well known, Mirabeau saw himself forced to make a journey to Paris, for the purpose of silencing his enemies, and giving courage to his friends, who quailed under the attacks made against him. This journey and short absence served but to raise to enthusiasm the favour with which he was regarded by the population of Provence. Deputations of the bourgeoisie of Marseilles and Aix met him on his return, with all the manifestations of affection and joy which the people of the south render so cordial and demonstrative. The road he traversed was strewn with flowers; fireworks were let off; a crowd of 50,000 persons assembled round his carriage, while cries of “Vive Mirabeau!” rent the air. No noble dared show himself in the streets. “If you hate oppression as much as you love your friends,” Mirabeau said to the assembled citizens, “you will never be oppressed.” He was, within a few days after, received with similar demonstrations at Marseilles: 120,000 inhabitants filled the streets to welcome him; two louis were paid for a window to look on him – his carriage was covered with laurels – the people kissed the wheels – the women brought their children to him. Mirabeau, who saw, in his elevation in the public favour, the stepping stone to success, beheld these demonstrations with proud delight; they were the signals of his triumph over the party who trampled on him – over that series of adversity which, from his cradle to that hour, had never ceased to crush him. The report, carefully spread, that this triumph had been got up by his friends, vanished before the fact that the whole population were his friends, and that the getting up was merely his assent to receive the marks of their enthusiastic favour. That he had done / his best to curry favour with the people is true: that fault abides with him, if it be one.a Among other manœuvres he had, it is said, opened a clothier’s shop at Marseilles. There is no foundation for this story, although Marat, and other partisans of equality of his own day, asserted it. He had been obliged, indeed, to make himself free of the town, when candidate for the deputyship.b His only chance was to make friends with the people. He was treated with contumely by the nobles; and even now his triumph was not devoid of drawback, occasioned by the indignities a

Paragraph including quotation based on Montigny, vol. V, pp. 278–83. ‘To make himself free of’: to be open-handed and liberal with; Carlyle also doubts the charge of shop-keeping, but characteristically comments: ‘if Achilles, in the heroic ages, killed mutton, why should not Mirabeau, in the unheroic ones, measure broadcloth?’ (Carlyle, pt I, p. 131); see also Montigny, vol. V, p. 256. Jean-Paul Marat (1744–93) was a physician with literary ambitions, unfulfilled in pre-Revolutionary France. From September 1789 he edited the fiery, democratic newspaper L’Ami du Peuple (‘The Friend of the People’) and attracted a large popular following. He probably helped orchestrate the September Massacres (see ‘Madame Roland’), and was assassinated in July 1793 by Charlotte Corday, a Girondin sympathiser. b

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cast on him by the class to which he properly belonged: their insults did not fail to sting his pride, and rouse him to revenge, even while he successfully preserved himself from open quarrelling. The popularity he acquired he was soon called upon to exert. M. Caraman, military commander in Provence, applied to him to allay the disturbances occasioned by a scarcity. The nobles regarded the pending famine as a means of taming the people; and the same marquis de Fare, who had originated the exclusion of Mirabeau from the assembly, insolently exclaimed, – “Do the people hunger? – let them eat the dung of my horses.” Such a speech, and such a spirit, manifested by the wealthy, naturally exasperated the poor. The weakness of the magistrates, who decreed so great a reduction in the price of food that the traders could no longer afford to sell it, only augmented the public peril: the granaries were pillaged, – blood was spilt in the streets. At the request of M. de Caraman, Mirabeau stept forward, – he persuaded the governor to withdraw the soldiery, – he induced the bourgeois youth to take arms to keep the peace. His eloquence, the credit given to his sincerity and good intentions, pacified the people, and first at Marseilles, and afterwards at Aix, he restored peace and security.a At this period, while he fulfilled the noble part of pacificator and of a citizen, powerful only through the influence of his genius and patriotism, he was elected, both by / Marseilles and Aix, deputy of the tiers étatb in the approaching assembly of the states-general. He gave the preference to the latter, as circumstances rendered it doubtful whether his election for Marseilles would be admitted by his colleagues. We now arrive at the epoch when he developed the whole force of his genius, and acquired immortality, as the great leader of a revolution which, at its first outbreak, commanded the sympathy and respect of the world which looked on; beholding with gladness and hope the overthrow of feudal abuses, and the restoration of the oppressed majority of the French nation to the rights of men and citizens. The first steps that Mirabeau trod towards greatness were taken on slippery ground. The eyes of the crowd sought for him with avidity, during the procession of the king and states-general to the church of St. Louis, on the 4th May. He appeared, with his dark shaggy hair, his beetling brows, and luminous eyes, stepping proudly on.c A murmur of disapprobation was raised; – he looked round, and all was silent; yet in that moment he felt the struggle, the combat that would a

Paragraph so far based on Montigny, vol. V, pp. 286–306, quote on p. 306. Montigny, vol. V, pp. 307–8. The Estates-General represented the French people in three ‘orders’, états or legal groupings: the clergy (first estate), the nobility (second) and the third estate, that is, all who were non-clerical and non-noble, from the richest financier to the poorest peasant. c Cf. Carlyle’s evocation of Mirabeau in the procession of 4 May: ‘Through whose shaggy beetle-brows, and rough-hewn, seamed, carbuncled face, there look natural ugliness, small-pox, incontinence, bankruptcy, – and burning fire of genius; like comet-fire glaring fuliginous through murkiest confusion? It is Gabriel Honoré Riquetti de Mirabeau […]. Mark him well.’ (Carlyle, pt I, p. 144, naming Mme de Staël as a source.) b

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ensue: his fiery nature made him also, perhaps, rely on victory. When the names of the deputies were called over, and those of other popular men were applauded, hisses of disapprobation followed his. They did not daunt him: he walked across the chamber to his place with an air of resolution and haughtiness that spoke of perseverance and vigour in the coming struggle. To give himself notoriety and weight, he commenced by publishing a journal of the proceedings of the chambers. This publication was seized by government, and he then changed its title to that of letters to his constituents. He excited animosity by this publication in the chamber itself, but it added to his weight and influence. The first combat of the tiers état with the two other chambers is well known. They demanded that their consultations should be held in common, while the / noblesse and clergy desired each their chamber, secure that the lower one would be crushed by the union of the two higher with the king.a Mirabeau, at first, recommended that system of passive resistance which is all powerful when resorted to resolutely by numbers. During the interval that succeeded, Mirabeau had an interview with Necker, by the desire of his friend Duroverai;b but it availed nothing. Mirabeau regarded Necker as a weak man, though he acknowledged his unimpeachable honesty; and he was soon after carried far beyond any necessity of recurring to his patronage for advancement, when, by echoing the voices of many men, and giving expression and direction to their passions, his eloquence filled France with the cry of liberty, and gave power and authority to the hesitating deputies. He met with a check, when the name he wished the assembly of tiers état to assume (deputies of the people) was rejected, with ill-founded indignation. The term people was regarded as disgraceful and humiliating. “The nation,” he wrote on this occasion, “is not ripe; the folly and frightful disorder of the government have forced the revolution as in a hotbed; it has outgrown our aptitude and knowledge. When I defended the word people, I had nearly been torn to pieces. It was circulated that I had gone over to the government: – truly I am said to have sold myself to so many, that I wonder I have not acquired a universal monarchy with the money paid for me.”c The resolution of the tiers état, now naming themselves the national assembly, excited mingled contempt and alarm. The nobility protested against their assumption, and the king was counselled to oppose their resolves by a royal decree; the hall of the deputies was closed, under pretence of preparing for the royal visit; the deputies adjourned to a neighbouring tennis court, and took a a The ‘orders’ of the Estates-General voted as a group, not by individual member, so the Third Estate could always be outnumbered by the other two. b Jacques-Antoine Du Roveray (1747–1814), Genevan radical political exile and French political activist. c The above paragraph and the three preceding ones are based on Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 31– 4, 43–50, and 65–70, quotation slightly shortened.

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solemn oath to stand by each other to the last. On the following day, the 23d of June, the seance royalea had place, and the decree promulgated that the three orders should vote separately. Satisfied / that this exertion of royal power would tame at once the rebellious deputies, the royal cortege – the ministers, the nobles, and the clergy – left the chamber; the tiers état, the self-constituted national assembly, remained. A gloomy silence ensued, broken by Mirabeau, who rose, and, warning them of the danger to be apprehended, added, “I demand of you to seek shelter in your dignity and legislative powers, and that you take refuge in the faith of your oath, which does not allow you to separate till you have formed a constitution.” The grand master of ceremonies, de Brézé, now entered, for the purpose of dispersing the deputies, saying, that they had heard the orders of the king. The president, Bailly, replied that he would take those of the assembly. At that moment, on which the public cause hung, – for on the boldness and perseverance of the deputies depended their success, – at that moment of hesitation, Mirabeau rose, and with a manner full of majesty, and a calm voice, he replied, “The commons of France intend to deliberate. We have heard what your king has been advised to say, but you, sir, cannot be his interpreter to the national assembly; you have neither place, nor voice, nor right to speak here. But, to prevent delay, go tell your master, that we are here by the power of the people; and that the power of the bayonet alone shall drive us out.”b Victor Hugo, in his essay on the character of Mirabeau, remarks, that these words sealed the fate of the monarchy of France. “They drew a line between the throne and the people; it was the cry of the revolution. No one before Mirabeau dared give it voice. Great men only pronounce the words that decide an epoch. Louis XVI. was afterwards more cruelly insulted, but no expression was used so fatal and so fearful as that of Mirabeau. When he was called Louis Capet, royalty received a disgraceful blow; but, when Mirabeau spoke, it was struck to the heart.”*c / * There is a fragment preserved of Mirabeau, remarkable for its knowledge of human motives, which shows the stress he laid on a resolute line of conduct. It deserves to be quoted:– “If I wrote a book on the military art, the chapter on enthusiasm should not be the shortest. If I wrote a treatise on politics, I would treat largely of the art of daring, which is not less necessary for the success of civil enterprises than of military operations; and also to try the strength of the man who leads; for it is the further or nearer boundary-line of the possible that marks the dif-

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Séance royale: session when the king attended in person. Paragraph based on Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 83–8, quoting p. 88. Carlyle’s Mirabeau is majestic too, but enraged: ‘[He] glares on [De Brézé] with fire-flashing face; shakes the black lion’s mane’ (Carlyle, pt. 1, p. 173). c Victor Hugo (1802–85), prominent French Romantic playwright, novelist and poet; quotation from his L’Étude sur Mirabeau (1834) (see Oeuvres Complètes, ed. Jean Massin (Club français du livre, 1967), vol. V, pp. 205–6). By invoking the surname of the first French monarchs, the king was reduced to commoner status. b

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The immediate effect of this outburst was, first, that de Brézé, losing all presence of mind, backed out of the chamber, and the deputies, electrified by the audacity of their self-constituted leader, arose with acclamations, and passed a decree to confirm his words. The national assembly, which by law was attached to the person of the king, sat at Versailles; the distance from Paris was short, and the capital regarded with growing interest the actions of the deputies. Crowds assembled in the streets, and various tumults ensued: these have been variously attributed to different factions, which excited the people for the purpose of carrying on their own designs.a There does not seem much foundation for that opinion; the public cause, the natural turbulence of the Parisians, which had been manifested during every reign of past times; the heat and agitation of the crisis, easily account for the alarming tumults in the metropolis. The chief suspicion at the time rested on the party of the duke of Orleans.b Mirabeau did not belong to this; he had no connection with the leaders of the mob; his impracticable and vehement character kept him aloof from coalition with others. He was not sufficiently trusted to be selected as chief, he disdained any other post; / feeling that, without descending to manœuvre and consultations, his energy, eloquence, and presence of mind, would place him in the van of war. He remained, therefore, independent; uneasy when others obtained influence in the assembly, visiting Paris as a looker on, and waiting his time, which soon came. For it must be remembered, that, at this period,

ference of men. “In reading history, I find that almost all the faults committed by the chiefs, of whatever party, arise from indecision in their principles, and obliquity of conduct. They revolt by halves; they are faithful by halves: they dare not entirely cast aside duty, nor entirely sacrifice their passions. The first steps, which ought to be full of confidence, are vacillating and ill-assumed: they arrange a retreat, and take several roads to reach the goal. Artifices, that favourite resource of ordinary politicians, are the effect of this timidity of the understanding or the heart. They negotiate to disguise themselves, to attract partisans, while they ought to walk straight to the object in view by the shortest line. What is the invariable result? He who wishes to deceive is deceived; they have failed in seizing the decisive moment, and have persuaded no one. As much as extremes are unwise in the course of daily life, so much are half measures insufficient in critical events; and the most dangerous, as well as the most inconsistent conduct, is to get half rid of prejudices. But there are nearly as few resolute bad men as decided honest ones; and most men want character.”c a

Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 325–46. Louis-Philippe-Joseph, duc d’Orléans (1747–93) (later known as ‘Philippe Égalité’) was the king’s cousin, and traditional leader of French constitutional liberalism before the Revolution. He was suspected of inciting various crowd demonstrations, including the October march to Versailles, in order to supplant the king or act as regent for his own son. c Montigny, vol. VII, pp. 215–17, omitting one phrase. Carlyle also suggests that the high valuation given by Mirabeau to the ‘art of daring’ is revelatory of his character (Carlyle, pt I, p. 444). b

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notwithstanding the distinguished part he had acted, Mirabeau’s supremacy was by no means acknowledged. There was a large party against him, and Barnave was held up by it as the more eloquent and greater man. The errors of his youth were remembered, and a thousand calumnies spread abroad against him; the people were even influenced by them, and though, at one time they were ready to carry him in triumph, a moment after the hawkers cried about the great treason of count de Mirabeau.a When his private conduct was attacked, Mirabeau was silent; “Because,” he says, with graceful dignity, “a strict silence is the expiation of faults purely personal, however excusable they may be; and because I waited till time, and my services, should win for me the esteem of the worthy; because, also, the rod of censure has always seemed respectable to me, even in the hands of my enemies; and, above all, because I have never seen any thing but narrow egotism and ridiculous impropriety in occupying one’s fellow citizens in affairs not belonging to them.”b But when his public conduct was attacked, he defended it with an energy and truth that bore down all attack, and raised him higher than ever in the general esteem. To return to the epoch at which we are arrived. To quell the capital and subdue the deputies, the king and his counsellors summoned troops to surround Paris. Fifteen regiments, composed chiefly of foreigners, advanced. It became evident that the design was formed of using the bayonet, to which Mirabeau had referred, as the only power to which they would submit. He now again came forward to stop the progress of the evil. He proposed an address to the king, demanding that the / march of the troops should be countermanded. He still preserved a respectful style towards the monarch, but he did not spare the measures of government, and exposed in open day the direct approach of war and massacre. His speech was covered with applause, and he was commissioned to draw up an address to the king. It was short and forcible: it prophesied, with sagacity, the dangers that must ensue from the presence of the military; it protested with dignity against the force about to be exercised against the assembly, and declared the resolution of the deputies, in spite of snares, difficulties, and terror, to prosecute their task and regenerate the kingdom. “For the first time,” says madame de Stael, “France heard that popular eloquence whose natural power is augmented by the importance of events.” “It was by Mirabeau,” Brougham observes, “that the people were first made to feel the force of the orator, first taught what it was to hear spoken reason and spoken passion; and the silence of ages in those halls was first broken by the thunder of his voice, echoing through the lofty vaults now covering multitudes of excited men.”c a Mary Shelley looks ahead to the constitutional debates of 1790 (Montigny, vol. VII, pp. 258, 261–2); Barnave: Antoine-Paul-Joseph-Marie Barnave (1761–93), radical lawyer and leader in the Constituent Assembly; he became increasingly more monarchist after 1791. b Montigny, vol. VII, pp. 274–5; cf. also Carlyle, pt. 1, p. 309. c Mary Shelley cites respectively Considérations, vol. I, p. 182, and Brougham, vol. V, p. 167.

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Dumont, in his “Souvenirs de Mirabeau,” asserts that he drew up this address.a On several other occasions, he assumes the merit either of writing for Mirabeau or suggesting his speeches. He speaks of him as a great plagiarist, putting all his associates to use in collecting materials for him, and contenting himself with giving them form, or sometimes only voice. This sort of accusation is exceedingly futile. The capacity of gathering materials, lying barren but for the life he puts into them, is the great attribute of genius: it hews an Apollo out of the marble block; places the colours of Raphael on the bare canvass; collects, in one focus, the thoughts of many men inspired by passion and nature: it, as with Mirabeau, takes the spirit of the times, the thoughts and words excited during a crisis; and, by giving to them a voice of command or persuasion, rules the minds of all. In this manner, Mirabeau was a plagiarist, but / none but he could use, to govern and subdue, the weapons fabricated, it might be, by other hands. To quote the apt metaphor of Carlisle, he might gather the fuel from others, but the fire was his own. He was not a man formed of shreds and patches taken from other men, nor was Dumont endowed with creative powers to call such a being into life. Mirabeau was a man of God’s own making, full of wild passion and remorseful error, but true to the touch of nature; fraught with genius and power; a natural king among those whom he used as his subjects to pay tribute to, and extend the sphere of, his greatness.b The death of the marquis de Mirabeau, at the age of seventy-three, took place at this period. From the time that his son figured in the assembly, he became deeply interested in his career; declaring that his success was “glory, true glory.” He was suffering by a chronic pulmonary catarrh, and evidently declining. Mirabeau frequently visited him, and was well received, though they never discussed politics during these short visits. But the marquis caused the speeches of his son to be read to him, as well as the papers that recounted the sittings of the assembly in which he figured. On the 11th of July, while he was listening to his granddaughter reading, he closed his eyes – his breathing failed – and when she looked up he was dead, with a smile on his face. Mirabeau, who venerated his father, in spite of the injuries he had sustained from him, was deeply affected by this loss: perhaps pride added to his demonstrations of affliction. He wrote to his constituents, that all the citizens in the world a Montigny (vol. VI, p. 116) notes this claim in Dumont, p. 107 (see also Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 309 and 362, noting Dumont, pp. 193 and 96). Pierre Étienne Louis Dumont (1759–1829), Genevan pastor and jurist, settled after 1785 in England, associated with Whig politicians and radical social theorists. Best known in England as the translator, advocate and interpreter of Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarian philosophy. b Throughout his pen-portrait of Mirabeau, Carlyle associates him with fire and especially with volcanic smouldering and eruption; cf. in particular Carlyle, pt I, pp. 140, 144, 146. For Mary Shelley’s spelling of the name as ‘Carlisle’ elsewhere, see MWSL, III, p. 418. Her confusion may have arisen from familiarity with the name of Sir Anthony Carlisle, who attended Mary Wollstonecraft in her last illness and who is mentioned in ch. x of Godwin’s Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

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ought to mourn; he scarcely appeared in the assembly, and for a few days gave himself up to sorrow.a It was not a period when a great political character could withdraw himself for more than a few days. The crisis was at hand. The king had returned a cold answer to the address drawn up by Mirabeau, and presented by the most distinguished deputies; the court still pursued the plan of assembling troops; Necker / was dismissed from the ministry;b the investment of the capital by the military became imminent, – when the people, animated by mixed fear and indignation, rose: they seized on all the arms they could obtain; the bastille was demolished; for the first time the Parisians felt their power, and tasted of the triumph of shedding the blood of those who resisted them. The terror of these acts spread to Versailles. The assembly sent deputation after deputation to the king, imploring him to pacify Paris by countermanding the troops. When the destruction of the bastille was known, a fifth deputation was prepared to be presented to the monarch. It was composed of twenty-four members: they were about to leave the chamber on this errand, when Mirabeau stopped them, and with increased vehemence exclaimed, – “Tell the king, that the hordes of foreigners that surround us were yesterday visited by the princes, the princesses, and their favourites, who caressed and exhorted them, and covered them with presents. Tell him that, during the night, these foreign satellites, gorged with gold and wine, predicted, in their impious songs, the servitude of France, and brutally invoked the destruction of the national assembly. Tell him that, in his own palace, his courtiers mingled in the dance to the sound of such music, and that similar to these were the preparations of Saint Bartholomew.c Tell him, that that Henry IV., whose memory the whole world blesses, he, who ought to be his model among his ancestors, sent provisions to Paris when it revolted, and he was besieging it in person; while, on the contrary, his ferocious advisers keep the corn, brought by trade, from his starving and faithful capital.”d The deputation was about to carry his words to the king, when the arrival of Louis, without guards or escort, was announced. A murmur of glad welcome ran through the assembly. “Wait,” said Mirabeau gravely, “till the king has announced his good a This and the previous paragraph are based on Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 129–32, including the quotation. b See ‘Madame de Staël’, p. 467. c Bartholomew: On 24 Aug. 1572, Protestant leaders present in Paris for a royal wedding were massacred on the orders of Charles IX in an attempt to end recurrent religious civil war. Mirabeau compares the presence of troops loyal to the monarchy in 1572 with the summoning of troops to Paris by the king in July 1789, which included foreigners in French service. Rumours of reactionary declarations at a banquet on 13 July 1789 helped provoke the attack on the Bastille to obtain arms. d Henri IV, whose reign (1597–1610) ended religious civil war. The story of his magnanimity to the people of Paris is alluded to in Louis XVI’s spurious Correspondance (see vol. 4, p. 266); it was believed that government policy of free trade in corn was a plot to benefit speculators by keeping prices high after poor harvests. The paragraph to this point follows Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 124–6, except that Montigny states that it was the fourth deputation to the king.

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intentions. Let a serious respect receive the monarch in this moment of sorrow. The silence of the people is the lesson of kings.”a / Thus did this wonderful man, by means of the fire and impetuosity of his character, enter at once into the spirit of the hour, while his genius suggested the expressions and the tone that gave it direction and voice. It is impossible to enter into the detail of all Mirabeau’s speeches and acts. A rapid glance at his votes and declarations during this period must suffice. Mirabeau detested despotism, whose iron hand had fallen so heavily on himself. The aid given by the government of his country to his father’s tyranny, – the ban placed on him by the nobility who were his equals, – the burning desire for distinction that consumed him, – his contempt for his inferiors in talent, – his faith in the revolution, – such were the passions that gave force to his genius. But his genius showed itself omnipotent nowhere except in the tribune. When he wrote, he but half expressed his thoughts; his passions were but half excited; and Mirabeau’s power lay in the union of his passions and his genius.b Apart, the former degenerated into vice, and the latter showed itself either exaggerated, sophistical, or inert. In the tribune,c their union was complete. When he began to speak he was at first confused, – his breast heaved, – his words were broken, – but the sight of his opponents, – the knowledge of the sympathy he should find in the galleries, – the inspiration of the moment, – suddenly dispersed all mistiness; his eloquence became clear, fervid, sublime – the truth conjured up images at once striking and appalling. When he was farther excited by the difficulties of a crisis, his courage rose to meet it, – he stept forward with grandeur; a word or a look, which his talent and ugliness at once combined to render imposing, shone out on the assembly, – electrified and commanded it. This power of seizing on the spirit of the question, clearing the view of the assembly, and leading it onward in the right road, he exerted memorably on the 24th September, when Necker, to remedy the disastrous state of the finances, proposed a patriotic contribution / of a fourth of the incomes. A committee, after three days spent in examination, approved the plan. Mirabeau, the known enemy of Necker, spoke, to engage the assembly to adopt it at once, on the recommendation of the minister, without taking any responsibility on itself. The friends of Necker saw the snare, and accused him of injuring the plan of the minister, while he pretended to support it. Mirabeau replied, that he was not the partisan, but, were he the dearest friend of the minister, he should not hesitate to compromise him rather than the assembly. Necker might deceive himself, and the kingdom receive no detriment; but that the public weal were compromised, if the assembly lost its credit. These words had some effect, but still the discussion went on, and still the deputies hesitated to adopt Necker’s proposition, till Mirabeau, again ascending the tribune, burst forth with a torrent of overwhelming eloquence in a b c

Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 129, note 1, excluding first sentence. The judgement echoes Brougham, pp. 163–4. i.e. when speaking in the various representative assemblies at the speaker’s desk or tribune.

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its favour: he painted the horrors of a national bankruptcy, and the consequent guilt of incurring it; he expatiated on the wide-spread misery that must ensue. He continued, – “Two centuries of robbery and depredation have opened a gulf in which the kingdom is nearly swallowed; this gulf must be filled up. Here is a list of French proprietors; select among the richest, so to lessen the number of victims; but still select – for must not a few perish to save the many? Two thousand notables possess enough to fill up the deficit, to bring back order into your finances, and peace and prosperity to the kingdom. Strike! immolate without pity these hapless victims – precipitate them into the abyss; – it will close! Ha! you draw back with horror. Inconsistent pusillanimous men! Do you not see that when you decree bankruptcy, or, what is still more odious, when you render it inevitable without decreeing it, you stain yourselves with a still greater and yet a gratuitous crime? for this sacrifice will at least fill up the deficit. But do you think, because you do not pay, you will no longer be in debt? Do you believe that the thousands, the millions of men, / who in one moment will lose by the explosion, or by its reaction, all that made the comfort of their lives, and, perhaps, their only means of support, will allow you to reap the fruits of your crime in peace? Stoical contemplators of the incalculable ills which this catastrophe will bring on France! Insensible egotists! who think that the convulsions of despair and misery will pass away like every other, and the more quickly as they are more violent; – are you sure that so many men, without bread, will tranquilly permit you to taste the viands whose quantity and delicacy you will not suffer to be diminished? No! – you will perish in the universal conflagration that you do not tremble to set alight, and the loss of your honour will not preserve one of your detestable enjoyments. *

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*

Vote, then, for this extraordinary subsidy; – may it suffice! Vote it; because, if you have any doubts with regard to the means (vague and uncertain doubts), you have none on its necessity, and our want of power to replace this proposition by any other – at least for the present. Vote it; for public affairs will not endure procrastination, and we are accountable for all delay. Beware of asking for time. Ruin never gives that. Some days ago, gentlemen, in reference to a ridiculous tumult in the Palais Royal – a laughable insurrection which had no importance except in feeble minds – you heard the violent cry uttered, ‘Cataline is at the gates of Rome, and you deliberate!’ and then certainly we had near us neither Cataline, nor danger, nor faction, nor Rome. But now bankruptcy, hideous bankruptcy is before us; she menaces to consume you, – your possessions and your honour, – and you deliberate!”a a Preceding paragraph based on Montigny, vol. VI, pp. 289–93, quoting pp. 293–4 and 297– 8. Cataline: Lucius Sergius Catilina (c. 108–62 BC), unscrupulous Roman politician and rebel, against whom Cicero gave his famous senatorial denunciation, In Catilinam (see also p. 276).

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These words raised a tumult of enthusiasm in the assembly. A deputy rose to reply, but the cries overbore him; and, frightened by his task, he remained motionless and mute. “I was near Mirabeau,” writes / madame de Stael, “when he thus delivered himself. Nothing could be more impressive than his voice; his gestures and words were pregnant with an animation, the power of which was prodigious.”a The assembly at once received the report of the committee, and adopted the plan of the minister. “This,” remarks Thiers, “is the triumph of eloquence; but he alone could obtain it who was animated by the passions and just views of Mirabeau.”b Mirabeau hated the assumptions of the aristocracy, but he looked upon royalty as a necessary defence between the lower and the higher orders; at the same time he believed that the welfare of his country demanded that the people should have a voice in the state. He expressed his opinion on this subject in a letter to his uncle the bailli. He says, – “I have always thought, and now more than ever think, that royalty is the only anchor of safety which can preserve us from shipwreck. And how many efforts I have made, and make each day, to support the executive power, and combat the distrust which induces the national assembly to go beyond the mark! For the rest, we must judge of the revolution by the good and evil of its result, not by the license which prevails at present, which forms a state too violent to be durable. I am reassured with regard to the future, by the consideration, that the revolution, be it injurious or beneficial, is, in fact, consummated. The most enlightened men feel that they must assist the change, to lessen its violence; that resistance is as useless as it must be disastrous; and that every citizen, whether zealous or indifferent, must tend to the same end, – facilitate the consolidation of the empire, and give the machine that movement which will allow us to judge of its excellence or its defects. You recommend me to support the executive power; but you will easily discern that the obstinate resistance of one order of the state, by exciting fresh causes of revenge, and producing new / commotions, would destroy that power round which the supreme law of the state commands us now to rally.”c It was in this spirit that he spoke for the veto, though fear, perhaps, of compromising his popularity made him abstain from voting. The veto had become a sort of bugbear. When Mirabeau visited Paris, the mob thronged round his carriage, imploring him to prevent the king from having the veto. They were slaves, they said, if the king had the veto; – the national assembly was useless. “Mirabeau,” says Dumont, “carried it off very well: he appeased the people; and, using only vague expressions, dismissed the mob with patrician affability.”d a Considérations, vol. I, p. 243; closing quotation marks in the original Cyclopaedia text were placed after ‘minister’, and have been editorially transferred, since the quotation from Mme de Staël ends here (evidently an error on the part of a typesetter or Mary Shelley). b Thiers, vol. I, p. 177. c Source unlocated. d Dumont, p. 156. Cf. also Carlyle, pt I, p. 251.

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At the period of the revolution, when the passions of men were excited to bandy calumny with eager voices and pens dipt in gall, Mirabeau was accused of being an Orleanist. It is difficult to say what an Orleanist was. The duke himself, weak but ambitious, never made one step forward but he made two back; so that it became a saying that the duke of Orleans did not belong to the Orleanists.a His name, meanwhile, and money were employed to form a party rather inimical to Louis XVI. than favourable to himself. It added to the tumult and tempest of the times, but was of no real influence in the direction of events. Dumont declares that, living intimately with Mirabeau, the most indiscreet and confiding of men, he saw no trace of his complicity in any plot against the court: but that, familiar with the duke as with every one, his manner gave colour to a report which had no other foundation.b That he was at this time the enemy of the court is, however, undoubted. When the fatal feast of the gardes du corps, at Versailles,c was denounced in the assembly, and the cry of calumny was raised by the royalists, Mirabeau burst out with impetuosity, and declared that he was ready to accuse by name the principal actors in this sacrilegious orgie, on condition that it were first decreed that the person of the king only was inviolable. This expression, pointing at and criminating the queen, silenced the discussion. / During the days of the 5th and 6th October, Mirabeau sought to tranquillise, without any attempt at leading, the multitude. When he first heard of the approach of the rabble rout of poissardes and their followers from the capital, for the purpose of forcing the acceptance of the constitution on the king, Mirabeau addressed the president Mounier, saying, “Paris is marching on us: make an excuse; and go to the castle and tell the king to accept the constitution purely and simply.” “Paris marches,” replied Mounier; “so much the better: let them kill us all – all, without exception – the nation will be the gainer.”d When the crowd had invaded Versailles, Mirabeau was not seen. Dumont found him in bed before eleven o’clock in the evening. He rose, and they went together to the national a

Cf. Carlyle, pt I, p. 231: he ascribes the saying to Mirabeau himself. Dumont, pp. 169–70. c A banquet, ‘fatal, as that of Thyestes’ (Carlyle) held on 1 Oct. 1789. Attended by the queen, it ended in drunken and provocative pro-royalist rowdyism. d Carlyle, pt I, p. 267. A large crowd, including poissardes (fishwives), marched to Versailles, the royal palace and seat of government near Paris, on 5–6 Oct. 1789 and forced the royal family to return with them to Paris. Jean-Joseph Mounier (1758–1806) was President of a legal tribunal and deputy to the Estates-General. His constitutional programme finding no favour, he resigned after the march. In her Vindication of the Rights of Men, Mary Wollstonecraft had cited Edmund Burke’s stigmatisation of the fishwives: ‘“Whilst the royal captives, who followed in the train, were slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells, and shrilling screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and all the unutterable abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shape of the vilest of women”’, and commented ‘Probably you mean women who gained a livelihood by selling vegetables or fish, who never had had any advantages of education; or their vices might have lost part of their abominable deformity, by losing part of their grossness.’ (The Works of Mary Wollstonecraft, ed. Janet Todd and Marilyn Butler (London: Pickering & Chatto, 1989), vol. 5, p. 30). b

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assembly, where he displayed his accustomed dignity by calling on the president to cause the assembly to be respected, and to order the chamber to be cleared of the strangers who filled it. It required all his popularity to succeed. The poissardes in the gallery, with their usual familiarity, cried out, “Mother Mirabeau must speak – we must hear mother Mirabeau!” but he was not a man to make a show on these occasions.a The king humiliated – the court, driven to extremities, yet still struggling, looked round for agents and supporters. The talents and influence of Mirabeau would render his accession to their party invaluable; Necker had named him “Tribun par calcul, et aristocrate par goût;”b and this character, joined to his debts, his bad reputation, his known vices, and the very report that he acted for the duke of Orleans, inspired the notion that he was venal. There can be no doubt that, at this period, a thousand different schemes and hopes agitated this strange and powerful man. He detested the aristocracy and despotism; but he was attached to royalty and the image of the English constitution; and various advances made him by the court led him to believe that a conscientious support of royalty might be combined with his personal interests. Dumont / mentions a conversation he had with him, in which he showed him a plan for the retreat of the king to Metz – the necessity the assembly would find itself under of following him there, and the consequent quelling of the anarchical power in France. Dumont, foreseeing that civil war and massacre would follow such attempts, argued strongly against it. Mirabeau replied that the court was resolved, and that he thought it right to combine to ensure its success, and cause them to act so as to preserve the liberty of the country. His purpose was, however, shaken by the arguments of Dumont, and the whole plan was subsequently given up.c Thiers gives a somewhat different account. He narrates that in an interview with a friend, in the park of Versailles, that lasted the whole night, Mirabeau declared that he was resolved for the sake of his glory, for the good of his country, and the advancement of his own fortune, to remain immovable between the throne and the disorganisers, and to consolidate the monarchy while he participated in its power. His pride, however, stood in the way of any debasing steps. When the court made him offers, it was informed that he would make no sacrifice of principles; but that, if the king would be faithful to the constitution, he was ready to become his staunch supporter. His conditions were, that his debts should be paid, and that he should have a place in the ministry. According to law, the ministers could neither speak nor vote in the assembly – before accepting place, Mirabeau endeavoured to get this law repealed. He failed; and during the discussion Lanjuinais proposed that the actual deputies should be forbidden to accept place. Mirabeau angrily replied, that so baneful a decree ought not to be passed for the sake of one man; but that he would vote for it with the amendment, that a place a b c

Dumont, pp. 181–2. ‘Tribune by calculation, and aristocrat by inclination’ (Considérations, vol. I, p. 202). Dumont, pp. 207–10.

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in the ministry should not be forbidden all the deputies, but only to M. de Mirabeau, deputy for Aix.a This outburst of frank audacity had no effect; Lanjuinais’ motion passed; and Mirabeau felt exceedingly indignant towards the assembly, and often spoke of the members with bitter contempt; / yet his letters bear the impress of generous forbearance, inspired by enlarged views of the duties of a citizen. “I do not say,” he writes, “that the assembly is not somewhat severe towards me; with all that, nothing can prevent, when the occasion presents, this struggling, tumultuous, and, above all, ostracising assembly, from returning under my influence: that results from the firmness of my principles, and the support given by my talent. It was from the bottom of my heart that I once wrote, ‘Malheur aux peuples reconnaissans!’ One is never quit towards one’s country. One gains glory, at least, by serving it in whatever state. No element of public servitude ought to exist – and gratitude is a very active one.”b There is generosity, but not absolute wisdom in this dictum. In republics, more evil arises from want of accord and stability of purpose than from leaning on one man, especially among the French, who, vain by nature, are more apt each to believe in his own capacity than rely on that of another. Unfortunately, this distrust of public servants took firm root during the revolution. First, no deputy was allowed to be minister, so that no man of business could be deputy. Afterwards, the members of one assembly were not allowed to be elected in the succeeding one, so that inexperience, crude views, and want of mutual reliance, became the characteristic of the French legislators.c Mirabeau’s negotiations with the court meanwhile went on; he even received for a short time a pension from Monsieur,d the king’s eldest brother; the queen treated him with winning condescension – and she was won also by the charm of his superiority and frankness. Thus he did not sell his principles, which remained unchanged, yet he made a mart of them; and, in the eye of history, falls from the high position of a man above the reach of gold.e His want of docility, meanwhile, often displeased the court – he refused to compromise his popularity at its beck,

a Thiers, vol. I, p. 204–7, edited. This episode is also discussed in Carlyle, pt I, p. 309. Lanjuinais: Jean-Denis Lanjuinais (1753–1823), Breton deputy to the Constituent Assembly. b ‘Woe to peoples that are grateful!’. The source of the entire quotation is unlocated, but the sentiment corresponds to Godwin’s denial that citizens owed a duty of gratitude to the state for governing them and to the low value placed on gratitude, generally, in Political Justice; see Political Justice, 2nd edn (1796), bk IV, ch. ii (Godwin, Political and Philosophical Writings, ed. Philp (Pickering & Chatto, 1993), vol. 4, p. 131). c After the Constituent Assembly had framed a constitution in Sept. 1791, its members were ineligible for election to the new Legislative Assembly, whose deputies could not be executive or judicial officials. d Louis, comte de Provence (1757–1824), Louis XVIII (1814–24). e Cf. Carlyle’s discussion of Mirabeau’s alleged venality (Carlyle, pt I, p. 310). Both Carlyle and Mary Shelley feel that Mirabeau should be given the benefit of the doubt, but Mary Shelley has more doubts than Carlyle.

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and despised the men who wished at once to make use of him and yet to render him useless.a / His position, though it seem dubious, was plain enough. He wished to lead a moderately royal party, and give stability to the monarchy. He desired to oppose the jacobins and disorganisers; but his views did not meet the sanguine and senseless hopes and wishes of the court – which aimed at nothing less than a return to the ancien régime. He stood therefore companionless – seizing at times on and thundering from the tribune – making his power felt whenever he was roused, but walking in darkness, uncertain of the means which yet he grappled at, whereby to confirm his greatness.b In the assembly he continued to extend his influence by means of his enthusiasm, and his power of expressing it. Various methods had been made use of to get rid of the constituent assembly, and elect another – under the pretence that, the work of forming a constitution being accomplished, their task was at an end, and that the continuation of their power was illegal and a usurpation over the throne. In the midst of the cries which these words called forth, Mirabeau rose. “We are asked,” he said “when the deputies of the people, became a national convention? I reply, on that day when, finding the entrance to their chamber surrounded by soldiers, they hastened to assemble in the first place they could find, and swore to perish rather than to betray or abandon the rights of the nation. Our powers on that day changed their nature. Whatever these powers may be which we have exerted, our efforts and our labours have legitimated them, and the adhesion of the whole nation has sanctified them. Do you remember the heroic words of the great man of antiquity, who had neglected the legal forms in saving his country? Summoned by a factious tribune to swear whether he had observed the laws, he replied, ‘I swear that I have saved my country!’ Gentlemen, I swear that you have saved France!”c At this grand oath, the whole assembly, carried away by a sudden impulse, closed the discussion and dismissed the question. The same power gave him the victory, when he was / accused of conspiring with the duke of Orleans to produce the commotions of the 5th and 6th of October, and caused the accusation to be cast aside as devoid of credit.* * The compiler of the memoirs and correspondence of La Fayette makes no doubt that Mirabeau belonged to the Orleanist faction till after the 6th of October, when he began to treat with the court. This was evidently La Fayette’s own conviction, apparently founded on the evidence laid before the assembly, August 7th, 1790, which Mirabeau refuted, as mentioned in the text.d a

Cf. Thiers, vol. I, pp. 224–6. Mary Shelley here adopts some of Carlyle’s phrasing: ‘The giant Mirabeau walks in darkness, as we said; companionless, on wild ways’. Carlyle applies these words to Mirabeau’s last months, when he was a dying man. c Thiers, vol. I, p. 237. Mirabeau alludes to Cicero’s defence against the ‘factious tribune’ Clodius, who accused him of acting unconstitutionally to put down the Catiline conspiracy. d Memoirs, Correspondence and Manuscripts of General Lafayette, published by his family, 3 vols (London: Saunders and Otley, 1837), vol. II, based on pp. 345–9. ‘August’ seems to be a mistake for ‘October’. b

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We have an interesting picture of his position at the commencement of the year 1791 from Dumont – who though his friend, and at times his secretary, or rather, as he affirms, the composer of some of his most successful speeches, gives no signs of partiality. “I dined several times at the house of Mirabeau, who told me that he was on terms with the court, and directed its counsels; and that his hopes were well founded – as the royal personages had begun to see the necessity of attaching him to their cause, and of no longer listening to the advice of the emigrants and princes. He now lived in good style, and his house was handsomely fitted up: he was better off than he had ever been, and showed no discretion in the use of his money. I was surprised to see him show off, after dinner, a case in which were several jewels. This was proclaiming his being on the civil list, and I wondered that his popularity did not suffer by it. His table was splendid, and his company numerous. His house was filled early in the morning, and it was a perpetual levée from seven o’clock till the hour of his repairing to the assembly; and a great crowd frequently assembled at that time to enjoy the felicity of seeing him pass. Although titles were abolished, he was still the comte de Mirabeau, not only with his servants and visiters, but also the people, who love to decorate their idols. I could have learnt from him the secret of his intercourse with the court, his views, means, and intrigues, for he was well disposed to open himself to me; but I neither wished to be censor nor flatterer. He insinuated twenty times that his only object was to save the monarchy, if it were / possible. That means were necessary to accomplish this end; that trivial morality was hostile to that on a large scale; that disinterested services were rare; and that hitherto the court had wasted its money on traitors.*a * Copy of a treaty with M. de Mirabeau. – “First, The king gives M. de Mirabeau the promise of an embassy: this promise shall be announced by Monsieur himself to M. de Mirabeau. Second, The king will immediately, until that promise be fulfilled, grant a private appointment to M. de Mirabeau of 50,000 livres a month, which appointment will continue at least for the space of four months. M. de Mirabeau pledges himself to aid the king with his knowledge, influence, and eloquence, in all that he may judge useful to the welfare of the state and the interest of the king – two things that all good citizens undoubtedly look upon as inseparable, and, in case M. de Mirabeau should not be convinced of the solidity of the reasons that may be given him, he will abstain from speaking on the subject. (Approved) L OUIS . (Signed) L E COMTE DE M IRABEAU .” “Note. – The original of this article is in the handwriting of Monsieur, at present Louis XVIII.” This paper is published in vol. ii. appendix, no. v. of the memoirs of Lafayette. It was found in the iron closet, discovered in the Tuileries on the 10th of August, 1792, containing secret papers. In the same receptacle is an autograph letter from Louis XVI to La Fayette, begging him to concert with Mirabeau respecting the subjects most important to the welfare of the state and the king’s service and person. This letter La Fayette suspects to have been dictated by Mirabeau himself, and was never received by him. It is dated June 29th, 1790. The treaty first quoted is printed without a date. This alliance of the court with Mirabeau was first brought about by Mona

Dumont, pp. 260–2, transposing ‘who told me […] princes’ from p. 257.

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“During the last week of my stay in Paris, I saw him in a new situation, which he had often pretended to despise, but more from mortification than indifference. He was president of the assembly, – never was the place so well filled. He displayed new talents. He put an order and clearness into the work, of which no idea had hitherto been formed. By a word, he threw light on a question; by a word, he appeased a tumult. His deference to all parties, the respect he always testified for the assembly, the conciseness of his speeches, his answers to the various deputations that came to the bar, – which, whether spontaneous or prepared, were always delivered with dignity and grace, and gave satisfaction even in refusals, – in a word, his activity, impartiality, and presence of mind / added to his reputation and success in a place which had been a stumbling block to his predecessors. He had the art of putting himself foremost, and drawing the general attention on himself, even when, not being allowed to speak from the tribune, he appeared to have fallen from his best prerogative. Several of his enemies and rivals, who had chosen him for the sake of putting him in eclipse, had the chagrin of finding that they had added to his glory. “He was far from being in good health, and told me that he felt himself perishing away. I observed that his style of life would long ago have killed a man less robust than himself. He had no repose from seven in the morning till ten or eleven at night. He was in continual conversation and agitation both of thought and feeling. When we parted, he embraced me with an emotion he had never before displayed. – ‘I shall die at the oar,’ he said, ‘and we probably shall never meet again. When I am gone my worth will be acknowledged. The evils that I have arrested will burst over France, and the criminal faction that trembles before me will no longer be bridled. I have only prophecies of evil before my eyes. Ah! my friend, how right we were when we desired at the beginning to prevent the commons from declaring themselves a national assembly, – that was the origin of our evils. Since they were victorious, they have not ceased to show themselves unworthy; they have desired to govern the king, instead of governing through him. Now neither they nor he will have authority; a vile faction will domineer over them, and fill France with terror.”a He lived for three months after saying these words, and lived still to triumph, and to add to his glory. The last scene of moment in which he displayed his mighty influence was during the discussion of the law against emigration. Mirabeau sieur, the king’s eldest brother. Afterwards, it would seem that some other was entered into, negotiated by the count de la Mark, afterwards prince d’Aremberg, which was mentioned to Bouille, Feb. 6th, 1791. The prince d’Aremberg lived in Brussels till 1833, and said to La Fayette, that Mirabeau only made himself be paid to be of his own opinion; yet the stipulation of silence, when not convinced by the court, in the above treaty, looks like a still more entire sale of his influence.b a b

Dumont, pp. 264–8. Memoirs […] of Lafayette, vol. II, pp. 476–7, with information drawn from pp. 350–4.

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opposed it as tyrannical and unjust: the popular voice went the other way, and cries were uttered against him. His thunder silenced their more feeble demonstrations. “The popularity,” / he exclaimed, “which I desired is but a feeble reed; but I will force it into the earth, and it shall take root in the soil of reason and justice!” Applause followed this burst. “I swear,” he continued, “if a law of emigration passes, I swear to disobey you.” He descended from the tribune, having silenced his enemies, and astonished the assembly. The discussion went on, and the adjournment was moved, to give time to prepare a law different from the one under discussion, and so to calm the people. The tumult continued, and cries of applause or disapprobation drowned every other sound, till Mirabeau demanded attention. A deputy, M. Goupil,a who some time ago had attacked Mirabeau with the cry that Cataline was at their doors, now exclaimed, – “By what right does M. de Mirabeau exercise a dictatorship?” At these words the orator threw himself into the tribune. The president remarked, – “I have not accorded the right to speak; let the assembly decide.” The assembly listened. – “I beg my interruptors,” said Mirabeau, “to remember that through life I have combated against tyranny, and I will combat it wherever it is to be found.” Speaking thus, he turned his eyes from right to left, while applause followed his words; – he continued: – “I beg M. Goupil to remember that not long ago he was mistaken as to the Cataline whose dictatorship he now resists. I beg the assembly to remark that the question of adjournment, simple in appearance, comprehends others, since it supposes that there is a law to form.” Murmurs rose from the left; the orator fixed his eyes on the inimical party, and its leaders, Barnave and Lameth.b “Silence those thirty voices,” he cried: “I am content also to vote for the adjournment, but on condition that no sedition follows.” This was the greatest, and it was the last struggle that Mirabeau had with the jacobins, – his last attempt to stop the progress of that revolution to which he had given form and dignity during its primal struggles. “I would not,” he wrote, in a letter meant for the eye of / the king, – “I would not have laboured only at a vast destruction.”c Thus pledged by his principles and his promises to the court to prop the monarchy, his task was becoming one that demanded more force than, even giant as he was, he possessed. The shades of death cover the probabilities of the future; but it can scarcely be doubted that he must have modified his views, animated the king to a more resolute and popular course, or been swept away in the torrent of blood so soon about to flow.d a

A supporter of Robespierre, also mentioned by Carlyle. Théodore, comte de Lameth (1756–1854), one of the radical ‘Triumvirate’, along with Barnave and Adrien Duport, in the Constituent Assembly; Thiers (vol. I, pp. 301–2) and Carlyle (pt I, p. 437) also describe Mirabeau’s last stand against the Jacobins. c Possibly from the entry on Mirabeau in the 1st edn of the Biographie Universelle (vol. XXVIII, p. 369, in the 1843–65 edition). d Carlyle in the chapters ‘Mirabeau’ and ‘Death of Mirabeau’ similarly speculates that ‘had Mirabeau lived, the History of France would have been different’ but then sternly reminds himself that ‘these would-have-beens are mostly a vanity’. b

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For some time, incessant labour and excitement undermined his life. The ophthalmias, which had first attacked him in his prison, in Vincennes, were renewed, and he was often obliged to apply leeches to his eyes during the intervals of one day’s sitting of the assembly. The sense of disease at work within seemed to him to resemble the effects of poison; and the medicines he took added to, instead of diminishing, his conviction that he was perishing. His last and fatal seizure was accompanied by intense pain and agonising spasms; and the only physician he admitted, who was his friend, began to lose hope. As soon as his illness became publicly known, his house was surrounded by an anxious and mute multitude. In the hour of danger they remembered him as their leader, their preserver, their hope. The bulletins of his progress were seized on with avidity. Louis XVI. sent ostensibly twice a day, and much oftener in secret, to hear how he went on.a For a moment, the king and the people appeared united by a common interest, and had a desire of currying favour with the revolutionary party animated the monarch, and induced him to visit the dying man, he had acquired a popularity never to be forgotten. The demagogues feared that he might have been led to such an act; but it was out of character with Louis, who clung longer to the etiquettes than to the reality of royalty. The last days of Mirabeau were divided between agonising pain and calm and affectionate conversation with his friends. While he hoped to recover, he gave / up all his thoughts to his cure; and even refused to receive his friends, that the remedies might have a fairer chance. But, when he felt the sure approach of death, he was eager to have them around, and talking with them, holding their hands, and looking affectionately on them, found deep enjoyment in the consciousness of their sympathy and love. Already he spoke of himself as dead – with great reluctance he allowed another medical man to be called in, whose remedies proving ineffectual, Mirabeau said, “You are a great physician, but there is one greater than you; he who created the wind that destroys all – the water that penetrates and produces all – the fire that vivifies or decomposes all.”b He heard with emotion of the demonstrations of affection made by the people. His last hours were marked by mingled philosophy and gaiety: he called his friends about him, and discoursed of himself and public affairs, with a view to futurity after he was gone; he made his will – the legacies of which the count de Lamark,c who had been his means of communication with the court, promised should be paid. The visit of his enemy, Barnave, who came in the name of the jacobins to inquire concerning him, afforded him pleasure. He gave M. de Talleyrand a discourse he had prepared for the tribune;d and, speaking of Pitt, he said “he is a minister of prepa

Montigny, vol. VIII, p. 436. Montigny, vol VIII, p. 444. i.e. the comte d’Arenburg, see p. 425, note. Among the ‘gaieties’ reported by Montigny is the following, upon seeing the sun rise: ‘If that is not God, it is his first cousin’ (Montigny, VIII, p. 450). d Talleyrand: Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord (1754–1838), Bishop of Autun. Reforming, worldly cleric, and prominent statesman throughout successive French regimes: see ‘Madame de Staël’ (Thiers, vol. I, p. 304). b c

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arations, and governs by threats: I should have given him some trouble had I lived.”a He felt the approach of his last hour. “I shall die to-day, my friend,” he said, to Cabanis; “no more remains than to crown one’s self with flowers, and surround one’s self with music, so to pass peacefully into eternal sleep.” Hearing the report of cannon, fired for some ceremony, he exclaimed, “Hark! the funeral rites of Achilles are begun!” As he lost his speech, he yet smiled softly and serenely on his friends. The spasms returned with renewed violence. Unable to speak, he wrote, asking, that opium might be given him to appease them; but, before he could take it, he was no more.b His death took place on the 20th of April, 1791, at / the age of forty-two. The news quickly spread through the court, the town, the assembly. Every party had placed their hopes in him, and he was mourned by all except such as might envy his fame. On hearing the fatal intelligence, the assembly interrupted its sitting; a general mourning was ordered, and a public funeral. He was buried in the Pantheon (formerly church of Sainte Geneviève), which had been dedicated “Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnoissante;”c and Mirabeau was the first buried there. His funeral took place on the morrow of his death. The ministers and magistrates, the assembly, the army, the municipalities, in short, the members of every public institution, accompanied the procession. He was more numerously and honourably attended, and he was more sincerely mourned, than kings and princes had been, or than any other great man of his own times. During the reign of terror his remains were torn from the tomb, and scattered to the winds, as those of a traitor to the nation.d The peculiarity of Mirabeau, as we before remarked, was the union of great genius with impetuous passions. The last, manifesting themselves in boyhood, in a family which, while the members were remarkable for vehemence in themselves, exacted the most entire filial obedience from their offspring, caused him to be opposed, persecuted, and oppressed. Seventeen lettres de cachet had been issued against him, while he felt that his crimes were rather errors in which the public or the state had no concern. Shut up in a narrow fortress or narrower cell, his hatred of tyranny was strongly excited, and he sought in his writings to express it; and, when the occasion offered, he combated it with impetuous eloquence and determined resistance. At that time, aware how much his influence was lessened by the errors of his youth, he had been known, when he felt his progress checked a

William Pitt the Younger (1759–1806), British Prime Minister. Montigny, vol. VIII, p. 446. Montigny, vol. VIII, citing pp. 450, 455–7, though according to Montigny, Mirabeau wrote, not spoke his identification with Achilles, one of the main heroes of the Trojan wars in Homer’s epic Iliad. Cabanis: Pierre-Jean-Georges Cabanis (1757–1808), doctor and man of letters. c ‘[From] a grateful nation to its great men’. d Details of the funeral come from Montigny, vol. VIII, pp. 484, 489. Mention of the violation of his tomb during the Terror may derive from Carlyle’s chapter ‘Lion not Dead’ in pt II, where he invokes imagery of the whirling wind of opinion and the ‘scattering’ of Mirabeau’s dust and the debris of his broken busts. Carlyle includes the detail that Mirabeau’s remains were thrown into the cesspool of Montmartre. b

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by the disrepute in which his private character was held, / to weep, and to exclaim, “I cruelly expiate the errors of my youth!”a With all his errors he was a warm and kind-hearted man, and gifted with undaunted courage. During his political career, his enemies were perpetually endeavouring to embroil him in duels, which he avoided without the most distant suspicion of cowardice being attached to him. He was a man of wit, and many of his sayings are recorded. They are often bitter epigrams on his enemies, and inspired by hatred rather than truth. He called the virtuous La Fayette Grandison-Cromwell; and said of him that he had bien sauté pour reculer, as his latter conduct did not come up to his first entrance on life when he went to America.b He was the implacable enemy of Necker, who, he says, was “a clock always too slow.” While speaking in the national assembly, he pointed to a picture, emblemising Time, with his scythe and his hour-glass always full, exclaiming, “We have taken his scythe, but we have forgotten his time-piece.” Of the national assembly he said, “It has Hannibals in plenty, and needs a Fabius.” It was the fashion to call Clermont-Tonnerre the Pitt of France: “As you please,” said Mirabeau; “but how would Pitt like to be called the Clermont-Tonnerre of England?” His faculty of wit rose sometimes into grandeur. When he spoke of the convulsions that would ensue on the entire overthrow of the monarchy, he cried, “You will have assassinations and massacres; but you will never rise to the execrable height of a civil war.” Talleyrand said that he dramatised his death.c It is a strange moment for vanity to become paramount; and the chief trait of his death-bed was his gentleness and serenity, and the affection he showed to his friends. Politics occupied him at times; and he said to those about him, “Après ma mort, les factieux se partagéront les lambeaux de la monarchie.”d The great quality of his mind was the power of seizing on any word or idea presented to him, and reproducing it at the right moment, with such vigour and / fire as made it omnipotent. It was the eagle eye that enabled him on the instant to a

Montigny, vol. VIII, p. 530. Dumont, p. 296. Grandison is Samuel Richardson’s pious hero in the novel Sir Charles Grandison (1753–4); Cromwell, the republican leader of England’s Interregnum (1649–1660). The point of the insult appears to be that Lafayette’s ability to take decisive action was always being checked by his wishing to be the perfect gentleman. Mirabeau mockingly reverses the usual French phrase, reculer pour mieux sauter, ‘to step back in order better to leap forward’. Lafayette had been regarded as a hero for his role helping the Americans in their War of Independence (1776–83). c These comments, except for the last direct quotation, are from Dumont, pp. 298, 300, 309. Fabius Maximus (c. 275–203 BC ), Roman general whose delaying tactics in the 2nd Punic War against the Carthaginians led by Hannibal (247–182 BC ) contributed to the latter’s defeat. Mirabeau contrasts cautious advance with revolutionary impetuosity; Stanislas, Comte de Clermont-Tonerre (1757–92), was a career officer, President of the Constituent Assembly in August 1789, and a supporter, like Pitt in Britain, of constitutional monarchy. d ‘After I am dead, the factions will divide the shreds of monarchy between them’. Possibly a slight misquotation from BUP, p. 616; a version appears in Carlyle in English as ‘I carry in my heart the death-dirge of the French Monarchy; the dead remains of it will now be the spoil of the factious.’ b

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discern the right path, or the commanding idea, and to express it with force and majesty. With a lion heart, untiring perseverance, and the strength of a giant, he swept away opposition, inspired confidence, and fixed his standard far within the ranks of the enemy, where none dared touch it. So well could he adapt his very ugliness, his flashing eyes, abundant hair, and marks of physical power, to the sentiments which he expressed, that an actor on hearing him speak in the tribune exclaimed, “Ah! what a pity he was born a gentleman; he has missed his vocation!”a He was greater as an orator than a leader. But each day he lived he advanced in the science of party strife. At the last, when he contemplated an organised opposition to the jacobins, he became expert; but it may be believed that he would have found an insuperable obstacle to success in the passions of the people. In early life his misfortunes arose from not having embarked in a fitting career. As a military man, a century before, as a marshal under Louis XIV., he had replaced Turenne; a few years later, he might have emulated Napoleon. As it was, had he been allowed to seek active service in the army, his turbulence had found vent in the midst of hardship and danger – a general would have been given to his country. Another school was needed to form the leader of the revolution: the exasperation engendered by tyranny, the resolution born in the solitude of a dungeon, the ambition nurtured by contempt of inferior men – all that had quelled a feebler man – gave force and direction to his passions, perception and enthusiasm to his genius, and made that Mirabeau, whom his countrymen regard as one of the greatest of their leaders, and whose name is a light that burns inextinguishably amidst the glory that illustrated the commencement of the French revolution. /

a

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MADAME ROLAND. 1754–1793. M ADAME R OLAND , strictly speaking, can scarcely be classed among persons of literary reputation. Her fame rests even on higher and nobler grounds than that of those who toil with the brain for the instruction of their fellow creatures. She acted. What she wrote is more the emanation of the active principle, which, pent in a prison, betook itself to the only implement, the pen, left to wield, than an exertion of the reflective portion of the mind. The composition of her memoirs was the last deed of her life, save the leaving it – and it was a noble one – disclosing the nature of the soil that gave birth to so much virtue; teaching women how to be great, without foregoing either the duties or charms of their sex; and exhibiting to men an example of feminine excellence, from which they may gather confidence, that if they dedicate themselves to useful and heroic tasks, they will find helpmates in the other sex to sustain them in their labours and share their fate. In giving the life of this admirable woman, we have at once the advantage and disadvantage of drawing the details of her early years from her autobiography. We are thus secure from false statements and meagre conjecture; but our pages must appear cold and vapid, as containing only an abridgment of details which she recounts with a glowing pen. Under these circumstances, it is better to refer the reader to her work for minutia, and to confine ourselves to results; and instead of lingering over a dry statement of facts, to seek for the formation of character, and to give a rapid view of the causes of her greatness; and to find what was the position and education of a woman who, in a country usually noted for frivolity and display, exhibited simplicity / joined to elevation of character and strength of mind, of which few examples can be found in the history of the world. Manon Phlipon was of bourgeoise, and even humble, though respectable birth. Her father was an engraver; he had a slight knowledge of the fine arts, and wished to become an enamel painter: he failed in this as well as in an after attempt to enrich himself by trading in jewels, which brought on his ruin.a During the early years of his daughter he was well to do, and employed several workmen under him. His wifeb was refined in character, and might have hoped for a partner of a more delicate and enlightened mind; but her sense of duty and sweetness of a b

Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 4. Marie-Marguerite Bimont.

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temper reconciled her to her lot. Manon was the second of seven children, but the only one who survived infancy. She was put out to be nurseda by a peasant in the country, as was the practice in those days, and returned home when two years old, to pass the remainder of her girlhood beneath the parental roof, under the care of her gentle and excellent mother, who found it an easy task to regulate the disposition of one whose earliest characteristic was sensibility. “While I remained in my peaceful home,” she writes of herself, “my natural sensibility so engrossed every quality, that no other displayed itself – my first desire was to please and to do good.” Naturally serious and fond of occupation, she loved reading from infancy; books and flowers were her earliest passion; and as she records this in her prison, torn from all she loved, expecting the death to which those about her were being led by turns, “still,” she says, “I can forget the injustice of men and my sufferings among books and flowers.”b Every sort of master was given her by her fond parents, and she applied herself with an ardour and a delight that led her instructors to prolong her lessons, and to take deep interest in teaching her. Her father, who had no idea of education except by reprimand and punishment, was soon led to cease to interfere in the guidance of her conduct; he caressed her, taught her to paint, / and showed her every kindness; while the cultivation of her mind and heart was left to her mother, who found it easy to lead her by appeals to her reason or her feelings.c Passionately fond of reading, she seized on books wherever she could find them: there were not many in her father’s house, but Plutarch fell into her hands at nine years old, and more delighted her than all the fairy tales she had ever read; she drank in republicanism even then. Her imagination and her heart were warmed meanwhile by reading Fénélon and Tasso. As she remarks, had she had indiscreet companions, this early development of feeling might have led to an untimely awakening of passion; but under the shelter of her mother, with her only for a companion, her heart sympathised with the emotions of others, without any reference to herself – occupation and innocence protected her.d She lived in all the simplicity that belonged to a tradesman easy in his means. The bourgeoisie of Paris of those days were a remarkable class. They detested and despised the debauchery of the noblesse, and the servility of their parasites; while they held themselves far above the brutal ignorance and licentiousness of the populace. The women of this class passed laborious and secluded lives, enlivened only by the enjoyments their vanity might gather on days of festivals, when they showed off their fine clothes and pretty faces in the public promenades. The haba

i.e. wet-nursed, still a common practice among French women who helped in their husbands’ businesses throughout the 19th century. b Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 8; the previous quotation is taken from p. 3. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 16 and 14. d Material on formative reading is taken from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 21–2. The Mémoires actually say that reading Voltaire was a corrective to her excessive imagination, and mention her extensive theological studies.

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its of this class, as madame Roland describes them from experience, were remarkable for frugality. She accompanied her mother to market – occasionally she was sent alone, which she thought somewhat derogatory – but did not complain. There was but one servant, and sometimes she assisted in the kitchen; at the same time, the fondness of her mother displayed itself by dressing her elegantly and richly on Sundays and visiting days.a Dancing, in which she excelled, was among her accomplishments. Her mother was pious: by degrees the sensibility of her character found a vent for itself in religion. The first / time she left her mother’s roof was, at her own request, to prepare herself in a convent to receive her first communion. During her retreat she formed a friendship with a young companion. After leaving the convent, their intercourse continued by letters; and this, she tells us, was the origin of her love of writing, and caused her, by exercise, to acquire facility.b After passing a year in the convent, she passed another with her paternal grandmother, and then she returned to her father’s roof.c Her days were chiefly passed in study; her meditative mind speculated on all she read; her mother permitted her to read every book that fell in her way, and the self-taught girl preferred philosophical works to every other; she thus enlarged the sphere of her ideas; formed opinions, and erected rigid rules of morality as her guide. The severe principles of Pascal and the writers of the Port-Royal had a great attraction for her ardent mind; and when she sought in philosophy for principles of equal selfdenial, she endeavoured to adopt the system of the stoics. All that ennobled the soul and exalted the moral feeling attracted her. She was dispirited when she turned to the pages of modern French philosophy. The theories of Helvetius saddened her, till she was relieved by the consideration that his narrow and derogatory view of human motive and action was applicable only to the corrupt state of society such as he found it in France.d She believed that she ought to study this author as a guide in the depraved world of Paris; but she rejected his doctrines as explanatory of the movements of the human soul in a virtuous simple state of society; she felt herself superior to the principle of self which he made the law of our nature; she contrasted it with the heroic acts of antiquity, and thus she became enthusiastically attached to those republics in which virtue flourished; she became persuaded that freedom was the parent of heroes; she regretted that a

Mary Shelley follows Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 25–6. Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 27–30, 40–8. The companion was Sophie Cannet. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 46. d Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 86, 100–1. Claude-Adrien Helvétius (1715–71) articulated in De L’Esprit (1758) a materialistic interpretation of human nature. Helvétius portrayed morality as derived from the seeking of pleasure and avoidance of pain and self-interest as the basis of all motivation. He influenced English utilitarians like Jeremy Bentham, but the Godwins and the Shelleys, while accepting with qualifications his first principle, differed from utilitarians in believing that humans naturally take pleasure in sympathetic self-identification with others and in self-forgetfulness. For Mary Shelley, Helvétius epitomises French pre-Revolutionary materialist philosophy and the hedonist ideology of the wealthy elite. See also vol. 2, ‘Rochefoucauld’. b

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her lot had not been cast among such, and disdained the idea of associating with the corrupt race of her day. The aspirations after the examples set / by the great, the virtuous, the generous, and the wise, which she thus nourished, gave a charm to her solitary life; but her studies excited far other feelings when she was led to remark how little they accorded with the state of society in France.a Sometimes she was taken to visit certain ladies who claimed to be noble, and who, looking upon her as an inferior, sent her to dine with their servants. Once she paid a visit of eight days at Versailles, and witnessed the routine of a court. How different were the impertinent pretensions of these silly women, and the paltry pomp of royalty, from the majesty of the solitary reveries in which she associated with the heroes and philosophers of old! Her soul rejected distinctions of rank such as she found them in her own country, – empty in themselves, as far as regarded real excellence, and degrading to her in her position, – and she hurried back to take her proper place in creation, not the humble daughter of an obscure mechanic, but one whose mind was refined by philosophy, enlarged by knowledge; whose heart beat with generous impulses, and who already felt her bosom swell with the heroism which her future actions displayed. “I sighed,” she writes, “as I thought of Athens, where I could have equally admired the fine arts, without being wounded by the spectacle of despotism; I transported myself in thought to Greece – I was present at the Olympic games, and I grew angry at finding myself French. Thus, struck by all of grand which is offered by the republics of antiquity, I forgot the death of Socrates, the exile of Aristides, the sentence of Phocion;b I did not know that heaven had reserved it to me to witness errors similar to those of which they were the victims, and to participate in a similar persecution, after having professed similar principles.” She regarded the position she held in society with bitterness. Vain of her accomplishments and knowledge, proud in the consciousness of her integrity and of the lofty meditations in which she indulged, the condescension of the petty noblesse towards the daughter of an / artisan made her bosom swell with haughty emotion. She does not disguise that this feeling caused her to hail the revolution with greater transport. It is usual to accuse the lowly of envy, so to cast a slur over their motives when they espouse with enthusiasm the cause of freedom. In all societies there must be difference of position, arising from the distribution of property, and no passion is more mean than that which causes the poor to view with envy the luxuries and ease of the rich. But the disdain which springs from knowing that others assume a

Mary Shelley bases this account on Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 58ff. This paragraph is derived from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 87–9. All three men mentioned were victims of the Athenian republic’s injustice. Socrates was put to death for allegedly undermining religion and corrupting youth. Aristides, the subject of one of Plutarch’s Lives, a politician known for his probity, was banished from Athens in 482 BC for two years. Phocion, another subject of Plutarch’s, was a general of the 4th century BC , executed for treason in 318 BC during a period of democratic rule. b

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superiority from mere adventitious circumstances – that there is an impassable barrier, on the outer side of which the ignobly born must remain, vainly desiring a career in which to distinguish themselves – is a noble feeling, and is implanted in the human heart as the source of the highest virtues. Human weakness mingled, probably, some pettiness in the pride of the beautiful and studious bourgeoise, but she knew how to rise above it; and when she sealed her ambition with her blood, she proved that it was honourable, and that her desire of distinction was founded on a generous love of the good of her species. The only child of a prosperous artisan, it was supposed that she was an heiress: this idea, joined to her personal attractions, elicited numerous pretensions to her hand, and her indulgent parents conceded to her the privilege of replying to them. Her sensibility was great, and she looked on wedded life as the source of every felicity; but this very notion made her scrupulous in her choice. The young men of the quarter passed in review before her, and were, one after the other, rejected. A little hesitation ensued when a physician proposed – she hoped for more refinement and knowledge in one of the learned professions. In the end, he also was refused. – her heart continued untouched; she would have been glad if any one had appeared whom she could have looked upon as worthy of her; but, as this did not happen, she rejoiced to escape the proposed shackles, and turned to her peaceful studious home, the / affection of her mother, and the attachment of her friends, with renewed delight. The account she gives of the many proposals she received, and the way in which they were finally dismissed, is one of the most amusing portions of her book, and affords a pleasant and vivid picture of the French system with regard to marriages.a Her mother’s health became enfeebled, and this excellent parent regarded her daughter’s future prospects with anxiety. Phlipon had become careless in his business; his customers deserted him, his speculations failed; he grew fond of pleasure, and habits of industry were thrown aside. His wife was aware of the advances of poverty, and of the slight confidence she could place in her husband; she reasoned with her daughter, and tried to persuade her to accept the offer of a young jeweller, who had youth and good habits to recommend him; but Manon shrunk from uniting herself with one whom she could not regard as the sharer of her studies nor the guide of her conduct.b Her mother died suddenly of paralysis. Madame Roland gives a vivid picture of the affliction she felt on this event, which conducted her to the brink of the grave. It was long before she could be roused from the intense grief that overwhelmed both mind and body. She became incapable of application, and struggled in vain to cast off the melancholy that made her a burden to herself and others. By degrees, her regrets grew less passionate and more tender. At this moment a friend, abbé Legrand, put the “Nouvelle Heloise” into her hands, – it succeeded in exciting her attention, and in calling her thoughts from her loss. “I was twentya b

Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 132–48. The rejected physician was a Dr Gardanne. Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 148–50.

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one,” she says, “and Rousseau made the same impression on me then as Plutarch had done when I was eight. Plutarch had disposed me to republicanism, – he had awakened the energy and pride which are its characteristics; he inspired me with a true enthusiasm for public virtue and freedom. Rousseau showed me domestic happiness and the ineffable felicity I was capable / of tasting.” From this time, she returned to her quiet routine of life, her studies, and her habits of observation. “I was placed,” she says, “in solitude, but on the borders of society, and could remark much without being intruded on.” Several men of letters interested themselves in her, and delighted in her society. Finding that she was in the habit of writing her remarks, some among them prognosticated that she would become an author; but she had no inclination to seek publicity in that manner. “I soon saw,” she says, “that an authoress loses more than she gains. My chief object was my own happiness, and I never knew the public interfere with that for any one without spoiling it. There is nothing more delightful than to be appreciated by those with whom one lives, and nothing so empty as the admiration of those whom we are never to meet.” Other cares, however, intruded themselves; she saw that her father’s fortune was wasting away, and anticipated ruin for him and poverty for herself. He was young and dissipated, and might marry again. Meanwhile, he was never at home, and interfered in her life only to annoy her, without affording the paternal protection or domestic society that she needed. She felt that her situation grew precarious, and the energy of her character determined her to meet rather than await the evil. She secured to herself a scanty income of about 25l. a year from the wreck of her father’s fortune, and retired on it to a convent. She rented a small room in the congregation, and established herself in her retreat, determined to limit her wants to her means. Her plan demanded unflinching resolution; and this she displayed. Her food was simple, and prepared by herself. She only went out to visit her relations, and cast a careful eye over her father’s household. The rest of her time was spent in her little solitary chamber. She gave herself up to study, and fortified her heart against adversity, determined to deserve the happiness which fate denied her.a / She at this time by no means foresaw the course of life she was destined to pursue, although she was already acquainted with her future husband. M. Roland de la Platiere, belonged to a family of Lyons, distinguished in what the French call the robe; that is, by having filled with credit legal employments.b As the youngest a The above paragraph, including quotations, is taken from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 160, 162–3 and 166. b Jean-Marie Roland de la Platière (1734–93) came to Paris in 1791 on behalf of the Lyons municipal government; he became Minister of the Interior in Mar. 1792 when the Girondin group was at the height of its influence. He was dismissed by the king on 13 June but reinstated on 10 Aug. when the republic was declared. His alleged mishandling of the discovery of secret documents (in the ‘iron chest’ mentioned in the note on Mirabeau’s secret financial dealings with the king), which revealed the king’s links with the counter-revolution, together with his own concerns over the increasing violence of the revolution, brought about his downfall. Lyons, second city of France, situated on the river Rhône in the south-east, was then an important commercial and manufacturing centre, especially of silk.

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of five sons, he was destined for the ecclesiastical profession; to avoid which, he left the paternal roof at the age of nineteen, and, alone and almost penniless, traversed France to Nantes, with the intention of embarking for India. He was dissuaded by a stranger to whom he had applied for information with regard to his projected voyage, who interested himself in his fate, and saw that he was too weakly in health to encounter the hardships of emigration. He found employment in the administration of manufactures at Rouen and Amiens. He possessed great simplicity and integrity of character; he loved study, and applied himself sedulously to gathering knowledge with regard to the manufactories of which he had the superintendence. He wrote several works that treated of such subjects.a He was a man generally esteemed for his sound plain sense; his austere and simple manners inspired confidence, though he was more respected than loved on account of a certain coldness of character that repelled. He was known to Sophie, Mlle. Phlipon’s convent friend; he heard her speak of her correspondent with admiration, and often asked to be allowed to make acquaintance with her during his yearly visit to Paris. At length, Sophie gave him an introduction. “This letter,” she wrote, “will be delivered to you by the philosopher I have often mentioned, M. Roland de la Platiere, an enlightened and excellent man, who can only be reproached for his great admiration of the ancients at the expense of the moderns, whom he despises, and his weakness in liking to talk too much about himself.” Mlle. Phlipon liked him better than this sketch promised. His manners were a little cold and stiff; he was careless in dress, and no longer / youthful either in years or appearance; but she discerned and appreciated his simplicity and benevolence of character. He took pleasure in the society of the serious and reflective recluse, and paid her long though not frequent visits. His age prevented any idea of impropriety on the score of his being an admirer, add to which her father, while he ran after pleasure himself, left his daughter to pursue her way without interference. Roland was about to make a tour in Italy. He chose his new friend as the depositary of his manuscripts, and, before he departed, introduced to her his brother, a benedictine, prior of the college of Clugny at Paris. Through the intervention of this brother she saw the letters and observations that Roland sent from Italy. On his return, they continued friends; his conversation was a great resource to her, while the habit he indulged of seeing her often, at last rendered her society necessary to him, and love – slow and chill, but of deep growth – arose in his heart. Five years after the commencement of their acquaintance he disclosed his sentiments. She was flattered by the proposal – his good birth during the old regime was a tangible good, to which she was by no means insensible, but her pride led her to represent to him that she was a bad match – her family ignoble, and she herself, instead of being an heiress, ruined through her father’s imprudence. a

Probably referring to three volumes on technical subjects in the Encyclopédie Méthodique, published by Pancoucke (1784–90). Of the towns named in the paragraph, Rouen and Amiens were famous manufacturing centres; Nantes is a key port on the west coast, at the mouth of the Loire river.

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Roland persisted in his address, and she permitted him to apply to her only surviving parent, which he did by letter from Amiens. Phlipon did not like his austerity, and was not pleased by the tone of his letter; thinking only of his own feelings, and without consulting his daughter, he sent a rejection couched in rude and even impertinent terms. His daughter, when informed of what he had done, was a good deal shocked; for the last few months she had looked on Roland as her future husband, and attached herself to him. She wrote to him saying, that the event had justified her fears with regard to her father, and that he had better abandon his pursuit. At the same time she resolved to render herself independent – that if Roland / persisted, he should not again be annoyed. It was on this occasion that she retired to a convent, and bound herself to subsist on the scanty income which was all that she possessed. At first Roland wrote to complain of her father’s treatment, and though still expressing attachment, appeared to regard the paternal rejection as putting an end to his hopes. Six months afterwards he visited Paris; the sight of his friend at the convent grate renewed the feelings which absence and disappointment had blunted; he pressed his offer, and sent his brother, the benedictine, to persuade her. “I reflected deeply,” she writes, “on what I ought to do. I could not conceal from myself that a younger man would not have delayed, for several months, entreating me to change my resolution, and I confess that this circumstance had deprived my feelings of every illusion. I considered, on the other hand, that this deliberation was an assurance that I was appreciated; and that if he had overcome his pride, which shrunk from the disagreeable circumstances that accompanied his marrying me, I was the more secure of an esteem I could not fail to preserve. In short, if marriage was, as I thought, an austere union, an association in which the woman usually burdens herself with the happiness of two individuals, it were better that I should exert my abilities and my courage in so honourable a task, than in the solitude in which I lived.”a With these feelings she married. Of a passionate and ardent disposition, she devoted herself to a life of self-control; and, resolved to find her happiness in the fulfilment of her duty, she delivered herself up with enthusiasm and without reserve to the task she undertook. She was her husband’s friend, companion, amanuensis; fearful of the temptations of the world, she gave herself up to labour; she soon became absolutely necessary to him at every moment, and in all the incidents of his life; her servitude was thus sealed; now and then it caused a sigh; but the holy sense of duty reconciled her to every inconvenience. / She visited Switzerland and England. In this country her husband’s connection with the scientific world led her to the society she best liked. They then took up their abode at the family residence of Clos la Platiére near Lyons, with her husband’s mother and elder brother. Madame Roland had one child, a little girl; – to a Quotations in the preceding two paragraphs mingle Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 197–8, 204–6, 212–17, quoting p. 217.

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educate her; to render her husband happy; to spread the charm of peace and love around, and in the midst of this to cultivate in her own pure mind the most elevated as well as the gentle virtues; to be useful to their peasantry, and mitigate as well as she could the many hardships to which the poor in France were exposed; – this was the scope of her life, and the entire prospect spread out before her.a Her husband had so little expectation of change, that he endeavoured to get his right to letters of nobility acknowledged, as, madame Roland observes, “who would not have done the same in those days?”b The time was apparently far off when it could be of general good to reject the privileges of class; and these privileges were so great that the sphere of usefulness was considerably extended to any one who possessed them. Failing in this attempt, the republican pair sometimes deliberated emigrating to America, that they might there enjoy equal institutions, and the sight of public happiness and prosperity. The age of M. Roland was an insurmountable obstacle, however, to this plan. Her letters, during this period, afford a picture of her mind; showing her love of duty and of study; her enjoyment of the beauties of nature, and, above all, the warm affectionateness of her disposition, which made her supremely happy in the happiness of others, and caused her to share, with tender sympathy, all the joys or sorrows of those she loved. Her husband’s relations were disagreeable, but she bore the interference that prevented her living exactly in the manner she preferred with an unruffled temper. She tolerated every fault in others, and secluded herself to secure her liberty: she never repines. “Seated in my chimney corner,” she / writes to M. Bosc, “at eleven before noon, after a peaceful night and my morning tasks – my husband at his desk, and my little girl knitting – I am conversing with the former, and overlooking the work of the latter; enjoying the happiness of being warmly sheltered in the bosom of my dear little family, and writing to a friend, while the snow is falling on so many poor wretches overwhelmed by sorrow and penury. I grieve over their fate, I repose on my own, and make no account of those family annoyances which appeared formerly to tarnish my felicity. – I am delighted at being restored to my accustomed way of existence.”c This country life was alternated by visits to Lyons, where Roland had employment, where she mingled in society; but the provincial tone that reigned was little consonant with her taste. The revolution came in the midst of this peaceful existence, to give new life and expression to opinions which she had hitherto considered as merely theoretical, and for which no scope for practice had been afforded in the state of society before that epoch. All at once, from out of ancient wrong and tyranny, from the a Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 222. Her daughter, Marie-Thérèse-Eudora Roland (1781– 1858), was later an editor of the Mémoires. b Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 226. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 265. Louis-Augustin-Guillaume d’Antic Bosc (1759–1828) worked as a postal official but his real vocation was botany. Devoted friend to the Roland family, he later helped Roland to escape arrest and became their daughter’s official guardian.

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midst of the great miseries and intolerable oppressions which her country groaned under, the spirit of justice, of redress, and of freedom, sprung up. It seemed, at first, to every strong and honest mind, that France would throw off outworn, yet still subsisting and oppressive, abuses, and grow wise, virtuous, and happy, under the fosterage of liberty and equality. How gladly her soul hailed these hopes! Soon she found that they were accompanied by fears, and that the popular party grew insolent and despotic in prosperity. “Is the question to be whether we have one tyrant or a hundred,”a she writes, and she became eager to ally herself to the liberal, but constitutional, party, by which freedom would be secured, without anarchy or public convulsion. Almost immediately on the breaking out of the revolution, her husband was elected into the municipality / of Lyons. His integrity and firmness, and his attachment to the popular party, of course excited many enemies; but he was immovable in his course, and denounced all the abuses which had multiplied in the administration of the finances of the city. It was discovered that Lyons had 40,000,000 of livres of debt; the manufactories, meanwhile, were suffering, during a period of popular ferment, and 20,000 workmen were thrown out of employ. It was necessary to represent these things to the national assembly, and to ask for aid. Roland was charged with this mission.b Madame Roland had not visited Paris for five years. She was familiar with the names of the heads of the various parties, and a commerce of letters and civilities had had place between her husband and Brissot,c chief of the girondists. He visited them, and her house became the rendezvous of his party. Her talents, beauty, and enthusiasm, produced an effect of which she was scarcely aware herself, and which the party itself rather felt than acknowledged. “Roland,” writes Thiers, in his “History of the French Revolution,” “was known for his clever writings on manufactures and mechanics. This man, of austere life, inflexible principles, and cold repulsive manners, yielded, without being aware, to the superior ascendancy of his wife. Madame Roland was young and beautiful. Nourished in seclusion by philosophical and republican sentiments, she had conceived ideas superior to her sex, and had erected a strict religion from the then reigning opinions. Living in intimate friendship with her husband, she wrote for him, communicated her vivacity and ardour, not only to him but to all the girondists, who, enthusiastic in the cause of liberty and philosophy, adored beauty, and talent, and their own opinions, in her.”d She, meanwhile, did all she could to render her influence cova Possibly Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 277. Riots in Paris and the countryside while the Estates-General was assembling had already demonstrated the dangers of a breakdown in law and order. b Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 291–3. c Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville (1754–93), a literary journalist and reformer before the revolution, founded the anti-slavery society in 1788, and later the pro-reform newspaper Le Patriote Français, for which Bosc wrote. He became a member of the Legislative Assembly in 1791. d Thiers, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 70–1.

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ert. She might converse with energy and freedom with the different members of the party during their chance visits; but when they assembled in her house to discuss present proceedings and future prospects, she was present, but / maintained silence. Apart from the deliberators, occupied by needlework, or writing letters, she listened, nor interfered till, the conference breaking up, she could in privacy, and without ostentation, express her sentiments to them individually. This reserve caused all her friends to speak of her with respect, and yet to discuss their opinions eagerly with her. She had the fault, in which those who are wedded to opinions are apt to indulge, of preferring the men who agreed with her, who hated royalty and courts, and aimed at equality and republicanism, to those of superior endowments and virtues, but who differed from her. Discontented at the same time with the talents of the former, she found most of the men thus collected about her far below the estimate she had formed at a distance: they talked at random; they had no fixed plan; theoretical rather than practical, they could make paper constitutions, but knew little how to deal with their fellow men during the clash of interests, and the tempest of revolutionary passions.a She had none of the vanity that seeks to shine in conversation, and grew impatient when witty sallies and argumentative discussions, instead of serious resolves and heroic acts, occupied her friends. Roland’s mission retained them at Paris for seven months. They were months crowded with events pregnant with the fate of France. Madame Roland, in her letters to her friend, Henri Brancal, then in London, paints the various events, and the sentiments they inspired.b She was a warm partisan of liberty and equality, and mourned over the lukewarmness of the national assemblyc on these great questions; or, rather, the number of the moderate party who wished to assimilate the government of France to the English constitution. To prevent the extension of these views, the jacobins agitated and excited the people. Madame Roland at first approved their measures: she saw no safety for the newly acquired freedom of her country, except in the enthusiasm by which it was defended by the many. She had to learn, through tragical experience, how much / more difficult it is to restrain than to excite the French. Her letters breathe impatience and disapprobation with regard to the actual state of things. “Represent to yourself,” she writes, “a number of good citizens carrying on a perpetual, active, painful, and often fruitless struggle with the mass of the ambitious, the discontented, and the a

Paragraph based on Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 333–4 and (selectively) 296–7. Jean Henri Bancal (not Brancal) (1750–1826), born in Lyons, was a notary and social theorist based in Paris. He joined Brissot’s anti-slavery movement and as a deputy to the EstatesGeneral and the Convention was associated with the Girondins. In April 1793 he was handed over to the Austrians by the defecting Dumouriez and in 1795 was exchanged for Louis XVI’s only daughter (the later Duchess of Angoulême). He eventually retired to private life. c In June the Estates-General reorganized itself and called itself the National Assembly, renamed in July the National Constituent Assembly, as its purpose was to draw up a new constitution. By September 1791 its task was complete and the new body, the Legislative Assembly, was formed. The term ‘national assembly’ can refer to all these representative bodies. b

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ignorant.” The flight of the king filled her with alarm, mingled with enthusiasm, as she saw danger approach herself and her friends; danger to proceed from the triumph of despotism – she could not then imagine that any would arise from freedom. “While we were at peace,” she writes, “I kept in the back ground, and exercised only the sort of influence suited to my sex; but, when the departure of the king declared war, it appeared to me that every one ought to devote himself without reserve. I caused myself to be received in fraternal associations, persuaded that the zeal and intelligence of any member of society must be useful in critical moments.” The arrest and return of the king and his family kindled a thousand hopes. “It would be a folly, an absurdity, almost a horror,” she writes, “to replace the king on the throne. To bring Louis XVI. to trial would doubtless be the greatest and most just of measures; but we are incapable of adopting it.” Little did she anticipate the progress of events.a Meanwhile the project of her party was to suspend the king from exercising the royal functions. It must be remembered that we, from a distance, judge Louis from facts, as history records them: then, when events were passing, no one could fairly judge the other; and while the French expected invasion, and saw in the flight of their king the infraction of the oath he had taken to maintain the constitution, those attached to it regarded him as a traitor. Madame Roland sided with those who regarded his dethronement as the safety of France, and the erection of a republic as the promise of its welfare. She thought that both were imminent. “I have seen,” she writes, “the flame of liberty lit up in my country; it cannot be quenched, and late events have / served as fuel; knowledge and reason are united to instinct to maintain and augment it; it must devour the last remains of despotism, and subvert thrones. I shall die when nature pleases, and my last sigh will be a breathing of joy and hope for the generations to come.”b The tumults, however, that succeeded seemed to crush these hopes. Brissot fell into disrepute: there was an endeavour to crush the republican party, which, in the moment of danger, had been willing to ally itself to the most violent jacobins. In the midst of this agitation and tumult the mission of Roland came to a close, and he prepared to leave Paris. The elections were about to commence, and he was candidate for Lyons, but was not elected.c The autumn, therefore, was spent in the country. Madame Roland was evidently dispirited by the obscurity of her life and absence from the scene of action. “I see with regret,” she writes, “that my husband is cast back on silence and obscurity. He is habituated to public life: it is more necessary to him than he is himself aware; his energy and activity injure his health when not exercised according to his inclinations: in addition, I had hoped for great advantages for my child in a residence at Paris. Occupied there by her education, I should have excited and developed some sort of talent. The recluse life I must lead here makes a

Quotations from Roland, Lettres, pp. 202, 247–8, 252–3 (selectively). Roland, Lettres, pp. 278. Refers to elections for the Convention, the representative assembly created after the deposition of the monarchy in order to draw up a new republican constitution. The Convention first met in Oct. 1792. b c

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me tremble for her. From the moment that my husband has no occupation but his desk, I must remain near to amuse him, and diversify his daily labours, according to a duty and a habit which may not be eluded. This existence is in exact contradiction to that suitable to a child of ten years of age. My heart is saddened by this opposition of duties, already too deeply felt. I find myself fallen into the nullity of a provincial life, where no exterior circumstances supply that which I cannot do myself, and a dark veil falls over the future. If I believed that my husband were satisfied, it would be otherwise; hope would embellish the prospect. However, our destiny is fixed, and I must try to render it as happy as I can.”a / The discontent of madame Roland was natural to her ardent disposition. She desired to be great, not for the sake of riches, or even power; but to have scope afforded her to exercise those virtues which, nourished in solitude, and excited by important events, inflamed her heart to enthusiasm. She wished to be great as her favourites in Plutarch were great: she did not look forward to actual peril, but to a life of activity and usefulness on a grand scale, and to be numbered among those whose names were to be recorded in future history as the parents of the liberty of her country. In the December of the same year they returned to Paris, and in the following March, a new ministry being formed from the girondist party, Roland was named minister for the interior. It was a post of honour, but heavily burdened with responsibility. Dumouriez, then fluctuating, attracted by a court that flattered, yet desirous of conciliating his own party, was minister for foreign affairs. At first Roland felt assured of the good dispositions of the king towards the new state of things. “I could not believe,” writes his wife, “in the constitutional vocation of a monarch born under a despotism, brought up for it, and accustomed to exercise it; and I never saw my husband leave me to attend council, full of reliance on the good intentions of the king, but I exclaimed, in my heart, ‘What new folly will now be committed!’” She goes on pleasantly to relate the surprise excited at court, when Roland appeared in his quaker-like costume, his round hat, and his shoes tied with riband. The master of the ceremonies pointed him out to Dumouriez, with an angry and agitated mien, exclaiming – “Ah! sir, – no buckles to his shoes!” “Ah! sir,” replied Dumouriez, with mock solemnity, “all is lost!”b We have no space for the details of Roland’s ministry, nor the events then passing. The king had undertaken the difficult game of satisfying his enemies by slight concessions and apparent good humour; but he refused to sanction a severe decree against the clergy, which / their inveterate opposition to the party in power rendered necessary in the eyes of the lovers of liberty;c and another to establish a a

Roland, Lettres, pp. 331–3, abridged and with alterations. Both quotations from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, p. 309–10, slightly altered. The oath of loyalty to the new Civil Constitution of the Church set up in 1790, which became compulsory for certain clerical groups in February 1791, was one of the defining issues of the revolution, demarcating between supporters and counter-revolutionaries, and, as Mary Shelley notes, a key factor in the king’s mistrust of the direction taken by the Revolution. b c

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camp of 20,000 volunteers to protect the assembly and the capital, during a grand federative assembly to be held during the summer. It was projected to address a letter to the king, on this refusal, in the name of all the ministers: but they declined presenting it. Madame Roland insisted that her husband should singly remonstrate with the monarch, and he resolved on so doing. She wrote the letter. It was one calculated to irritate rather than to persuade Louis; but she liked bold measures, and Roland, once persuaded, was obstinate. The girondists wished, in fact, to bring the king to an explanation, and preferred a rupture to uncertainty. Some obstacles arising to Roland’s reading his letter to the king, he sent it to him; but this was not enough; and he took a speedy occasion to read it aloud in full council, and to force the king to hear the rebukes and remonstrances it contained. Louis listened with admirable patience, and, on retiring, said he would make known his intentions. On the following day, Roland and two of his more zealous colleagues were dismissed, while Dumouriez took on himself to reform the ministry.a It was certainly a bold, and, if not beneficial, a presumptuous act in a woman thus to put herself forward during these political agitations. Madame Roland hated monarchical institutions, and her desire to subvert them in her own country partook of the vehemence with which women too usually follow up their ideas. She had always been accustomed to copy and arrange her husband’s writings. At first she did this servilely: by degrees she emancipated herself from the task of being a mere copyist. The pair were agreed in views, opinions, and plans of action. There was a driness and hardness in Roland’s writings that did not please her more demonstrative nature. When he became minister, they conferred together as to the spirit of any proposed writing, and then she, who could better command / leisure, took up the pen. “I could not express anything,” she writes, “that regarded reason or justice, which he was not capable of realising or maintaining by his character and conduct; while I expressed better than he could whatever he had done or promised to do. Without my intervention Roland had been an equally good agent: his activity and knowledge, as well as his probity, were all his own; but he produced a greater sensation through me, since I put into his writings that mixture of energy and gentleness, of authority and persuasion, which is peculiar to a woman of a warm heart and a clear head. I wrote with delight such pieces as I thought would be useful, and I took greater pleasure in them than I should have done had I been their acknowledged author.”b Of the letter itself, we may say that it is eloquent, but very ill judged, if it was meant to conciliate the king; but it was not. It was written in a spirit of contempt for Louis’s conduct; of menace, if he did not pass the decrees; and of sturdy independence and republicanism as far as regarded the minister himself. It naturally alienated the monarch; but Roland and his wife were too enthusiastically a Mary Shelley draws on Thiers, Histoire, vol. II, pp. 101–2, 112–13, and Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 318, 322–3. b Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 319–20.

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attached to the cause of liberty and equality, not to glory in expressing their sentiments openly and boldly at the foot of the throne, even at the expense of loss of office. On this event they secluded themselves in private life, living in an obscure and modest abode in Rue St. Jaques. They mingled in no intrigues, while they deplored the misfortunes of their country, being persuaded that the king and his friends were about to call in foreign troops to destroy its new-born liberty. After the events of the 10th of August,a Roland was recalled to the ministry. He and his wife, both hating monarchy, could not understand why the ruins of it in France should not at once be cast aside, and a republic erected on the vacant space. Hitherto they had feared monarchical reaction; add to which many of the tumults in the preceding months had been fomented by the court / party under the idea that popular outrage would cause a return to loyal feeling among the moderate party. The fear of the success of the court had made them, together with Barbaroux and Servan, consult how far it would be possible to found a republic in the south of France, if monarchy triumphed in the north.b There was no fear of this now: Louis XVI. was dethroned and imprisoned; and the lovers of their country witnessed a more frightful scenec than any that had yet stained its annals, when the more violent jacobins, who went by the name of the Mountain, excited the people to fury, so to maintain their own power. Marat, Robespierre, and Danton were beginning their reign of terror. At the beginning of September, during the massacres in the prisons, madame Roland wrote to Blancal, “We are under the knife of Robespierre and Marat. These men agitate the people, and endeavour to turn them against the national assembly and the council: they have a little army, which they pay with money stolen from the Tuileries, or which is given them by Danton, who, underhand, is the chief. Would you believe that they meditated the arrest of Brissot and Roland? Had the arrest been executed, these two excellent citizens had been taken to the abbey and massacred with the rest. We are not yet secure; and, if the departments a The storming of the royal palace of the Tuileries, a result of demonstrations orchestrated by radical leaders of the Paris municipal government (the Commune); these ended in the overthrow of the monarchy and the decision to hold elections for the Convention, to create a republican constitution (see ‘Condorcet’, p. 377). b Charles-Jean-Marie Barbaroux (1767–94) was a lawyer from a wealthy Marseilles family. In July 1792 he led the Marseilles contingent to Paris to take the Oath of the Federation and helped plan the overthrow of the King. Elected to the Convention, he was a moderate Girondin. He was arrested in 1793 when the Terror began, escaped, was captured and guillotined. Joseph Servan de Gerbey (1741–1808), an army officer, had written for Diderot and D’Alembert’s Encyclopédie, became associated with the Girondins, and was appointed War Minister in Mar. 1792. Like Roland he was dismissed in June and reinstated in Aug. 1792. He survived imprisonment during the Terror. The paragraph to this point draws from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. 335–6. c The September Massacres. Between 2–6 Sept. 1792, with the connivance of the Paris Commune, over 1,000 prisoners were massacred by the crowd in an atmosphere of panic as news filtered through of the victories of counter-revolutionary armies besieging Verdun and Longwy on France’s NE border.

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do not send a guard for the assembly and the council, both will be lost.”a Again she wrote, “My friend, Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his torch and dagger: this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves until the moment when we shall become his victims. If you only knew the frightful details of what is going on. You are aware of my enthusiasm for the revolution; well, I am ashamed of it: it is deformed by monsters, and become hideous. What may happen within a week? it is degrading to remain, but we are not allowed to quit Paris: they shut us in to murder us when occasion serves.”b From this moment madame Roland struggled unflinchingly to overthrow the power of the jacobins. Her ill success conducted her to the scaffold. / The moderation and opposition of the girondists rendered them hateful to the mountain, and every endeavour was made to excite the Parisians against them. They cast on Roland the stigma of being governed by his wife. When it was proposed in the national assembly to invite him to resume the ministry, Garat said, “We had better invite madame; she is the real minister.”c They accused her of using every feminine art to secure partisans. These were the mere calumnies of the day, powerful for her ruin, but not tarnishing her after-glory. Every impartial pen describes her as carrying her simplicity and grace into her political enthusiasm, and charming even those whom she did not convince. Le Montey writes of her – “I met madame Roland several times in former days: her eyes, her figure, and hair were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had a freshness and colour which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuous appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. She spoke, too, well, yet there was no affectation in what she said; it was merely nature carried to a great degree of perfection. Wit, good sense, propriety of expression, keen reasoning, naïve grace, all flowed without effort from her roseate lips. I saw madame Roland once again at the commencement of her husband’s first ministry. She had lost nothing of her air of freshness, youth, and simplicity: her husband resembled a quaker, and she looked like his daughter. Her child flitted about her with ringlets reaching to her waist. Madame Roland spoke of public affairs only, and I perceived that my moderation inspired pity. Her mind was highly excited, but her heart remained gentle and inoffensive. Although the monarchy was not yet overthrown, she did not conceal that symptoms of anarchy began to appear, and she declared herself ready to resist them to the death. I remember the calm and resolute tone in which she a Roland, Lettres, pp. 346–7, slightly altered. The letter was actually written on 5 Sept. Tuileries: the Royal Palace in Paris. b Roland, Lettres, pp. 348–9. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, p. 46, where the comment is attributed to Danton. However Mme Roland was a severe critic of Garat’s attitude toward her husband. Dominique-Joseph Garat (1749–1833) was a lawyer and journalist in pre-revolutionary France. He was a deputy in the Estates-General, and succeeded Danton in Oct. 1792 as Minister of Justice. He condoned the September Massacres and was Minister of the Interior Mar.–Aug. 1793. He survived the Reign of Terror as he was not regarded as important enough to attack, and had a distinguished career under Napoleon.

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declared that she was ready, if need were, to place her head on the block. I confess that the image of that charming head delivered over to the axe of the executioner / made an ineffaceable impression – for party excesses had not yet accustomed us to such frightful ideas. Thus, in the sequel, the prodigious firmness of madame Roland and her heroic death did not surprise me. All was in harmony, nor was there any affectation in this celebrated woman: she had not only the strongest but the truest mind of our revolution.”a Dumont writes of her – “Madame Roland had every personal attraction, joined to excellence of character and understanding. I saw many assemblies of ministers, and the principal girondists, held at her house. A woman seemed somewhat out of place among them; but she did not mingle in the discussions: she usually sat at her desk, writing letters, and appeared to be occupied by other things, while she did not lose a word. Her modest style of dress did not lessen her attractions, and, though her occupations were those of a man, she was really adorned by all the grace and exterior accomplishments of her sex. I reproach myself now that I did not perceive then the full extent of her merit; but I was rather prejudiced against female politicians; and I found in her a too great tendency to mistrust, which springs from want of knowledge of the world.”b The influence of earnestness, sincerity, and clear views were great over her husband and his party. If she had, from a rooted disapprobation of royalty, urged him to any extremities with Louis, not less did she abhor anarchy, and fearlessly incite him to oppose it. During the frightful massacres of the 2d and 3d of September Roland displayed an energy and heroism worthy of the woman who was said to be the soul of his counsels. On the 3d, while terror still reigned, he wrote to the mayor, Petion, who was in ignorance of the atrocities that were going on, and to Santerre, who remained in ignominious inaction, pressing them earnestly to come forward.c He addressed a letter also to the assembly, in which he fearlessly denounced the crimes of the people; offering his own head as the sacrifice, but calling on the authorities to suppress the massacres. / The assembly applauded the letter; while a

Cited from Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. iv–v, slightly altered. Pierre Edouard Lémontey, a native of Lyons, became a lawyer and man of letters. He was a moderate in the Legislative Assembly (1791–2), left France for three years, then became well known for his historical studies of Louis XIV and Louis XV. b Dumont, p. 394, slightly abbreviated. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 31, 40–9. Jérôme Pétion de Villeneuve (1756–93): lawyer from Chartres, elected a deputy to the Estates-General, and at first associated with radicals such as Robespierre. Mayor of Paris, 19 Nov. 1791–18 October 1792, he brought back the royal family after their escape to Varennes. Shocked by the September massacres he began to side with the Girondists. He fled Paris during the Terror and took his life while on the run. AntoineJoseph Santerre (1752–1809): wealthy Parisian brewer who helped capture the Bastille in July 1789; as an officer of the National Guard he was behind the Paris demonstrations of 20 June and 10 Aug., which spelt the end of the monarchy. After an unsuccessful stint as a general he was arrested in 1794 but survived the Terror, after which he retired from politics.

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Marat and his partisans denounced him as a traitor, and issued an arrest against him. Danton, whose views were more systematic, intervened, and prevented an act which at that time had injured the jacobins more than the party against whom it was directed. Roland was not awed by the danger he incurred. When, on the 23d of September, he gave in a report on the state of the capital and of France, he described the disorders of Paris with energy, and insisted on their causes, and the means of preventing a recurrence of them. His character gained with his own party, and still more with posterity, by this unflinching and persevering struggle with the jacobins; but he was not seconded by men of sufficient vigour, and, wearied at length by an anarchy so opposed to his probity and inflexible love of order, he offered his resignation. The girondists, in reply, proposed that the assembly should invite him to remain in office, while the mountain, of whom Danton was the mouthpiece,a complained of his feebleness and of his being governed by his wife. His letter of the 3d of September was cited as sufficient exculpation from the charge of weakness. The assembly, without expressing an opinion, passed to the order of the day. The girondists, and every worthy member, entreated Roland to remain in the ministry; and he wrote to the assembly – “Since I am calumniated, since I am threatened by dangers, and since the convention appear to desire it, I remain. It is too glorious,” he continued, alluding to his wife, “that my alliance with courage and virtue is the only reproach made against me.”b These accusations against madame Roland, and the hatred borne her by the mountain, were increased by the influence she continued to exercise. Society, such as the Parisians had once gloried in – assemblies of the wise, the witty, and the fair – were at an end. The drawing-room of madame Roland was the only one in which elegance, and sense, and good breeding reigned. Barbaroux, named, from his beauty, the Antinousc of / France, Louvet, Guadet,d and others, met there, and added to the elegance of the coteries of past times, the serious and a

Modern historians would not describe Danton as a mouthpiece of the Mountain. Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 42–9 cover this part of Roland’s career but do not include this quotation. c Carlyle, quoting an unidentified source, reports that Mme Roland called Barbaroux ‘beautiful as Antinous’. In legend Antinous was the lover of the Roman Emperor Hadrian; he drowned in the Nile in 130 AD . d Jean-Baptiste Louvet de Couvray (1760–97), a printer and popular writer before the Revolution; he supported the Girondins and edited a journal, the Sentinelle. With Roland’s backing he became a member of the Convention and a spokesman for the Girondins. He escaped arrest in June 1793 and hid successfully until the overthrow of Robespierre, returning to public life in 1795. Mary Shelley’s interest in Louvet dates from at least 1814, when she read his memoirs (1795) and was prompted to begin an uncompleted and lost Life; in 1818–19 she read his scandalous novel, Les Amours du Chevalier de Faublas (MWSJ, I, pp. 44, 248); Marguerite-Élie Guadet (1758–94) was a lawyer from Bordeaux, who emerged in both the Legislative Assembly and the Convention as one of the Girondin leaders, exacerbating the conflict with the Jacobins especially by his call for war against the emigrés in 1792. He was eventually guillotined. b

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deeper spirit of the present hour. Too soon they were swept away by the torrent of the revolution. On the 24th of October Roland again came forward with a report on the state of the capital, which was written with dignity, but with a strict adherence to truth: he described with energy, and strongly reprobated, the crimes committed on the 2d September. He cast the accusation of sanguinary outrage on a few; but he blamed the many for their culpable weakness in permitting such crimes. Robespierre rose to answer him; but his known complicity with the Septembrisers excited abhorrence and confusion in the chamber. It was on this occasion when Robespierre, relying on the terror felt by his enemies, defied them to accuse him, that Louvet crossed the chamber to the tribune and exclaimed with energy – “Yes; I accuse you!”a The rest of the girondists supported him. The speech that followed this denunciation was full of energy, daring truths, and resolute measures. Had they been followed up on the instant, France had been spared the reign of terror. Robespierre, confused, overwhelmed, ghastly with terror, could only ask a delay to prepare his defence. A disinterested but mistaken love of order and justice caused his adversaries to assent to his request. Marat had also been attacked by Louvet; Danton was enveloped more remotely in the accusation; and these men, together with Robespierre, saw safety only in the extirpation of the girondists. They spared no pains to calumniate the party, and madame Roland shared in the odium they cast upon her husband. They were accused of forming a society for the purpose of corrupting the public mind, and of conspiring to separate France, founded on the idea already mentioned, of establishing a republic in the south, if the king should subjugate the north. Vague charges were magnified into crimes, and punished by death, when the people were above law, and anarchy prevailed. / Roland continued to struggle with the mountain party which each day gained ascendency. The execution of Louis XVI.b showed him that these struggles were vain. He looked on the death of the monarch as a signal for a course of sanguinary measures which he had no power to avert. Roland had hitherto resolved to resist the men who steeped their country in blood and crime; but he was now discouraged, not by the dangers which he felt gather round himself, but by the impossibility of stemming the tide of evil, and he sent in his resignation on the 23d of January. The moderate party in the convention dared not utter a remonstrance, so completely were they under the domination of the mountain. Roland published his accounts, which exonerated him from the calumnies cast upon him, but his enemies refused to sanction them by a report. He made no other effort, but remained in seclusion, seeing only his intimate friends, the girondists, and often discussing with them the possibility of awing the capital through the a

Mary Shelley follows Thiers, Histoire, vol. III, p. 228, adding her own gloss on what might have been. b 21 Jan. 1793.

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influence of the southern departments.a Meanwhile the advance of the foreign armiesb plunged the nation in terror, and induced it to place yet more entire confidence in the demagogues who promised victory at the cost of the lives of all the citizens who opposed them. The struggle between the girondists and mountain party thus continued for several months, till the latter completely triumphed, and passed a decree of arrest against twenty-two of the opposite party. Some among them surrendered, to display their obedience to the law. Others fled, for the purpose of exciting the departments to resist the tyrants of the capital. For some time madame Roland had expected arrest and imprisonment. She had feared the entry of the mob into her house, and had slept with a pistol under her pillow, that, if laid hands on by ruffians, she might deliver herself by death from outrage.c Latterly, finding her husband and herself quite powerless for good, she had made preparations for returning to the country, / whither strong personal motives caused her to wish to retire; she was delayed by illness, and before she recovered strength, danger thickened. When the men came, on the 31st of May, to execute the order of arrest on Roland, she resolved to announce this circumstance, and his refusal to obey the order, herself, to the convention. She hurried alone, and veiled, to execute her purpose. Her entrance was opposed by the sentinels – she persisted, and sent in a letter she had prepared, for the president, soliciting to be heard. The disturbance that reigned in the assembly, and want of resolution on the part of her friends who still sat there, prevented its being read. She waited some time; penetrated by indignation, by compassion for her country, while all she loved were exposed to peril, she was far above personal fear; and earnestly desired to be permitted to speak, feeling that she should command attention. Failing in her attempt, she returned home. Roland was absent – he had already taken measures for flight – she sought and found him, related her ill success, and again returned to the assembly. It was now ten at night. When she arrived at the Place du Carrousel, she saw an armed force around; cannon were placed before the gate of the national palace; the assembly itself was no longer sitting.d She returned home. Roland was safe – she resolved to remain and await the event, indifferent to her own fate. Since the resignation of Roland she had lived in great retirement. There is a belief, more a tradition than an asserted fact, that this noble-hearted woman, whose soul was devoted to the fulfilment of her duties, to whom life was matter of indifference compared to her affections and her sense a From Feb. 1790 the former provinces and administrative units were abolished and France was divided into 83 departments. b Since Apr. 1792 France had been at war with the Habsburg rulers of Austria, Bohemia, Hungary, and the Austrian Netherlands; Britain declared war in Feb. 1793. Both powers had uneasy alliances with the French emigré forces, led by Louis XVI’s brothers and other royalists. Part of the justification for instituting the emergency government powers known as the Terror was to rally France effectively against invasion. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 70. d This paragraph is based on Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 58–72.

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of virtue, had felt for the first time, now in mature life, the agitations and misery of passion.a It is supposed that Barbaroux, deputy from the commune of Marseilles, was the object of her attachment, – Barbaroux, who was called Antinöus from his beauty: he was full of courage, ardour, and those republican dreams so dear to madame Roland. In / her portraits of various chiefs of the revolution, she says of him that he was active, laborious, frank, and brave, with all the vivacity of a Marsellais: full of attachment to freedom, and proud of the revolution, he was one of those whom an enlightened party would wish to attach, and who would have enjoyed great reputation in a republic. She adds that when Roland resigned they saw more of him: his open character and ardent patriotism inspired them with confidence.b No word she writes shows that he was regarded by her in any light except that of her friend; but, in other portions of her memoirs, she alludes darkly to the struggles of love; and it is evident that her project of retiring into the country originated in her resolution to conquer her own heart. And now this passion was there, with its hopelessness and misery, to elevate her far above fear of prison or death. Emissaries came to inquire vainly for Roland. Disappointed in their purpose they left a sentinel at her door. She at last retired to rest; but, after an hour’s sleep, she was awakened by her servant who announced that the officers of the section demanded to see her. She guessed at once their errand, nor was she deceived. For a moment she deliberated whether she should resist an arrest, which, as being made in the night, was illegal. But she saw that would be useless. Seals were put on her effects: the house was filled by above 100 men. At seven o’clock she left her home, amidst the tears and cries of her child and servants. Outside she was hailed by the sanguinary cries of the mob. “Do you wish the windows to be closed,” said one of the men seated beside her in the carriage. “No, gentlemen,” she replied; “innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself.” “You have more firmness than most men,” replied her guard.c Shut up in the prison of the abbey, she delayed only till the next day to arrange her room, and make plans for her prison life. She asked for books – Plutarch’s / Lives, Thomson’s Seasons, in French, and a few English books, were those she chose. She turned her mind from her sorrows, to occupy herself by her mode of life and duties. She resolved to limit her wants to mere necessities. A whim seized her to try on how little she could subsist. She retrenched the number of her meals, a The identity of the man Mme Roland loved, the Girondin lawyer François-Nicolas-Léonard Buzot (1763–1794), was not known until some of her letters to him were sold to a bookseller in 1863. Mary Shelley’s sympathetic treatment of this mature passion may be coloured by the circumstance of her mother’s mature passion for Gilbert Imlay. Carlyle rejects rumours that Mme Roland was Barbaroux’s mistress, or anyone else’s: ‘Breathe not, thou poison-breath, Evilspeech! That soul is taintless, clear as the mirror-sea.’ (Carlyle, pt 1, ‘Avignon’) b Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 159–60. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 72–5.

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and gave up coffee, and chocolate, and wine: the money she saved by these privations she distributed among the poorer prisoners.a At first, at the instigation of friends, she addressed letters to the convention, and to the ministers, appealing against her imprisonment: they met with no notice. She then occupied herself by drawing up notes concerning the revolution, her views and conduct, and the characters of the chiefs – wishing to leave behind a full exculpation of her opinions and actions. On the 24th of June she was exposed to a most cruel deception. She was told that she was free – she left the abbey – but, on alighting at her home, she was again arrested, and carried to the prison of St. Pelagie. The change was greatly for the worse; the prisoners were of the lowest and most infamous class of both sexes. She roused her courage to meet this fresh indignity, for she felt keenly the insolent play exercised on her feelings. Some hours’ reflection restored calm to her firm soul. She resolved again to cheat time and anxiety by occupation. “Had I not my books and leisure?” she writes: “was I no longer myself? I was almost angry at having felt disturbed; and thought only of making use of life, and employing my faculties with that independence which a strong mind preserves even in chains, and which disappoints one’s most cruel enemies.” “Firmness,” she continues, “does not only consist in rising above circumstances by an effort of will, but by maintaining the tone of mind by regulations that govern it.”b And thus, in the midst of terror and death, she schooled herself to fortitude and peace. She portioned out her days in various studies. She never left her cell, for her immediate neighbours were / women of that class which is lost to decency and shame;c she could not shut her ears to the conversation they held from their windows with the men in the opposite cells. After a time this shocking state of things was altered. The wife of the gaoler, compassionating her situation, gave her another room above her own; and she was thus delivered from her unhappy neighbours, the sight of turnkeys, and the depressing routine of prison rules. Madame Bouchaud waited on her herself, and surrounded her with all that could soften imprisonment. Jasmine was trailed round the bars of her window; she had a piano in her room, and every comfort that the narrow space would admit. She could almost forget her captivity, and began to indulge hope. Roland was in a place of safety; her daughter under safe guardianship; her fugitive friends were at Caen,d assembling partisans, and she fancied that political events were tending towards amelioration. Resigned for the present, she was almost happy. She saw a few a The paragraph draws on Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 82, 90–1. The Seasons by James Thomson (1726–30) was a verse pastoral epic, and an early expression of ‘sensibility’ in English literature; Catherine Macaulay’s republican-minded History of England from the Accession of James I to that of the Brunswick Line (1763 – 83) was among the books specified in Mémoires. b Mme Roland’s first arrest at night was illegal; hence the release and re-arrest. Based on Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 105–110, 113. c i.e. some were prostitutes. Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 115–16. d Important city in Normandy, northern France where there were Girondin sympathisers.

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friends; Bosc brought her flowers from the Jardin des Plantes;a and her occupations filled up the intervals of the day. Seeing no speedy termination to her imprisonment, it became eligible to choose an occupation that would carry her forward from day to day, imparting interest to their course. She began her own memoirs; at first she almost forgot sorrow as she wrote; but the horrors that were happening, the massacres, guillotinings, and sufferings of her country grew thick and dark around, and often she interrupted herself, in pictures of domestic peace, to lament the fate of lost friends, and the ghastly ruin that overwhelmed all France.b Nor could she always keep calm the tenour of her personal cares and feelings. Separated from her child and all she loved best, hearing only of distress and tyranny, she was sometimes overpowered by grief. In spite of the kindness of the gaoler and his wife, she saw and heard too much of vice and misery, such as is ever found within a prison, more especially at a period when so many innocent were / victims, not to be frequently dispirited. The brutality of a prison visitor in authority disturbed the little peace she had acquired. He saw with anger the comforts of her room; and, saying that equality must be maintained, ordered that she should be transferred to a cell.c A hard lesson on equality was this to the republican heroine; equality between the guilty and the innocent, which mingled in revolting association the victim of injustice with the votaries of vice. The reign of terrord had begun. A decree was passed to bring the twenty-two accused deputies to trial. Her prison became filled with her friends, and, as one after the other they were led to the guillotine, they were replaced by fresh victims. She made some struggles, by letters to men in power, to be liberated, since, as yet, she was accused of no crime: these failing, she meditated suicide. At the beginning of October she writes, in the journal of her last thoughts, “Two months ago I aspired to the honour of ascending the scaffold. Victims were still allowed to speak, and the energy of great courage might have been of service to truth. Now all is lost: to live is basely to submit to a ferocious rule, and to give it the opportunity of committing fresh atrocities.” She bade adieu to her husband, her child, her faithful servant, her friends; to the sun, to the solitary country where she had lived in peace, to hours of meditation and serene thoughts; and she exclaims, “God! a

Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 118–21. The Jardin des Plantes was the state botanical garden. b The Roland Mémoires alternate between reminiscence, day-to-day commentary on events, and summaries of the course of the revolution. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 132–3. d From the fall of the monarchy, 10 Aug. 1792, to 26 Oct. 1795, constitutional government was suspended in favour of a series or provisional or ‘revolutionary’ governments, designed to meet the emergencies of rule especially during wartime. This entire period is known as the Terror. One of the institutions established was the Revolutionary Tribunal which tried those denounced for various kinds of unpatriotic activity, including previous supporters such as the Girondins. The ‘Reign of Terror’ refers to its increased rate of trial and execution by guillotine from the spring of 1793 to July 1794, when Robespierre was deposed and guillotined.

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supreme being! soul of the world! source of all I feel of great, good, and happy! thou in whose existence I believe, for I must have emanated from something better than what I see, I am about to re-unite myself to thy essence.” With these thoughts she wrote directions for the education of her Eudora, and a letter, in which she bids her child “remember her mother.”a The act of accusation against the chief girondists, among whom she was included, and her expected examination before the revolutionary tribunal, caused her to dismiss this purpose: she hoped to do some good by / speaking the truth courageously to her assassins. One after the other, her friends underwent the mockery of a trial, while her turn was delayed from day to day. The tenderness, the greatness of her mind displayed itself in the most touching manner during this suspense. She wrote to her friends, but her thoughts chiefly lingered round her child; and again she wrote to the person who had the charge of her in few, and simple, but strong words, conceived in all the energy of maternal love.b On the 31st of October, the day of the execution of her revered friend Brissot, she was transferred to the conciergerie, and placed in a squalid cell amidst all the filth of a crowded prison. Her examination took place on the following day, and continued for several days after. Her crime was her intercourse with her friends, the deputies of the gironde, now proscribed. She was scarcely permitted to answer, but her courage enforced attention. She was bid choose an advocate for her trial: she named Marceau, and retired with serene and even cheerful dignity, saying to her accusers, “I wish, in return for all the ill you bring on me, peace equal to that which I preserve, whatever may be the value attached to it.”c The following night she occupied herself by writing her defence. It is eloquent and full of feeling, and concludes by a wish that she may be the last victim immolated to party frenzy, and a declaration that she shall joyfully quit an unhappy land drowned in the blood of the just.d This defence was not spoken. After her examination some witnesses were examined; the act of accusation was drawn up, and judgment delivered, which pronounced that “There existed a horrible conspiracy against the unity and indivisibility of the republic, the liberty and safety of the French people; that madame Roland was proved to have been an accomplice in this conspiracy, and was therefore condemned to death; and that the / judgment was to be put in execution within twenty-four hours.”e During the few eventful and miserable days which this courageous woman passed in the conciergerie, she often forgot herself in endeavours to console her a

Quotations respectively from Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 215, 219, 222. Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 262–3. c Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, pp. 265, 270. This prison was part of the Palace of Justice, and included the Revolutionary Tribunal which tried Mme Roland. Marceau: Mary Shelley’s mistake for M. Chaveau. d Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, p. 276, quoting her defence notes, pp. 271–8. e Roland, Mémoires, vol. II, p. 227, cites part of this verdict. b

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companions in adversity. Riouffe, in his “Mémoires d’un Détenu,” who was confined in the same prison, writes, “The blood of the twenty-two victims was yet warm when madame Roland arrived at the conciergerie. Perfectly aware of the fate that awaited her, her tranquillity was not disturbed. Though past the bloom of life, she was yet full of attractions: tall, and of an elegant figure, her physiognomy was animated; but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of melancholy in her face that tempered her natural vivacity. Something more than is usually found in the eyes of woman beamed in her large dark eyes, full of sweetness and expression. She often spoke to me at the grate with the freedom and courage of a great man. This republican language falling from the lips of a pretty French woman, for whom the scaffold was prepared, was a miracle of the revolution. We gathered attentively round her in a species of admiration and stupor. Her conversation was serious without being cold. She spoke with a purity, a melody, and a measure, which rendered her language a sort of music, of which the ear was never tired. She spoke of the deputies, who had just perished, with respect, but without effeminate pity; reproaching them, even, for not having taken sufficiently strong measures. Sometimes her sex had the mastery, and we perceived that she had wept over the recollection of her daughter and her husband. The woman who waited on her said to me one day – ‘Before you she calls up all her courage; but in her room she remains sometimes for hours together leaning against the window, weeping.’”a On the 10th of November she was led to die. She went to the scaffold dressed in white. As she went, she exerted herself to inspire another victim who accompanied / her, whose fortitude failed him, with resolution similar to her own. Twice, it is said, she won him to smile. Arriving at the place of execution, she bowed before the statue of Liberty, saying, “Oh, Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name!”b She then bade her companion ascend first, that he might not have the pain of seeing her die. Her turn followed; and to the last she preserved her courage, and her calm and gentle dignity of manner. She perished at the age of thirty-nine. Her death crowned her life, and has bequeathed her name to an illustrious immortality. Her husband was in safety at Rouen when he heard of her death. He resolved not to survive her. He consulted with his friends whether he should deliver himself up to the revolutionary tribunal, or destroy himself. The interests of his child made him determine on the latter, as his legalised execution would have caused his fortune to be confiscated. He left the house where he had taken refuge, to prevent the friends who sheltered him from suffering persecution. He stabbed himself a Mary Shelley almost certainly quotes from the Girondist sympathiser Honoré-Jean de Riouffe’s Mémoires d’un Détenu, cited in the introductory material in Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. xli–xliii. She knew of this account as P. B. Shelley read Mémoires d’un Détenu in Aug. 1816 (MWSJ, I, p. 130); it was also published with a slightly different title under the name of Charles Dumont. b Roland, Mémoires, vol. I, pp. xli–xliii.

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with the blade of a sword-stick, on the 15th of November, on a high road near Rouen. In his pocket was found a paper, declaring the cause of his death. “The blood that flows in torrents in my country,” he wrote, “dictates my resolve: indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon as I heard of the murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on an earth tainted by crime.”a The grandeur, courage, and sincerity of madame Roland’s character fill us with admiration; her sweetness, and tenderness, and virtue add charms to the impression. How easy it is in all that is human to spy defects! Her autobiography is full of traits that betray considerable vanity; and her husband, it is said, would have been spared much ridicule had she not put herself so forward during his ministry. It does not appear, however, that Roland wished to be spared his share of the ridicule which / low-minded men delight in affixing on superior beings of the other sex. We entertain a conviction that, if her husband had wished her to mingle less in his deliberations and labours, she would at once have yielded; but her enthusiasm and her aid was in his eyes the reward of his upright and manly conduct, and he gave token by his death that life was valueless when he was deprived of her sympathy and affection. /

a

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MADAME DE STAËL. 1766–1817. A CCORDING to the custom of the people of Geneva, which is to throw their children on their own resources very early in life, the parents of Necker sent him to Paris at the age of fifteen, as clerk in the banking-house of Vernet. He quickly displayed talents for business, and, becoming a partner in the house of Thelusson, laid the foundation of his fortune. He quitted the bank, as better speculations opened, when he was named resident for the republic of Geneva at the French court. The duke de Choiseuil liked and advanced him. He named him administrator of the French East Indian company; and at this post, and by speculations in the English funds, he made a large private fortune. His early years were devoted to these pursuits, and he was so absorbed by them that he enjoyed few of the pleasures of youth. He, meanwhile, acquired both experience and knowledge in finance. Wishing to bring himself into notice, he wrote the “Eloge de Colbert” in 1773, which gained the prize in the French academy. His essay on the corn laws increased his reputation.a Maurepas consulted him when alarmed by the disastrous state of the finances; and, by degrees, all eyes turned towards him as the man who alone could save France from bankruptcy, through his knowledge of business, and the great resources which his plans opened in the regulation of the taxation and expenditure of the country. As difficulty, distress, and alarm gathered thick and dark round the government, and the expectation of a war rendered it necessary to supply the requisite expenses, / the hopes placed in Necker caused him, in 1777, to be raised to the office of director-general.b Soon after his appointment as minister from the republic of Geneva, he had married mademoiselle Curchod. The name of this lady is familiar to the English reader as being that of the object of the first and only love of the historian Gibbon.c On the mother’s side she was descended from a high French protestant family of Provence, which had been driven into exile by the edict of Nantes. Her a

See ‘Condorcet’, p. 369 and note c. France allied itself to America in the War of Independence against Britain (1775–83). For these biographical details, Mary Shelley almost certainly follows BUP, vol. III, p. 749. c Edmund Gibbon (1737–94), author of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–87); the story of his father’s prohibition of his marriage to Suzanne Curchod (1737–94) is told in his Memoirs (1796), read by Mary Shelley in 1815 (MWSJ, I, p. 88). b

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father was a clergyman, and exercised the function of minister in a Swiss village. He had spared no pains in the education of his daughter. She was versed in several dead and living languages; her understanding was sedulously cultivated, and her beauty and amiable disposition combined to render her an extraordinary woman. She was devotedly attached to her husband, and he regarded her with a mixture of admiration, reverence, and love. The object of her life was to make him happy. She gathered the beaux esprits of Paris round their table to divert him after the fatigues of the day. Their house became the resort of the best society. They were considered exemplary and clever, yet dull and pedantic. The talents of Necker, however, were respected; and madame Necker, though she was adorned by none of the light and trifling, yet winning and elegant, manners and conversation of a Parisian lady, yet pleased by her beauty, and a certain ingenuousness and purity of mind, that gave sweetness to her countenance and a native grace to her manners.a This exemplary pair had an only daughter. She was born in Paris on the 22d April, 1766. Her mother was desirous of bestowing on her a perfect education. Madame Necker possessed great firmness of character, and a strong understanding. She submitted every feeling and action of her life to the control of reason. She carried her love of logical inference into the smallest as well as the most important events of life; and fulfilled to the letter every the slightest duty of daily and hourly occurrence. Finding her young daughter apt and willing to / learn, she thought she could not teach her too much, nor store her mind with too many facts and words. This was not done as an English mother would have practised in the seclusion of the schoolroom, but in the midst of society, in which the young lady soon learnt to shine by her eloquent sallies and vivacious spirits. We have a sketch of what mademoiselle Necker was at eleven years of age, which presents a singular picture of the diversity of the objects and modes of education on the continent from our quiet and reserved notions of what is becoming in childhood. Madame Necker was desirous of establishing a friendship between her daughter and a mademoiselle Huber, the child of an old friend of the family. The young people were introduced to each other, and mademoiselle Necker showed transports of delight at the idea of having a companion, and promised her, on the instant, to love her for ever. “She spoke,” mademoiselle Huber writes, “with a warmth and facility which were already eloquence, and which made a great impression on me. We did not play like children. She immediately asked me what my lessons were, if I knew any foreign languages, and if I went often to the play. When I said I had only been three or four times, she exclaimed, and promised that we should often go together, and when we came home write down an account of the piece. It was her habit, she said; and, in short, we were to write to each other every day.

a

Cf BUP, vol. III, p. 752, entry on Suzanne Necker.

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“We entered the drawing-room. Near the arm-chair of madame Necker was the stool of her daughter, who was obliged to sit very upright. As soon as she had taken her accustomed place, three or four old gentlemen came up and spoke to her with the utmost kindness. One of them, in a little round wig, took her hands in his, held them a long time, and entered into conversation with her as if she had been twenty. This was the abbé Raynal; the others were Messrs. Thomas, Marmontel, the marquis de Pesay, and the baron de Grimm.a We sat down to table. It was a picture to see how mademoiselle Necker listened. She did not speak herself; / but so animated was her face that she appeared to converse with all. Her eyes followed the looks and movements of those who talked: it seemed as if she guessed their ideas before they were expressed. She entered into every subject; even politics, which at this epoch was one of the most engrossing topics of conversation. After dinner, a good deal of company arrived. Each guest, as he approached madame Necker, addressed her daughter with some compliment or pleasantry: she replied to all with ease and grace. They delighted to attack and embarrass her, and to excite her childish imagination, which was already brilliant. The cleverest men were those who took greatest pleasure in making her talk. They asked her what she was reading, recommended new books, and gave her a taste for study by conversing concerning what she knew, or on what she was ignorant.”b Thus this extraordinary woman imbibed, as it were with her mother’s milk, a taste for society and display. She learnt to take intense pleasure in the communication of ideas with intelligent men, and in sharing in the sparkling wit that gathered round her. She enjoyed the excitement of spirits that results from the sense of expressing her thoughts, and at the same time having the sphere enlarged by the instant interchange with others. The sensations of success in society, of praise and reputation, were familiar to her in childhood, and no wonder they became as necessary as her daily bread in after years. It was her mother’s plan to tax her intellects to their height. She was incited to study diligently, to listen to conversation on subjects beyond her years, to frequent the theatre; her pleasures and occupations alike were so many exertions of mind. She wrote a great deal. Her writings were read in society, and applauded. The praises she received developed also the feelings of her heart. She passionately loved her parents and her friends; she read with an enthusiasm and interest that made books a portion of her existence. She was accustomed to say, that the fate of Clarissa Harlowe was / one of the events of her youth. Susceptible of impression, a

Raynal: Guillaume-Thomas, abbé Raynal (1713–96), writer, best known for his Political and Philosophical History of the Indies, an enlightened treatise on colonial trade. Thomas: Antoine Léonard Thomas, protégé of Mme Necker, poet, eulogist, and author of Essay on the Character, Manners and Intellectual Outlook of Women in All Ages (1772); Pesay: Alexandre-FrédéricJacques Masson, marquis de Pezay (1741–77), man of letters, protégé of Maurepas. b Taken in full from Caractère, pp. 17–18. Catherine Huber, from a Genevese family, was 13, and Germaine 12, when she became the latter’s playmate.

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serious in the midst of her vivacity, she rather loved what made her weep rather than laugh.a The species of perpetual excitement in which she lived, and the excessive application and attention required of her by her mother, had at length a bad effect on her health. At the age of fourteen it became apparent that she was declining. The advice of Tronchin was asked; he was alarmed by the symptoms, and ordered her to be removed into the country, to spend her life in the open air, and to abandon all serious study. Madame Necker was deeply mortified. She saw all the materials for a prodigy of learning and knowledge in her daughter, and was almost angry that her frame was injured by the work she required from her to bring her to the perfection she meditated. Unable to continue to its height her system of education, she abandoned it altogether. Henceforth no longer looking on her as her own work, she ceased to take interest in her talents, which she regarded as superficial and slight; when she heard her praised, she replied, “Oh! it is nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison to what I intended to make her.” The young lady meanwhile enjoyed the leisure she obtained: no longer called upon to store her mind with words and facts, she gave herself up to her imagination. She and her friend passed the summer at St. Ouen, a country-house of Necker, two leagues from Paris; they dressed themselves like muses; they composed poetry, and declaimed it; they wrote and acted plays. Giving the rein to her fancy, and impelled by natural vivacity, she became poetess, tragedian, actress, thus, almost in childhood. The carelessness that her mother showed, after her disappointment with regard to her education, had the effect of developing in the young girl the chief passion of her heart – filial affection towards her father: she had now leisure to seek his society; and his great goodness, his admiration of herself, and the perfect friendship and openness of communication / that subsisted between them, gave rise to the passionate attachment towards him which she dwells upon in her writings with so much fervour. She seized every opportunity of enjoying his society; and he perceived and delighted in her talents, which displayed themselves with peculiar advantage when with him. She saw that, overwhelmed as he was by public cares and engrossing business, he needed to be amused in his moments of leisure. He adored his wife, but no one was ever less amusing; his daughter, on the other hand, exerted herself to divert him: she tried a thousand ways and risked any sally or pleasantry so to win him to smile, and smiles quickly came at her bidding. He was not prodigal of his approbation; his eyes were more flattering than his words; and he believed it to be more necessary and even more amusing to rally her for her defects, than to praise her for her excellences. She saw that his gay reproofs were just, and modelled herself by them. She often said to her friends, “I owe to the inconceivable penetration of my a

Caractère, p. 19. Clarissa is the virtuous heroine of Samuel Richardson’s novel Clarissa: or The History of a Young Lady (1748–9), which rivals Rousseau’s Julie as the most wept-over 18thcentury novel of sentiment. Clarissa dies an exemplary and protracted death after being raped by the rake Lovelace, who had helped her escape her tyrannical family.

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father the frankness of my character and the sincerity of my mind: he unmasked every affectation or pretension, and when near him I got into the habit of thinking that every feeling of my heart could be read.” Madame Necker grew a little jealous of the superior power her daughter possessed of amusing her husband; besides, although she had ardently wished her to shine in society, yet she had desired her to be remarkable for her attainments and knowledge, not for her wit and imagination. She looked coldly therefore on the admiration she excited, and even protested against it. The young girl turned from her chilling and prim rebuffs to the encouragement she found in her father’s sympathy and gladdening smiles. In the drawing-room she escaped from the side of Madame Necker, who regarded the mistakes which her giddiness and vivacity caused her to make with severe and correcting eyes. She listened with respect when reproved, but gladly sheltered herself behind her father’s chair; at first silently, then throwing / in a word, till at last, one after the other, the cleverest men in the room gathered round to listen to her sallies and to be charmed by her eloquence.a The position that her parents held was exceedingly calculated to enchain the affections and raise the enthusiasm of the ardent girl. Her father was looked up to as the man whose exertions and talents were saving France. When named director-general of finances, he had refused the salary appended to the situation, that he might feel more free to diminish that of others, and benefit France by his economy with a clearer reputation. Her mother used his power for the most admirable purposes. She ameliorated the condition of the hospitals in the capital; and established near Paris, at her own expense, a charitable institution, so well directed that it became the model of every other.b The young are apt to think their parents superior to the rest of the world. The claims which M. and Madame Necker possessed to real superiority, from their virtues and talents, naturally added to the warmth of their daughter’s affection. The distinction in which they were held made the path of her life bright; and even the first check that occurred in her father’s career tended to excite still more her admiration for him, as opposition gives form and strength to every power exerted to overcome it. Necker was too conscientious and too firm in his schemes of reform not to have enemies: he was too vain also not to desire to have his plans universally known and approved. Publicity is indeed the proper aim of every honest public man; but it was in utter variance with the policy of the old French government. For the purpose of making his system known to the nation, Necker published his “Compte Rendu,” which was a statement of the past and present condition of the finances, addressed to the king.c It occasioned a great clamour. His daughter read his pamphlet, and heard the discussions concerning it. She addressed an anonymous letter to her a This account of de Staël’s upbringing from her illness at 14 closely follows Caractère, pp. 21–3. b BUP, vol. III, p. 752. c Compte Rendu du Roi (‘Account Rendered to the King’). Ostensibly an optimistic report on the monarchy’s financial position, this was also Necker’s justification of his ministry.

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father on the subject: he recognised the style; and his affection was increased by this testimony / of her talents and filial affection.a The “Compte Rendu,” however, increased the number and importance of his enemies; the impropriety of the act was urged upon the king: Maurepas had already become hostile to him. Necker was attacked and calumniated. He, and his wife still more, were very susceptible to public blame: they wished to silence the libellers, who grew the more bitter and active the more they perceived that their stings were felt. Necker then demanded a sign of favour from the king, necessary, he thought, for the support of his influence: he asked for the entrée au conseil (a seat in the cabinet), which was refused on the score of his being a Protestant. On this he committed an act which he ever after regretted, an act that showed that he preferred his own private feelings to the good of the country which he had promised to save, – he resigned his office. His daughter gathered pleasure rather than mortification from his resignation. It was acknowledged that by so doing he had plunged the royal family in distress. He had repaired, on the first moment of his returning to a private station, to St. Ouen: all France, as she calls it – that is, all the nobility and all the best society of the capital, the magistrates, the clergy, the merchants and men of letters – came to see him, to express their regrets, their fears for France, their hopes that he would return to office. She heard that Paris was in commotion. At the theatre, every verse in the play of the night (“Henri IV.” was acted, and the mention of Sully afforded wide scope)b that could be converted into an allusion to the favourite minister was applauded with acclamations; the public walks, the cafés, every public place, were filled by an eager yet silent crowd. Consternation was painted on every face – ruin was anticipated for the country which Necker had abandoned. From St. Ouen the ex-minister proceeded to Switzerland. He bought the mansion and estate of Coppet, on the lake of Geneva, and varied his residence between that place and visits to Paris. He was addressed by various sovereigns – Catherine II., / Joseph, emperor of Austria, and the king of Naples, to undertake their affairs as minister of finance; but he preferred literary leisure and domestic peace, with a wife whom he adored, and a daughter who was becoming each day dearer and more interesting.c a

Caractère, p. 19. Probably referring to the play La Partie de Chasse d’Henri IV (1762, 1774) by Charles Collé (1709–83). Its portrayal of a good monarch made it particularly popular at the beginning of the reign of Louis XVI and the chanson added in 1774 (‘Vive La France / Vive le roi Henri’) was later to become a leading royalist song. Crucial to fulfilling Henri’s aspiration that every peasant should have a ‘chicken in the pot’, was the policy of Maximilien de Béthune, duc de Sully, his Superintendent of Finance. Sully successfully restored the economy and thus presented parallels to Necker. c This account of Necker’s resignation and departure for Geneva closely follows Considérations, vol. I, pp. 82–4. Catherine II, Tsarina of Russia (rgnd 1762–96); Joseph II, co-regent of the Austrian lands (rgnd 1765–80), sole ruler (1780–90), Holy Roman Emperor of the German Nation (1765–90); Ferdinand IV, King of Naples and Sicily (rgnd 1759–1806, 1815–25). b

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In the retreat at Coppet he published a work on finance,a of which 80,000 copies were sold in one day. Mdlle. Necker shared the triumph; she was his companion, his friend. On her part she was not idle; and, even at an early age, began the career of authorship in which in after life she became so distinguished. It was the custom in French society to meet to hear an author read his productions. In this country, such a style of amusement would be considered very dull and tiresome; but it was otherwise in Paris. The audience was easily pleased. The women wept at the right moment – the men were ready to start from their chairs: enthusiasm became contagious. If the subject were pathetic, the room resounded with sobs and suppressed cries; if comic, with bursts of laughter. Mediocre authors reaped easy but animating success; and many works, like the “Saisons” of St. Lambert, were vaunted to the skies by listening friends, which were acknowledged to be poor and wearisome when published.b In the same way, the plays and tales of Mddle. Necker were read by her in numerous companies. These productions were afterwards printed, and possess slight merit. The plays are flat, and what in common parlance is called maudlin; the tales inflated, and without originality: when read in society, they were applauded with transport. It cannot be doubted that this sort of encouragement must rouse to its height the power of an author of real genius. In this country, writers receive little praise except that which results from the number of copies that are sold; and must rely entirely on the spirit of inspiration to carry them through the toils of authorship. How seldom, how very seldom, does an English author hear one word of real sympathy or admiration!c Over reserve, over fear of compromising / our opinions, and being laughed at for being in the wrong, holds us in. Madame de Staël, animated by the fervour of her French friends, believed in her own genius, even before it was developed; and selfconfidence gave it a strength of wing that enabled her to soar to the extreme height that her abilities permitted. Thesed were stirring days in which she lived. Calonne succeeded to Necker as minister, and, having thrown every thing into confusion, was obliged to yield his place; he was succeeded by Fouquereux and Villedeuil, men of nothing, who abandoned the state of finances as hopeless. Lomenie de Brienne, archbishop of Toulouse,e replaced them; and he caused the king to engage to assemble the a

The Administration of Finance (1785). This opinion of Saint-Lambert’s poetry is also found in her essay on Mme d’Houdetôt, St Lambert’s mistress (MWSN, vol. 2, p. 123); it may nevertheless have been his Saisons that consoled Mme Roland in prison (see p. 451). De Staël’s early works include the plays Sophie (1786) and Lady Jane Grey (1787), and the short stories Zulma (1794), Mirza, The Story of Pauline and Adélaïde and Théodore (the last three all of 1795). c The contrast between French and English manners similarly appears as an observation within her long journal entry of 21 Oct. 1838: that were she French she would have been ‘flattered – & sympathized with’ (MWSJ, II, p. 555). Possibly ‘Madame de Staël’ was written about this time. d Corrected editorially from ‘The’. ‘They’ is an alternative possibility. e Étienne-Charles Loménie de Brienne (1727–94), Archbishop of Toulouse and principal minister (1787–8). b

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states-general, and plunged the finances in a worse state than ever. Necker looked on with anxiety, partly for France, and partly for himself; for he felt sure that he would be summoned to save the country at the last gasp, and trembled to lose his reputation if called in too late. “Why have they not given me the archbishop’s fifteen months?” he exclaimed, when at the end of that time he was called in to repair Brienne’s faults. Calonne had attacked his “Compte Rendu.” He wrote a memoir, addressed and sent to the king, to defend himself, which the king requested him not to publish. But Necker laid great store by the public voice, and did not hesitate to act in opposition to the king’s wish, and, in consequence, was exiled by a lettre de cachet to forty leagues from Paris; but four months after he was recalled and named minister. We dwell upon these circumstances of Necker’s life, as they were the events that chiefly interested his daughter. She had been struck with dismay at the moment of his exile. She was married at this time; but it is a singular circumstance that in her life her marriage is a very secondary event, and her husband’s name seldom mentioned. As the only daughter of a millionaire, Mdlle. Necker’s hand had been asked by many French nobles; but it was determined not to marry her to a Catholic, at the same time that she and / her parents were anxious to make a marriage that should enable her to reside in France, and to appear at court. It is told of the childhood of madame de Staël, that, at the age of eleven, she offered to marry Gibbon.a He being a favourite friend of her parents, she hoped to please them by giving them a son-in-law of whom they were fond, with little regard to his strange repulsive figure and ugly face. And now she thought of station and convenience, and not at all of finding a friend or companion – far less a lover – in her husband. The baron de Staël Holstein,b chamberlain to the queen of Sweden, had resided in Paris for some years, first as counsellor to the Swedish embassy, and afterwards as ambassador. He frequented the society of the French liberals, was a friend of Necker, and entered the lists of his daughter’s admirers. He was a protestant and a noble, and he was also an amiable honourable man. The only objection to the union was the likelihood of his being recalled to his own country. The king of Sweden, Gustavus III., with whom he was a favourite, favoured the match, and promised that he should continue for several years to be ambassador at the French court. In addition, M. de Staël promised never to take her to Sweden without her own consent.c On these considerations the marriage took place in the year 1786, when she was just twenty. Madame de Staël appeared at court. It is related that, desirous as she had been of acquiring this privilege, yet Parisian society was ill-naturedly amused by the numerous mistakes in etiquette which the young ambassadressd had made on her presentation. She gaily related them hera

BUP, vol. IV, p. 1374, where her age is given as 10. Eric Magnus, baron de Staël von Holstein (1749–1802). c Information on the marriage follows Caractère, p. 161; and on baron de Staël, BUP, vol. IV, p. 1374. d Caractère, pp. 25–6. b

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self, so to disarm her enemies. At this time, also, she appeared as an authoress in print, publishing her letters on the writings of Rousseau.a We find in this work all the traits that distinguished madame de Staël’s writings to the end, – great enthusiasm and eloquence, a pleasure in divining the mysteries of existence, and dwelling on the melancholy that attends it, – considerable power of expressing her thoughts, and much beauty and delicacy in the thoughts themselves, but an absence / of strength and of the highest elevation both of talent and moral feeling. We have a “portrait” of madame de Staël at this epoch, such as it was the fashion for friends to write of friends in Paris at that time. It is a favourable description, yet marked by distinctive features and characteristic touches. “Zulma advances; her large dark eyes sparkle with genius; her hair, black as ebony, falls on her shoulders in waving ringlets; her features are more marked than delicate, yet they express something superior to the destiny of her sex. There she is! every one cried, when she appeared, and all became breathless. When she sang, she extemporised the words of her song; the celestial brightness of composition animated her face, and held the audience in serious attention; at once astonished and delighted, we knew not which most to admire, her facility or perfection. When her music ceased, she talked of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, – love of liberty – of the fascination and the danger of the passions; her features meanwhile have an expression superior to beauty, her physiognomy is full of play and variety, the accents of her voice have a thousand modulations, and there is perfect harmony between her thoughts and their expression. Without hearing her words, the inflections of her tones, her gestures, her look, cause her meaning to be understood. When she ceased, a murmur of approbation ran round the room; she looked down modestly, her long eyelashes covered her flashing eyes, and the sun was clouded over.”b There were many people in Paris, who, of course, were willing to turn the pretensions of the young and brilliant improvisatrice into ridicule; but though her want of beauty, her heedlessness, which often led her into mistakes, her vivacity, which overstept the mark of feminine grace, opened a field for sarcasm, no one could listen to her in public without admiration, no one could associate with her in private without love. She stept, as on to a stage, in the first brilliancy of youth, to be admired and to enjoy; but / public events were swelling and disturbing the stream of time, and it became a tempestuous flood, that wrecked her dearest hopes, and consigned her at last to that domestic retirement and peace, for which her outset in life had not formed her, and which, instead of being a haven of rest and enjoyment, was as a dead sea on which she weltered in misery and despair. Necker was restored to the ministry in August, 1788; public credit revived under favour of his name, and famine and alarm were exchanged for plenty and security. He found the king pledged to assemble the states-general, and he did not a

Letters on Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1788). The character sketch, by Hippolyte, comte de Guibert (adored by Julie de L’Espinasse; see ‘Voltaire’), is taken (in shortened form) from Caractère, pp. 26–8. b

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hesitate in advising him to redeem his word; yet he met the questions and difficulties that arose with regard to the details of the measure with an irresolution that showed that, however clever he might be in matters of finance, he was ill fitted for weightier questions of general politics. The convocation of the states excited the national enthusiasm to its height; and Necker, giving the weight of his influence to the liberal party, augmented his own popularity. He admired greatly the English constitution, and wished it to be imitated in France. Madame de Staël coincided in his views, and viewed the assemblage of the different orders with sentiments resembling rapture. According to her views, the horrors of approaching famine and the perils of bankruptcy were to be averted by this measure, and the future welfare of France, individual liberty, and national prosperity, were to be placed on durable foundations.a The first struggles of the tiers état with the king and privileged orders excited her sympathy. Yet her father wished to act a moderate part, while even his moderation seemed treason to the blinded royalists. He thus incurred the distrust of both parties. Though minister, he was not permitted to direct the counsels of the king; and, at the same time, by only partially upholding the pretensions of the commons, he began to excite the mixed contempt and aversion of the more democratic leaders. During the struggle of the tiers / état to obtain a voice in the direction of affairs, he advised the king to meet their demands half way; but the court resolved to crush them altogether, and so fell itself into the pit. Necker saw with terror the purpose of the king in collecting troops round the capital to overawe both the Parisians and the deputies, and his remonstrances showed that he would be no party in the scenes of massacre that must ensue. He offered several times to resign; but the court party felt that it risked too much in the odium which his dismissal would excite. Driven on, however, by evil counsellors, who saw no good to arise in the constitutional liberty of their country, and weighed the blood of their countrymen as nothing in the opposite scale to their power and privileges, the king assembled troops, and the moment drew near when the people and their representatives were to feel the power of the bayonet, and to be reduced to obedience under the bolts of the artillery. The temporising spirit of Necker was more hated by the royal than the popular party, since the former saw injury, and the latter benefit, in any the least infraction of the old state of things. But the king well knew that Necker would never consent to the measures which he had in view, and that, before the military were called on to destroy his subjects, it was necessary to remove a minister round whom the popular party would rally with confidence. Necker continued to attend the king each day, but no affair of importance was discussed before him.b This silence filled him with disquiet; he expected to be arrested, and communicated his suspicion to his wife and daughter. Madame de Staël wished him to go a step further in enouncing his opinions, and so to a Mme de Staël’s preference for the English constitution is the leit-motif of Considérations. The views cited by Mary Shelley may be from either vol. I, pp. 1–6, 115–16, 143 or 153–8. b Considérations, vol. I, pp. 165–74.

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confirm the popular favour; but Necker considered his obligations as servant to the king as paramount. On the 11th of July, as he was about to sit down to dinner, he received a letter from Louis XVI., ordering him to send in his resignation, and to quit France without exciting observation. Sans bruita were the words that signified the fears of the / court that his dismissal should become the signal of popular commotion. Necker obeyed to the letter and the spirit of the command. No one person was informed. He and his wife stept into the carriage prepared for their usual evening airing, and, without change of dress or attendant, travelled day and night till they reached Brussels. On the morning of the 12th of July madame de Staël received a letter from her father, announcing his departure, and bidding her retire into the country, lest the Parisians, for his sake, should pay her public homage. She obeyed, and, a new courier having brought her intelligence of his route, she set out on the 15th July to join him. “When I reached them,” madame de Staël writes, “three days after, they still wore the full dress which they had on when, after a large dinner party, and while no one suspected the agitating position in which they were placed, they silently quitted France, their friends, their home, and the power which they enjoyed. This dress, covered with dust, the name assumed by my father for the sake of avoiding recognition in France, and so detention through the favour in which he was still held, – all these circumstances filled me with feelings of reverence that caused me to throw myself at his feet as I entered the room of the inn where I found him.” Necker had chosen Brussels as his way to Switzerland, as not being the direct road, and so less likely to betray him to the population.b To this mark of obedience to the king, he added a testimony of love for France, which, in the days of mammon,c was an act of heroism in a moneyed man. Necker had borrowed two millions of livres for the royal treasury, for the purpose of purchasing corn for starving Paris. He had secured this loan on his private fortune. The transaction was not completed when he was dismissed; and he feared that the news of his exile would retard the supply. He wrote, therefore, to confirm his guarantee.d These circumstances find place in the biography of madame de Staël, because, the ruling passion of her heart being / love and veneration of her father, we mark the acts that naturally, by their virtue, excited to their height her filial feelings. True to his resolve of avoiding his partizans in France, Necker proceeded to Basle through Germany. He was accompanied by M. de Staël. His wife and daughter followed more slowly by a different route. At Frankfort, the latter were overtaken by the king’s courier that recalled Necker for the third time to the ministry. The commotions in Paris, the destruction of the Bastile, frightened the court into submission to the people. The recall of Necker was a necessary mark of a

‘with no noise’ (Necker, p. 45). This account of her father’s retreat to Basel in northern Switzerland is taken from Necker, pp. 46–7. c i.e. an era of materialistic values. d Considérations, vol. I, pp. 188–9. b

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acquiescence in the wishes of the nation. At Basle the family met together, and Necker resolved to return. He was not dazzled by his triumph; he felt the perils he was about to encounter. He wished to serve France as a constitutional minister, but he apprehended a further system of innovation; and he felt he should lose the favour of the people by opposing it, as he had lost the king’s by refusing to support his arbitrary measures. He felt, as Burke afterwards expressed it, that he was recalled, like Pompey, for his misfortune; and, like Marius, that he sat among ruins;a but he thought that his return at the present crisis would be serviceable to the sovereign and his adherents, and he resolved on it at once. “What a moment of happiness, notwithstanding,” Madame de Staël writes, “was our journey from Basle to Paris, when my father decided to return! I do not think that the like ever occurred to any man who was not sovereign of the country. The French nation, ever so animated in the demonstration of its sentiments, gave itself up, for the first time, to hopes, the boundaries of which experience had not yet taught them. Liberty was then only known to the enlightened classes by the noble emotions with which it was associated; and, to the people, by ideas analogous to their necessities and sufferings. Necker appeared as the precursor of the expected good. The liveliest acclamations accompanied every step: the women threw themselves on their knees / afar off in the fields when they saw his carriage pass: the first citizens of the different places we traversed acted as postilions; and in the towns the inhabitants took off the horses to drag the carriage themselves. It was I that enjoyed for him – I was carried away by delight, and must not feel ungrateful for those happy days, however sad were the ones that followed.”b Various circumstances occurred to display to the returning exiles the overthrow of the royalists and the triumph of the people. Madame de Polignacc had already arrived at Basle, on her way to emigration. At ten leagues from Paris, they heard of the arrest of the baron de Besenval, who was being led back prisoner to the capital, where he would infallibly have been massacred in the streets. Necker interfered to keep him where he was till further orders. He, as his first act, went to Paris, to the Hôtel de Ville,d to obtain the pardon of M. de Besenval, and a universal amnesty. He was followed and welcomed by joyful acclamations; delight at his restoration to power calmed, a Edmund Burke, Whig Irish-born statesman, whose Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790) prompted Mary Wollstonecraft’s two Vindications. The quotation from Burke is taken from Considérations, vol. I, p. 190, but the original in Burke has not been located. Pompey: Gnaeus Pompeius (106–48 BC ), Roman general and statesman, whose return to Rome in triumph after victories in the East was the precursor of a series of calamities; he was defeated and murdered, having led the Roman Republic against Julius Caesar’s imperial ambitions. Marius: Gaius Marius (157–86 BC ), Roman general and statesman, was refused entry to Carthage, having fled there after his defeat by Sulla. The story of his sitting amidst the ruins of the old city is told in Plutarch and was often used as an image of a fall from greatness. b Necker, pp. 56–7. c Yolande Martine-Gabrielle de Polastron, duchesse de Polignac (1749–1817), Royal Governess and favourite of Queen Marie Antoinette; with the rest of her family, one of the first to emigrate. Mary Shelley follows Considérations, vol. I, pp. 189–90 or Necker, p. 58. d The Town Hall.

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for the moment, all party spirit, all political hatred; the assembled people granted all he asked with transport. Madame de Staël and her mother accompanied him. “Oh! nothing,” she writes, “can equal the emotion that a woman feels when she has the happiness of hearing the name of one beloved repeated by a whole people. All those faces, which appear for the time animated by the same sentiment as one’s self; those innumerable voices, which echo to the heart the name that rises in the air, and which appears to return from heaven after having received the homage of earth; the inconceivable electricity which men communicate to each other when they share the same emotions; all those mysteries of nature and social feeling are added to the greatest mystery of all – love – filial or maternal, but still love; and the soul sinks under emotions stronger than itself. When I came to myself, I felt that I had reached the extreme boundary of happiness.”a She had reached it, and the recoil soon came. The popular party, each hour rising in power, disdained the / half measures, and weak concessions of the minister: – from that hour, in spite of his feeble, though virtuous, endeavours to restrain popular violence, and, at the same time, to supply the wants of the people, and mitigate their sufferings by great and unwearied exertions and personal sacrifices, the popularity of Necker declined. His propositions were weak and inconsistent; the king had no confidence in him; the people withdrew their favour. His daughter could not perceive that his want of energy, and total incapacity to cope with the necessities of the times, were the occasion of this change; she saw only ingratitude, perversity, and ignorance. Her father still continued, in her eyes, the first of men; when he triumphed he was a hero, when he fell he was a martyr.b Madame de Staël witnessed nearly all the more deplorable events of the revolution. On the 5th October, when she heard of the march of the people to Versailles to bring the king and queen to Paris, she hastened to join her parents, who were in attendance at court. When she arrived, Necker hastened to the castle to join the council, and madame Necker and her daughter repaired to the hall preceding the one where the king remained, that they might share Necker’s fate. The tumult, the inquietude, the various projects, and the trembling expectation of the hour agitated all, and augmented as night approached. A noble arrived from Paris with the latest news. He appeared in the royal presence in a common dress. It was the first time that any man had entered the king’s apartment, except in court dress. His recital of the furious armed multitude, which was gathering and approaching, increased the general terror. On the morrow the storm burst. Murder assailed the gates of the palace, and the royal personages, for the first a Mary Shelley follows Considérations, vol. I, p.198, or Necker, pp. 59–66, including quotation. Besenval: Paul-Joseph-Victor, baron de Besenval (1721–94), a favourite of Queen Marie Antoinette who had led the troop deployment around Paris in July 1789; this precipitated the popular attack on the Bastille. b Necker, pp. 69–70.

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time, were attacked by those outrages, at once sanguinary and insulting, which, thus beginning, never stayed till their destruction was accomplished. Madame de Staël was present during the whole scene. She stood near when the crowd forced the queen to appear before them, and when at their demand the royal family were carried to Paris. Such scenes could / never be forgotten. When the king and queen set off to the capital, the family of Necker repaired by another route. “We crossed,” madame de Staël writes, “the Bois de Boulogne; the weather was beautiful, the breeze scarcely stirred the trees, and the sun was bright enough to dispel all gloom from the scenery. No exterior object replied to our sadness.” When they arrived at the Tuileries, the Parisian palace of the kings of France, which had not been inhabited for many years, they found that the beds of the royal children were put up in the room where the queen received them; Marie Antoinette apologised. “You know,” she said, “that I did not expect to come here.” Her beautiful face expressed anger as she spoke; and madame de Staël must have felt that her father, as popular minister, and herself, as a lover of liberty, were included in the sentiments of resentment which filled the queen’s heart.a The resignation and departure of Necker, some months after, was a circumstance full of mortification for his daughter. He traversed the France which had hailed him with such transport on his return from Basle, and found himself surrounded by enemies. Execrations followed his steps, and he was arrested at Arcissur-Aube, and obliged to wait for a decree of the national assembly before he was suffered to proceed; his name was held in detestation – his acts reviled. He did not deserve this; for, though weak as a politician, his acts were those of an honourable and generous man. The immediate cause of his resignation of office was the issue of the assignats, which he looked on as the ruin of the public credit; yet he left 2,000,000 of francs, the half of his fortune, in the funds, to run a risk of loss, which he himself deemed, as indeed it proved, inevitable. He retired to Coppet, while his daughter was detained in Paris by illness.b She continued to remain there, and, according to French manners, mingled deeply in various political intrigues. Her friend M. de Narbonnec was named minister of war, and many of his projects were discussed in her drawing-room. She shared in the project set afoot by Lafayette, / of facilitating the escape of the king to the army at Metz. Narbonne, at the head of the royal guard, and several thousand national guards belonging to the department of Jura, were to carry off Louis by force from the Tuileries. Talleyrand was informed of the plan, and approved, but the king rejected it; he was averse to any project that needed the co-operation of Lafaya The preceding paragraph is based on Considérations, vol. I, pp. 259–68, with quotations from pp. 267–8. b Discussion of Necker’s reputation and actions comes from Considérations, vol. I, pp. 299– 301; Necker, p. 74. c Louis-Marie-Jaques-Almaric, comte de Narbonne-Lara (1755–1813), career soldier who supported attempts to create a constitutional monarchy, Minister of War Dec. 1791 to Mar. 1792. Mary Shelley tactfully does not say that he was also Mme de Staël’s lover, father of her sons Auguste and Albert; he was himself rumoured to be Louis XV’s illegitimate son.

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ette, whom he hated.a Soon after Narbonne was dismissed, and the nomination of Dumouriez and Roland placed the power in the hands of the girondists. Madame de Staël was in Paris during the fatal August that decided the fate of the French monarchy. On the 9th of that month she stood at her window with some friends, and heard the forty-eight tocsins of Paris sound the alarm, which continued all night their monotonous, frequent, and lugubrious tolling. The volunteer patrole sent her intelligence of all that passed, but no one knew what the morrow would bring forth. The attack on the Tuileries began early in the morning; madame de Staël was told that three of her friends, who guarded the outside of the palace, had been seized and massacred. She instantly, with all the intrepidity of a French woman, hurried out to learn the truth. Her carriage was stopped on the bridge. She was told that the work of slaughter was going on on the other side. Still she persisted, and, after a delay of two hours, crossed the bridge, and learnt that her friends were alive, and hiding from the enraged multitude. In the evening she went to see them in the obscure houses in which they had taken refuge; drunken men were lying about on the steps of doors, who roused themselves only to vociferate oaths and execrations. Many women were in the same state; their howlings were still more frightful. She fled when the patrole approached; for they maintained order by protecting the assassins, and assisting them in the work of murder. The interval between the 10th of August and the 2d of September was one of horror; arrests were frequent, and it became known that the massacre of the prisoners was meditated. The outlawed friends of madame de Staël went from house / to house as danger menaced; she received two in her own, hoping that, though her husband was absent, the name she bore, of Swedish ambassadress, would protect her from a domiciliary visit. She was mistaken; the commissioners of police, men named from among the lowest class, accompanied by the soldiery, who guarded the outlets of the house to prevent escape, demanded to search. She resolved to dispute their right, as the only means of saving her friends. She talked to the men; told them that the laws of nations declared an ambassador’s house inviolable, and assured them that Sweden was a country on the frontiers of France, and that it would declare war at once if its ambassadress were insulted. She perceived that her arguments made some impression; and, while her heart sank within her, she roused herself to joke them on the folly of their suspicions, and dismissed them with every appearance of politeness and gaiety.b She had already prepared to leave France, and obtained passports. She delayed a few days, anxious to be re-assured with regard to her friends, before she placed a Mary Shelley follows BUP, vol. IV, p. 1374. Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord (1754–1838), Bishop of Autun, was a reforming, worldly cleric, and prominent statesman throughout his life, who eventually rallied to Bonaparte; he was briefly Mme de Staël’s lover c. 1788. The king and queen mistrusted Lafayette for his popularity with the crowds as commander of the Paris National Guard in 1789. The emigrés had assembled their forces on the eastern border at Metz, near the Jura mountains between France and Switzerland. b Paragraph based selectively on Considérations, vol. II, pp. 45–51, with some interpolation from Mary Shelley.

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herself in safety. During this interval she exerted herself to save M. de LallyTollendal, and succeeded, by applying to Manuel, a member of the commune of Paris:a he who published Mirabeau’s letters, written in the prison of Vincennes, and who, six months afterwards, during the reign of terror, died on the scaffold. On the 2d of September, when the news of the taking of Longwy and Verdun had roused the ferocity of the Parisians to the utmost, and those massacres of helpless prisoners began which remain a perpetual sanguinary stain on the French character, she prepared to set out. Her passports were all regular; and, fancying that the title of wife of a foreign ambassador would be her safeguard, she set out in her carriage, drawn by six horses, and her servants in full livery. Her calculations failed; scarcely had her carriage advanced a few steps when it was surrounded by a crowd of furious women, who seized the horses, and, with ferocious cries, ordered the postilions to drive to / the assembly of the section of St. Germain, to which she belonged. She entered the chamber of the assembly, which was in full deliberation, and by it she was ordered to proceed to the Hôtel de Ville. To reach this latter place she was obliged to traverse Paris; and on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville several men had been assassinated on the 10th of August. She trembled to obey, and yet had no resource. She was three hours on her way, as she was slowly drawn through a crowd who threatened death with hideous shouts and unremitting cries. She addressed several gendarmes who passed near, asking protection; they replied by disdainful and menacing gestures. At length, one gendarme, who had been put in the carriage with her, was touched by her situation (she was with child), and promised to defend her at the peril of his life. She alighted from the carriage at the Hôtel de Ville, in the midst of an armed multitude, and advanced under an avenue of pikes. As she went up the steps a man pointed one against her; the gendarme protected her with his sabre, and she reached the chamber of the commune, where Robespierre presided. Collet d’Herbois and Billaud Varennes acted as his secretaries.b The hall was full of people – men, women, and children, shouting Vive la nation! She was taken to the raised platform where the president sat, and told to sit down. While she was representing her right, as ambassadress from Sweden, to depart, Manuel, whom she had persuaded to liberate Lally-Tollendal, entered: he was astonished to see her in such a miserable position, and, answering for her, withdrew her from the dreadful hall, and shut her up in his cabinet with her maid. They remained for six hours, oppressed by hunger, thirst, and terror. The windows of the room looked on the Place de Grève, and assassins passed from the prisons, their arms bare and covered with blood, uttering horrible shouts. Her carriage remained in the square. The crowd wished to pillage it: it was defended by Santerre. He respected the daughter of Necker, whose exertions to victual Paris during the scarcity he had / witnessed; a

Trophime-Gérard, marquis de Lally-Tolendal (1751–1830), soldier and constitutional monarchist; for Manuel, see ‘Mirabeau’, p. 398. b Jean-Marie Collot d’Herbois (1749–96), formerly a theatre director; Jacques-Nicolas Billaud-Varenne (1756–1819), lawyer.

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and besides he made this task his pretext for not doing his duty in protecting the prisoners. He boasted to Madame de Staël of the service he rendered her; but she could not help reminding him of the manner in which he ought to have been employed. Manuel exclaimed, as he entered, “Ah! how glad I am I set your two friends at liberty yesterday!” When night came on he conveyed her home in his carriage. The lamps were not lighted in the streets, but men passed with torches, whose flare occasioned more terror than darkness itself. The following day she was allowed to depart with her maid only, and a gendarme to conduct her as far as the frontier, so to make sure that she should take with her none of the unfortunate outlaws doomed to death. Talliena conducted her to the barrier. After some difficulties it was passed. “Leaving the capital,” she writes, “the tempestuous waves grew calmer, and the mountains of Jura gave no token of the frightful tumults of which Paris was the theatre.”b And there she found calm refuge beneath her father’s roof. Such were the scenes that awaited the early womanhood of madame de Staël: – the sight of every cruel and horrible passion in action in others, – pity, fear, and generous self-devotion excited to their height in her own heart, – harrowing grief, when those whom she loved were butchered, – throbs of transport, when she felt that she had secured their safety. Had she been of a concentrated disposition, such scenes and emotions must have given sublimity to her character. As it was, it confirmed the active generosity and warm benevolence of her disposition; it gave animation to her expression of every sad and heart-moving feeling; while to her credit it must be said, that, even in the midst of such iniquitous and cruel scenes, she gathered no misanthropy, no gall, no hatred, and no revenge. She paid at this period a short visit to England, and then returning to Geneva, found personal safety and peace with her parents at Coppet; but the political events passing in France, and the horrors of the reign of terror, spread darkness and dismay even to Switzerland. Her father / published a pamphlet, the object of which was to save Louis XVI.; and she wrote an eloquent appeal in favour of Marie Antoinette.c Soon even the impression made by the fate of these illustrious victims was almost lost in that of the death of added thousands immolated by Robespierre. Madame de Staël by turns feared for the lives and deplored the death of beloved friends, who day after day died under the axe of the guillotine. She concealed in her house many of the friends of liberty outlawed by the revolutionary tribunal. They assumed Swedish names, under the sanction of M. de Staël. Scaffolds were erected for them on the frontier by their countrymen, as enemies a

Jean-Lambert Tallien (1767–1820), radical journalist and ardent Jacobin, who later helped overthrow Robespierre. b The paragraph down to this point is based on Considérations, vol. II, pp. 52–60, including all quotations; Mary Shelley omits some information such as her saving the lives of the philosopher Jaucourt and the abbé de Montesquiou. c The former is discussed in Considérations, vol. II, pp. 62–4, the latter, Reflections on the Trial of the Queen, in Caractère, p. 43.

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of freedom; foreign nations held them in detestation, as accomplices of the butchers of Paris; but Necker and his daughter, with sounder views and more humane hearts, befriended and saved virtue, whatever might be the opinions which it assumed as the guise in which to manifest its spirit to the world. “One of the reflections that struck us most,” madame de Staël writes, “in our long walks on the shores of the lake of Geneva, was the contrast of the beautiful nature by which we were surrounded with the desolation of mankind.”a In these walks she conversed with her father: his benevolence; the pain he expressed at the idea of being hated by the French, to serve whom he had sacrificed so much; the interchange of intimate and virtuous thought, filled her heart with still more ardent affection towards him, and made him, in her eyes, the greatest as well as the best of men. It was at this time of comparative retirement that she wrote “Reflections on the Peace,” which Fox quoted as full of sound political views and just argument.b This period was checkered by the illness, and finally the death, of madame Necker. She died of a lingering nervous disorder. Her husband was unwearied in his attentions and watchful tenderness, and madame de Staël shared his fatigues, and sympathised with and consoled him in his grief. The warmer kindness testified by her father caused her to prefer him; and madame / Necker herself, looking on her daughter as a rival in her husband’s affections, had repelled her. But death obliterated these passions, and madame de Staël acknowledged her mother’s talents and virtues; she lamented her death, and respected her memory.c It might be thought that madame de Stael, escaped from the sanguinary scenes of the reign of terror, would have been averse to returning to that Paris which had been the theatre of such harrowing tragedies. Far from it. Accustomed to the society of the French, the pedantic, precise, and presumptuous tone of the Genevese was particularly disagreeable to her. While considering herself a French woman, she was eager to mix in the busy scenes that followed the death of Robespierre – to be of use to her friends, and even to influence the choice of a system of government which was to be established in France. She had some remorse in quitting her father; but he encouraged her to go.d He felt for her struggle between her dislike to leaving him and her tastes, her friends, her hopes of glory, which called her to France; and, with the